Page 63 of The Two of Us

16

NOW

Ihaven’t seen Ambrose since he dragged me from the bar and tucked me into bed like a drunken sorority girl. More than the shame I feel at making him redirect whatever plans he was taking part in with Anya and Matty, I’m afraid that he sees the bone-deep weariness that has settled into my eyes as my dad grows sicker.

Every time Laura goes to take Otso for a walk, I insist on doing it myself, glancing at the house across the street for any signs of life. Ambrose’s car is always missing during the day and I refuse to look out my window at night when the sounds of wheels scrape up the driveway. I don’t want to see Anya climb out of the passenger seat only to disappear with him inside. Ambrose said there’s nothing romantic between the two of them anymore, but I can’t help being jealous of her mere proximity to him. What can I say? I’m a flawed human.

I’m watching Casablanca on my phone and answering work emails when Laura calls my name from downstairs. I drag my feet as I enter my dad’s room to find her hunkered down in a chair, administering a clear medication through his IV.

“Can you grab my medical bag from the living room? I think I left it on the sofa.” Her voice is agitated and she doesn’t meet my eyes.

“Of course.” I start to leave but decide to take a step closer to her instead. “Is everything alright, Laura?”

“Yes, honey,” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t mean to be snippy. Your father needed some extra attention last night, so I didn’t head home until three. And now my sister has gone MIA and my nephew is staying with me,” she sighs. “Forgive me. You don’t want to listen to the problems of an old woman.”

“Anya’s missing?”

“Yes. I haven’t heard from her in two days. It’s not unusual for her to dump Matty on me or Ambrose, but she usually at least calls.”

Overwhelming concern seeps off Laura. I’m by no means friendly with Anya, but I don’t wish any ill will upon her.

“I’ll keep an eye out for her, okay?”

Laura nods, but there’s no relief in her eyes. She resembles a woman who’s lived a thousand lives and in every single one of them, she’s her sister’s keeper. I can relate to that because it’s how it used to be between Cat and me.

I let thoughts of her in then. Not for very long, maybe a second or two. A brief allowance. I speculate where she is right now and if she’s happy. In the days of protruding collarbones and knobby knees, I was her keeper and she was mine. Who kept her now? I could go see her. I owe her that much. But that would require courage and that word has never been synonymous with Mara Makinen.

I lay Laura’s bag next to her feet and lean down to kiss my dad’s cheek. And I can feel the tug of the wave. The wave of emotions that would wash me away and obliterate my existence if I let it. But I can’t. Because if I do, I’m not sure I’ll ever recover.

***

“Don’t look at me like that.”

Vulnerable brown eyes hold me captive.

“What you want from me… I can’t give to you.”

A whimper.

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

The harrumph that follows is entertaining enough to make me laugh. Otso sits before me—though it looks more like standing—with a leash near his feet that he continuously nudges closer to my shoe. Laura hasn’t expected me to look after him, but even I can admit that the bear-sized family member has grown on me. His big eyes alone have convinced me to take him out for walks on multiple occasions.

A whine creeps up his throat, showing me that he’s not above begging.

I sigh. “So, what you’re saying is… you want to go outside?”

At the mere mention of the word, Otso yelps in excitement, chasing his tail like a two-week-old puppy. I taunt him further.

“I don’t know, you don’t really seem too excited at the idea of going outside!” I emphasize the word even more and he resorts to a full-body bellow. Some would think me terrible for stringing along such an innocent creature, but I can’t help but laugh at the scene. At what other time would I have such an enormous mammal at my mercy?

I swoop down, grabbing the leash and securing it to the collar hidden between his fur. “As you wish. Let’s go.”

The street is uninhabited and the sunset bleeding onto the cul-de-sac’s roundabout paints the road in rich reds and cotton-candy pinks. The windows around me glow with a warm-yellow light. Everyone is home and safe behind their front doors.

Otso pulls me along the sidewalk, which is more of a hodgepodge concoction of cement and chunks of grass. In New York, something like this would be complained about and fixed within twenty-four hours lest they receive a lawsuit, but the people in Speck Lake don’t mind these kinds of things. They welcome the imperfect—the things that grow within the cracks and fissures. And even though I was born and raised here just the same, I can never bring myself to see the beauty in imperfection like everyone else.

Otso leads the way and I pretend to be impressed when he drops sticks at my feet like a peasant offering gifts to the royal court. I’m oohing and aahing over one particularly impressive branch when I think I hear someone calling my name.

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