Page 88 of If Anything Happens To Me

“How?” Abigail asked, her voice a combination of eagerness and desperation.

“There are seizure assistance dogs. Not only do they respond to the scent of chemical changes, but their presence can actually lower seizure activity. Not sure why. Probably because of trust—the bond. An understanding. Empathy. Connection. All those things alleviate stress.”

“Really?” Abigail asked. “It’s been proven?”

Noreen smiled at Abigail. “It’s a fact known to trainers like me, but does that mean it’s made its way into the medical literature? To tell you the truth, I have no idea. But Bella and I would love to work with you on it. What do you say, want to give it a try?”

I stepped over to Abigail. I put my hands on her shoulders to let her know that I was with her, every bit as much as Bella and Noreen would be. I wished I could have had the instincts of a dog, of a wolf, and helped her when we were in the attic. I wished there could have been a canine breakthrough when she was just a child.

So that Fitch wouldn’t have had her to use as a subject. So he wouldn’t have had to hurt any of us. So Eloise would still be here.

“Yes,” Abigail said, petting Zoey’s head. “I would like to work with Bella.” She raised her eyes to Noreen. “And you, Noreen. I’d like to give it a try. Thank you.”

“Okay, then,” Noreen said, her eyes twinkling. “We have a plan.”

And then there was the best visitor: Matt came over every day.

It was July now, with plenty of summer left. We carried the sails and rudder down to the JY15, rigged the dinghy, and sailed out from the beach. We sat side by side. I had the tiller, and we kept the sails tight and the rail in the water, sailing fast and gulping air as we rushed along. Eventually we headed to the raft. I wrapped the line around the cleat, and he and I climbed out of the boat. We lay on the salty, splintered wood, just as we always had during summers gone by.

In September, we would be juniors. I felt so much older than that, as if I’d lived a whole lifetime already. I looked at Matt and wondered if he felt the same way. He looked inscrutable, his eyes squinting in the bright sun.

“What was it like?” I asked him.

“What was what like?”

“Having to trick Fitch into believing you were with him,” I said.

“It was the hardest thing I’ll ever have to do in my life,” he said.

“How do you know?” I asked. “You haven’t lived your whole life yet, there could be much worse things.”

“Worse than having to pretend to go along with someone who was hurting you, Oli? No, I don’t think so. Nothing will ever be harder than that.” He paused. “What did you really think, when you saw me with him?”

I wished I could lie, tell him that I knew all along that he was good: that my old friend Matthew Grinnell would never be anything like Fitch Martin. But gazing into his clear, serious, blue eyes, I knew that everything between us was true and real, and I had to tell the entire truth, no matter how hard it was.

I had to sit up to say this. He could tell I was about to say something difficult, and he sat up beside me, so we were at eye level with each other.

“I was scared,” I said.

“Of me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He looked away. I saw I’d said something to him that I could never take back. I wanted to make excuses, erase or at least mitigate the effect of my words: backpedal and tell him that I had been terrified, that my world had been turned upside down, that my senses were skewed, that trust in everyone and everything—not just him—had exploded, and, especially, that I had known all along that he was good.

I regretted how terribly I had misjudged him, even for so short a time. But I had had no choice—I had been afraid for my life. And Matt had been playing a role designed to trick Fitch—he had also fooled me.

Right now, looking at Matt and seeing how affected he was by my saying I’d been scared of him, I knew that more words would be inadequate. Sometimes hurt is so deep, apologies can only make it worse. Actions were all that counted. Way more than thoughts, memories, even wishes.

So I reached for Matt’s hand. His skin was warm from the sun. We laced our fingers together, but he still hadn’t looked at me. He was still upset. The waves rocked the raft. We sat there, our legs dangling into the salt water.

“You, Matt,” I said after a long time.

“You, Oli,” he said.

He turned toward me with that mischievous smile that showed me we were okay. He squeezed my hand, and I squeezed his. The sun beat down, and the salt crystals dried on our skin.

My whole body tingled, and I felt as if something was going to happen.

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