Page 101 of The Vet from Snowy River
‘I need some paper to clean out the whelping box. I’m taking this one.’
‘What? Oh, Josh, honey, I’ve not read it all ye—’
He stormed off to the laundry with the pages crumpled in his hand. Shit on a stick. As much as he loved this town, he didn’t love the stickybeak mentality that sometimes came with it.
He had to warn Vera before she saw that article. She’d be behind her counter at the café, slicing some delicate meringue concoction into precise strips, and she’d be blindsided if a random breakfast guest started blabbing about what she considered to be her secret shame over their toast and jam.
He cleaned out the pups’ box at a lightning pace, grabbed his jacket, and hit the door.
Vera felt like she would never feel warm again. A sheet covered her aunt’s face, and a hospital blanket buried her aunt’s emaciated frame. Jill, hidden behind the bland beige of a facility blanket, because her niece had been too caught up to finish her quilt.
She’d been too busy for her aunt … lost track of her goals because she’d been distracted by stray cats and late evening strolls by the lake and chocolate-eyed vets. She’d put her own needs first. Again.
The magenta swirl of Marigold Jones in caftan and beaded headscarf swooped into the room. ‘Darling Vera, Graeme called me. I’m so sorry for your loss.’
‘Oh, Marigold,’ she said.
‘Come here, pet.’
She buried her head in Marigold’s billowing sleeve and let the tears slide unchecked. ‘I can’t believe she’s gone.’
‘Just cry it out.’
She took Marigold at her word, and it was many moments before she was able to look up and focus on her aunt’s still form again. ‘What do I do now?’ she said.
‘Well, there’s a question with a lot of answers, Vera. You don’t need to know it all at once. I can help you with the first ones, though. When you’re ready, the funeral home people have come for your aunt. You can trust them to take care of her.’
She crumpled against the bed. ‘I’m not ready.’
Marigold’s hands gripped her shoulders. ‘I’ll help you feel ready. Come on, now. Let’s stand back here near the window while they get your aunt settled.’
The funeral home staff worked with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. Her aunt’s thin body was transferred to a gurney, the blankets tucked about her with neat precision, then she was wheeled off, rubber wheels squeaking faintly against the polished linoleum.
Jill was gone.
‘Come on, Vera. This is no time to be alone. Let’s go sit for a bit.’
But she was alone. Really and truly alone.
Marigold steered her into the garden and found a bench set where, she imagined, a score of relatives before her had faced their own sad news. How on earth had they coped?
Her friend patted her hand. ‘Do you want me to call someone for you? Relatives?’
‘There’s no-one.’
‘You don’t want to be on your own packing up your aunt’s belongings here and organising the funeral. You want me to be your someone?’
She nodded mutely, too wretched to speak. Her phone buzzed but she ignored it.
‘You want me to answer that for you?’ said Marigold.
She shrugged. Caring about anything seemed like a language she no longer spoke.
‘Vera’s phone. Marigold Jones speaking.’
The tissue in her hand was like fruit pulp, but she pressed it to her streaming eyes anyway.
‘Aha. Yes. Hang on.’ Marigold held out the phone. ‘It’s Josh. I don’t think he knows about your aunt … you want me to tell him, or will you?’
