Page 13 of Spindrift

“Nope,”Emilia said, thinking of Morgan.

“Don’tbe afraid to make friends.”

Emiliapinched herself to keep a rein on her frustration and decided to feed hermother a few scraps to get her off her back. “Actually, I have met a few people.”

“Good.Promise me you won’t hole yourself up in that dark house?”

“Ipromise.”

Shehung up after a few more minutes of small talk and stared at Nell, wonderinghow her mother always managed to make her feel twelve again. She couldn’t evenblame her too much, which just made it worse.

Emiliahad always been the most responsible of her siblings, as well as the oldest.Her breakdown had taken everyone by surprise. Now, her mother coped with herfears by babying Emilia, which she supposed was an improvement from sittingoutside her door in case she tried to hurt herself, as she had done in the daysimmediately following her discharge.

Shetook a deep breath and let it out slowly. The past year had dealt her one toomany blows. Between her father’s sudden death and the crushing reality of sheltermedicine, she’d cracked.

Don’tthink about it,she told herself, but it was too late.

Multipleprofessors had warned her about shelter medicine during veterinary school. Thepsychological toll it took on vets, known as compassion fatigue, was even moreprofound than in the rest of the field, and a lot of the work involvedeuthanizing animals deemed unadoptable or whose medical needs exceeded thereach of the shelter’s limited budget. The work mattered. Emilia understood thenecessity behind it. Government-funded shelters did their best to help as manyanimals as they could, and since part of their contract usually meant taking inany animals that came their way, space was an important commodity. So werefunds. Shelters served the greater good. So Emilia did what she could andoffered a peaceful death to those the shelters couldn’t afford to help. Withoutmore funding and more shelters, there was no other choice.

She’dgone into shelter medicine because she wanted to make a difference. Half of theweek she worked at a low-cost spay and neuter clinic, and the rest of the timeshe traveled from shelter to shelter as needed, examining new arrivals andchecking up on the health of the other residents. Perhaps she could have lastedanother year or two, but she’d gotten the call about her father right afterinjecting Euthansol into a one-year-old dog with a bad fracture. Something hadsnapped.

Hannahhad left soon after, unable to handle Emilia’s depression, and it had taken twomonths of intensive therapy before she felt human again. Not happy, but human.She no longer burst into tears at the grocery store. She remembered to wash herhair and cook herself meals. Most importantly, her brain had stopped suggestingall the ways she could kill herself, pointing out telephone poles while drivingor calculating the dosage of the drugs she’d need to administer the samepainless death she gave her patients. Thinking about how close she’d cometerrified her now. This was a good sign.

“Thisone.” She chose a paint chip at random: Alabaster Dream, satin latex.Whonames this stuff?Holding it up to the dark wall, she pictured the livingroom in her mind’s eye. White walls, exposed beams, and perhaps a touch ofnautical blue somewhere. Rustic cabin meets seaside resort. HGTV always playedin patient waiting rooms, and while the budget of the homeowners on therenovation shows made her want to laugh hysterically, she found the demolitionsand the subsequent renovations soothing. An obvious metaphor for recovery: tearsomething down, throw enough money at it, and you’ll create something better.She made a mental note to tell her therapist she was on to her office’s subliminalmessaging the next time they spoke.

“Butdo I need to sand you?” she asked the walls. “Or will primer be enough?”

Theanimal heads on the wall stared back at her, and she could have sworn thetaxidermy coyote by the fireplace smirked. Her mother was right: she needed todo something about her stuffed housemates. The attic would suffice for now.

Saidattic, when she forced her way up its fold-out stairs, revealed a jumble ofboxes, old bedframes, broken furniture, and decaying life jackets. She wiped acobweb out of her eyes and frowned. Her Toyota Corolla didn’t have nearlyenough space to haul the debris to the dump. She needed someone with a truck.

Morgan’sface popped into her mind.

Sheclarified her assessment: someone with a truck whohadn’tseen her fallinto the Atlantic Ocean.I’ll rent one, she decided, and shoving asidethe attractive alternative of taking her tea on the porch in the sunshine, sheset to work.

• • •

Morganpulled into the clinic at half past six.

“I’mstarving.” Stevie dug around the glove box for a snack, and several syringestumbled to the floor.

“Lil’shere.” Morgan nodded at the Subaru Crosstrek in the parking lot.

“Butdoes she have snacks?”

“Shehas dog biscuits, and those really meaty chewy treats that smell like bacon.”

“Don’ttempt me.” Stevie jumped out of the truck and grabbed the kit to restocksupplies while Morgan double-checked that none of the paperwork had fallen outof her battered clipboard. Content that all cases were accounted for, sheheaded for the back door, intentionally avoiding the lobby and the pet ownerssitting in the chairs. At least ambulatory vets knew their schedule was goingto get fucked, she reflected as she passed the sign that showed their officehours: 8:00-5:00. A beautiful lie.

DanielleWatson poked her head out of her office when Morgan entered the building.Short, gray-haired, and with the cold confidence common among livestockveterinarians, she looked out of place in her lurid sweater.

“Whatthe hell are you wearing, Watson?” Morgan asked as she eyed the kittensfrolicking on the lime green cotton.

“Aclient gave it to me, and it’s cold back here.”

Stevie,reappearing at the sound of Danielle’s voice, made the sign of the cross andbacked away slowly, asking, “what’s wrong with cookies? Or a fruit basket?”

“There’san Edible Arrangement in the kitchen. Morgan, I need to talk to you.”

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