Marooned in Manhattan (9 page)

Chapter 16

I
t has become our ritual to have break
fast on Friday mornings at Pier 72, a diner on the corner of West 72
^nd
Street and West End Avenue. It’s a real old-fashioned New York City diner with doughnuts under glass and egg-stained menus and an ancient, grumpy waitress, Velda, who barks at the customers and at the Ecuadorean busboys. They ignore her.

Scott always orders the same thing, two eggs over easy with an English muffin on the side. I alternate between pancakes and a Belgian waffle, which Scott refers to as ‘syrup with a side of pancakes or waffles’.

‘How can you eat that corn syrup?’ he wondered.

‘Very easily,’ I responded, liberally drowning my pancakes.

He turned his attention to Joanna, who had joined us this morning. She also ordered what she always orders, Greek yoghurt with honey and fruit with a side of bacon and toast.

Joanna seemed distracted and fidgety.

‘What’s up?’ Scott asked her.

‘Do you know the charity group I volunteer with?’ she asked.

‘Yes, the children’s literacy project – helping the kids in the projects in the Bronx learn to read.’

She nodded.

‘I got railroaded into giving a talk to some of the high school kids next month about what my job is like –
What it Takes To Be A Vet
. I don’t have a clue what to say. I would rather do fifty consecutive surgeries spaying cats, and with a cheap red wine hangover, than do this presentation.’

Scott grinned.

‘Say that.’

‘What?’

‘There is your opening line. Just be yourself and be honest. Walk them through it.’

Joanna looked dubious.

Scott warmed to this theme.

‘Tell them some of your funny stories about some of the incidents with the animals and the clients.’

‘Like the time Herman, the white bulldog with the farting problem, kept doing nasty silent ones, and Eliot, the cute Asian guy who came in with Charley, his pet iguana, thought it was coming from you,’ I interjected helpfully.

‘You can talk about how, a lot of times, the patient we are really treating is the owner, not the pet,’ added Scott. ‘Tell them why you became a vet. Tell them that becoming a vet involves a lifetime of studying, hard work, late nights and lousy pay, but it’s never dull and the patients make up for all the headaches.’

‘Ok,’ said Joanna. ‘I’m starting to feel inspired.’

‘Why don’t you take Ben with you?’ I suggested.

Joanna took off her glasses and cleaned them as she thought about that one.

‘I could use Ben as a hypothetical patient, do a practical demonstration,’ she said.

I felt a pang of guilt for volunteering Ben. He wasn’t going to like this at all, but he had a tolerant nature. I resolved to make it up to him by putting some of Joanna’s bacon in my napkin to treat him later.

‘I could come with you for moral support,’ Scott suggested.

Joanna waved him away.

‘That’s ok, Stefan already volunteered,’ she said airily.

‘The kids will really be able to relate to Stefan,’ said Scott innocently.

‘Maybe I should ask Leela instead – I’m sure taking time off work to interact with underprivileged kids would be right up her street,’ replied Joanna, even more innocently.

‘Why
did
you become a vet, Joanna?’ I asked.

She smiled her wide, beautiful, Anne with an ‘e’ smile.

‘You know the kid at school who is always finding and bringing home birds with broken wings to try to heal them, that kind of thing. Well, I was that kid. I always wanted to be a vet. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to be a vet.’

She began scribbling some notes of ideas for the presentation on the paper napkins.

‘How long have I worked for you now, Scott?’ she asked.

‘Three years, four months, one week,’ he answered immediately.

‘And in all that time, I’ve never asked you what made you become a vet,’ she said, with a question mark in her tone.

‘You don’t want to hear my boring becoming-a-vet story,’ he said, draining the last of his orange juice.

‘Yes, we do,’ I replied.

He shrugged.

‘Dr Lucas,’ he said.

‘Dr Lucas,’ he repeated, more to himself than to us.

Joanna and I waited.

Scott sighed.

‘I had a golden lab when I was a teenager. Try not to snigger openly, but her name was Goldie. She followed me everywhere. She was such a loyal dog and an incredible jumper. You should have seen how far she could jump from a pier into the water. She loved swimming; she was half dog, half dolphin. When I was sixteen, soon after I got my driving license, a group of us drove across the country to Montana on a camping trip. Just a bunch of privileged Connecticut kids goofing around in the wilderness. One night when we were pretending to be men, drinking beers around the campfire that took us about half a day to get started …’ and he laughed.

‘Go on,’ said Joanna.

‘I realised Goldie was missing, so we divided into two groups and set off to find her. Poor Goldie, she had got her leg caught in a steel trap left by a poacher. When I found her,
she was all matted with blood and, despite her tremendous pain, when I knelt beside her, she just gave a little whimper and licked my hand.’

He paused for a minute, remembering.

‘We cut straight through that steel trap and I ran with her in my arms back to the car and set off looking for a vet. You have to remember this was late at night in the middle of nowhere. I stopped at the nearest gas station for directions. The woman there looked at me as if I was crazy to be out of my mind over just a dog. But she said, “Try old Lucas in the next town over,” and she gave me directions.’

‘I arrived at a dilapidated, clapboard cabin, all peeling paint with a rusted car in the front and heaps of junk all over the lawn. I ran up the steps to his porch and kept my finger on that bell until I heard someone yelling, “Alright, alright, no need to wake up the dead. I’m coming,” and this old man opened the door.’

‘He looked in bad shape, more like a homeless drug addict than a vet. He had a vest on that could have been white once, with gaping holes and some kind of dark pants held up by braces. His hair was long and grey and matted and he had a grey beard with bits of barbeque he had for dinner stuck in it. He smelt of stale beer and something else, maybe urine.’

‘He took one look at Goldie and me and said, “Bring her in, son,” and I followed him through into the back room where he saw the animals. I’ve never seen a poorer practice. He didn’t have any modern equipment at all, just a few bits and pieces that looked like they had been around since the
Civil War and an ancient examining table, which had only three legs. “Put your leg there,” he grunted. And I shoved my leg against the table to keep it up.’

‘All night long, he worked on Goldie while I held up the table. He didn’t say much. He just concentrated. When dawn finally came, he straightened up and he said, “We’ve done what we can, it’s in God’s hands now.” I asked him about paying him, explaining I just had a credit card my parents had given me, and he laughed so hard that I thought his wobbly looking front teeth were going to fall out. “No credit cards here, son, what have you got in cash?” So I emptied my pockets and I had seven dollars and twenty-three cents. “That will do,” he said and he put the money in his pocket and shuffled out of the room.’

‘That’s an incredible story,’ said Joanna. ‘So old Lucas cured Goldie and that inspired you to become a vet.’

Scott shook his head.

‘No, Goldie died later that day, peacefully in my arms, and I buried her there in Montana. But I have never been able to forget the way Dr Lucas tried with what he had, which was little more than his own pair of hands. If it were not for him, I would probably have been a business major at college and right at this very moment I would be on a yacht, surrounded by a bevy of Victoria’s Secret models.’

Joanna smiled and she put her hand on top of Scott’s and I put my hand on top of hers.

‘What have we got here,
The Three Musketeers
?’ asked Velda, with a sniff, tearing out the bill and dropping it
down on our table.

‘Absolutely,’ said Scott, winking at her, ‘do you want to be d’Artagnan?’

‘I’ve no time for your shenanigans, Dr Brooks, I have work to do,’ and she shuffled off, but not before giving him a second free refill of coffee.

As we strolled back to the clinic, I asked Scott, ‘did you get a new dog when Goldie died?’

‘No’ he said, ‘I missed Goldie so much that I guess I was too much of a coward to get a new pet.’

‘Until you got brave enough to get Ben,’ I pointed out.

‘Not exactly,’ he said.

‘I got Ben in a poker game. Texas hold ’em.’

‘Oh my God. You won Ben in a card game. That is sooo cool,’ I said.

‘Who said anything about winning? The
loser
had to take Ben.’

‘What?’

‘Ben was the youngest puppy in a litter of nine born to Sidney’s sister’s English cocker spaniel. They found good homes for all the puppies. But Ben’s new owners brought him back, claiming he was untrainable. Now, who could think that?’

Joanna started laughing and Scott did his pretending-to-be-offended face.

‘I still maintain that Sidney and her sister put something in my beers during that poker game,’ he moaned.

It was a very interesting morning.

Chapter 17

I
called Kylie this morning to see if she
wanted to come with me to my horse-riding lesson and meet Luna, the horse I always ride. My riding instructor assigned Luna to me because she is an Irish draught horse, which she thought would suit me. Kylie said she couldn’t make it.

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘Because I have the adopted kids’ club today.’

‘Can orphans join as well?’ I asked.

‘No, I don’t think so. I think you have to be adopted.’

That didn’t feel fair.

‘Maybe I will text Greg to see if he can go,’ I said, thinking out loud.

‘Duh, no he can’t,’ said Kylie. ‘He’ll be with me.’

‘But you just told me that only adopted kids can go,’ I said huffily, wondering if she had invited Greg but not me.

‘Greg
is
adopted. Didn’t you know that?’

‘What?’ I said. ‘But I’ve met his parents.’

‘You met his
adoptive
parents,’ said Kylie. ‘Finn and Greg are from Wisconsin. Their dad abandoned them when Greg was a toddler. I think their mom was into alcohol or drugs,
or both, and she couldn’t cope, so she gave them up for adoption. They were in a few foster homes. Greg doesn’t remember much. He was only four and a half when the Winters adopted them.’

I felt stunned.

‘They never said anything,’ I protested.

‘Do you go around announcing to people that you are an orphan?’ Kylie asked.

‘No, you know I don’t. Of course not.’

‘So adopted people don’t go around saying, “Hey, guess what? I’m adopted.”’

‘Okay, okay, I get it,’ I said. ‘Have fun today.’

‘You too. Enjoy the horseback riding and don’t fall off.’

‘I won’t,’ I promised, wondering why Americans say ‘horse
back
’ riding. Where else on a horse could you ride?

I very nearly did fall off when I was doing a posting trot around the indoor arena.

‘Concentrate, Evangeline,’ called out Danielle. ‘You are in dreamland. Luna is in charge of you and it should be the other way around.’

‘Sorry,’ I said.

Danielle was right. I had been thinking about how Finn’s and Greg’s dad had abandoned them, just like my dad
abandoned
me and he hadn’t even met me. But I could never, ever, in a million years imagine my mother giving up on me. She would never have done that. I felt bad for Greg and Finn. I was still thinking about them when Scott drove us home.

‘You’re very quiet today, Evie,’ he said, questioningly.
‘What’s on your mind?’

‘I feel sorry for Finn and Greg because their mother gave them up for adoption,’ I answered simply.

‘Don’t feel sorry for them; they wouldn’t like it and they are fine. More than fine. They have parents who love them and they have each other. Find another cause.’

Scott was right. The Wisconsin Winters did not need or want my pity.

‘I did my first jump today,’ I told Scott. ‘At least, I think it could be classified as a jump – the pole was so close to the ground that the jump was over before I could blink.’

‘Starting small is good,’ said Scott. ‘We should order you some riding breeches online. They’ll be more comfortable for you to ride in.’

‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘My jeans are fine and I’m only going to be here a few more weeks anyway.’

‘So you still plan on going back to Ireland?’ said Scott.

I nodded, waiting for him to say something more, but he just turned on the radio and began singing along.

‘Who’s that?’ I asked.

‘That is the late, great Johnny Cash.’

‘Who’s he?’ I asked.

‘Who’s he?’ Scott stuttered. ‘We have a lot of work to do on your musical education.’

That evening, Scott dropped me off at Kylie’s place to hang out. It wasn’t nearly as much fun as usual because of another visitor; a thirteen-year old named Camille. When I first saw her, I thought she looked exquisitely pretty and
sophisticated with her white-blonde hair tied up in intricate double Dutch braids.

‘Did your mom do your hair?’ I asked.

She laughed in a contemptuous way.

‘As if! I got it done yesterday in the braid bar at the salon on the ninth floor in Bergdorf Goodman. You really should try it.’

I had never heard of Bergdorf Goodman.

‘It’s a high end department store on Fifth Avenue,’ explained Kylie, seeing my mystified look.

Camille looked at me as if only someone who had lived her entire life on the moon would not know Bergdorf Goodman. A couple of hours later, I was wondering how I could possibly have thought Camille was pretty. She has tiny squinty eyes and a mean mouth.

When Camille went to the bathroom, Kylie gave me the lowdown on her. Her mom is American and her dad is French. Her parents are mega rich. Her father works at the same French investment bank as Tamara’s father. Tamara is her cousin.

‘Camille used to go to school at the Lycée Français de New York, but she is transferring to my school this year,’ said Kylie, grimacing.

Soon after Camille came back from the bathroom, Rachel came into Kylie’s bedroom with a tray of glasses of
homemade
lemonade and stopped to chitchat for a while. Camille kept showing off by speaking in French whenever Kylie or Rachel asked her something and then doing this annoying
little shake of her head and saying, ‘Oh, sorry, I keep forgetting, you can’t speak French’. After about the third time she did this, I interrupted her rudely … in French, which gave her a very satisfying shock.

I learned French when Mum and I lived in Paris. Mum was dead proud. I didn’t have a word of French when we arrived, but after a few weeks, I realised that I could often understand what people were saying. By the time Mum’s play ended, I was gabbing away as if I had lived in France my whole life. When we moved to Dublin, Mum gave acting classes to Delphine, an au pair from Marseilles who worked for a family in Foxrock. In exchange, Delphine dropped around to our flat and chatted to me in French for an hour or so every week.

Camille said, ‘Oh, you speak French,’ in a disinterested voice and didn’t ask me any questions about it. But she quit speaking in French. Kylie and I exchanged glances. I could tell she was thrilled that I was able to take Camille down a peg or two. I don’t think I have met anyone as full of herself since Amy McCann, even including Leela.

By the time Camille’s mom came to pick her up, we were heartily fed up with her. Camille’s mom was so thin with such a large head that she looked like an illustration from a Roald Dahl book. It was sickening the way Rachel sucked up to her. To be honest, I lost some of my respect for Rachel and I couldn’t quite make eye contact with her. I excused myself and slipped back into Kylie’s bedroom.

Kylie followed me a few minutes later.

‘Mom does it for me,’ she said quietly.

I felt embarrassed that Kylie read my thoughts.

‘She needs Camille’s mom to buy paintings from the gallery so she can pay for my ice-skating lessons and my school fees and violin camp.’

I felt like I was buried up to my neck in an entire dirty garbage load of shame. I knew exactly what Kylie was talking about. I tried to explain it to her.

‘One time, when I was about seven, we were living in London and flat broke, Mum took a crappy job in which she had to dress up in a rooster costume and hang out on Tottenham Court Road, handing out leaflets for a fast food chicken burger chain. One cold, rainy afternoon, a crazy old man with some morbid hatred of chickens walked up to her and spat on her. Mum cried that night, and she hardly ever cried. Well, at least, she hardly ever let me see her cry. She said it was so disgusting and humiliating to be spat on that she wished the guy had beaten her up instead.’

Kylie and I tried to decide which was worse, being beaten up or spat on. We decided it would depend on how badly you got beaten up. We could very easily make up our minds about a choice between freezing to death and being burnt alive. Kylie chose death by fire. I thought that was totally mad. There is nothing I am more afraid of than being roasted alive, so I didn’t even need a second to think about it.

‘But anyway,’ I said to Kylie, ‘the point is that Mum got up the next day and put that stupid costume back on and went back out there because she needed the money to pay
for rent and food and clothes for me and all that. If she didn’t have me, she could have just gone to stay with a friend or something.’

‘Does it make you sad to talk about your mom?’ Kylie asked.

‘No. Yes. I don’t know. Sometimes yes, sometimes no.’

‘I wish I could have met her,’ Kylie said.

I smiled.

‘I’m sure she would have loved you. She liked people with what she called flair.’

I told Kylie I wanted to be a good friend and share the Camille burden this summer. She responded by enveloping me in a massive hug. There was never much hugging with my friends in Ireland. I don’t know why. It’s just not
something
we did. When we were very little kids, four and five years old, we used to hold hands when we went on school excursions, but that was it. All this hugging Americans do seemed really weird at first. But I’m getting used to it. I think I kind of like it.