The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel (34 page)

Why would he think this assurance makes me feel anything close to calm?

The door keeps chiming. “How many people are you expecting?” I ask.

“No idea, but Ginny says she’s ordered enough to keep a hundred people, and their pets, comfortably fed and watered. Sounds like it’s already started.”

Lewis acts as though this evening will be the turning point that keeps Bedside Manor alive and, by extension, ensures his ailing wife remains where she needs to be.

“Why didn’t you let me in on this earlier?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise. And, I didn’t want you to panic or overthink it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lewis steps in, hands clutching my upper arms. “You need to live a little. Be more spontaneous. Start listening to your heart and stop deliberating and procrastinating in that mind of yours. Besides, you’re going to have to say a few words of introduction, and Greer told me how you hate public speaking.”

Lewis rushes through this last comment as though I might not notice it. I hear a high-pitched female laugh from the waiting room.

“No way. I’ll play nice. I’ll see the cases. But please don’t make me speak in front of an audience.”

“Cyrus, you’ve got no choice. You’re the new guy. They’re going to want to know something about you.”

“But what do I say?”

“Tell them as much or as little as you want. It’s entirely up to you.”

I think about this or should I say I try not to think, but rather allow myself to be led, influenced, and overwhelmed by what I feel and not by what I understand.

Lewis checks his watch. “It’s nearly five. Greer’s piece said we’d start seeing cases at five.”

“Give me a minute. I need to grab a couple of things.”

“You’re not going to run out on me, are you?”

I shake my head, break his grip, and disappear upstairs.

Armed with the two props I’ve yet to hang in the exam room, I step into a waiting room that resembles a rowdy neighborhood party. A turbulent throng of chatty strangers is peeling off coats and scarves and hats as they surrender to their own warmth and bonhomie. Though the rumble of conversation is punctuated by the occasional yip and bark, even the canines on leashes and in arms appear to be enjoying themselves. I glimpse the back of a scarlet macaw on a shoulder, a trio of seated gray-haired ladies, cat carriers on laps, sipping glasses of white wine, and there’s a young man in white shirt and black bow tie, working the crowd, offering finger food from a silver platter. There’s no one I recognize and no one seems to be checking me out. I’m without a pet, a gate-crasher, and therefore best ignored.

“Ah, there you are.” Lewis has me by the arm. “Let’s make a little room for you at the far end. What have you got there?”

I’m about to tell him but someone’s saying hello, wanting to shake his hand. Hovering and awkward, I turn to face the crowd and this time I recognize a bobbing blond beehive. Doris is everywhere, buzzing from one person to the next. And everywhere she goes she leans in close and whispers in ears, causing smiles to evaporate, causing hands to fumble for wallets and hunt for checkbooks. What is she saying? What is she up to?

Lewis is free again, guiding me through the masses and into what available space remains near the storage room door. He beckons me close. “You ready?” He leans back, studies my face. “Stupid question. You’ll be fine. Remember,
don’t think, feel
.”

I get raised eyebrows, his version of “am I right or am I right” and he’s straight into, “Ladies and gentlemen …” The crowd begins to settle. “Ladies and gentlemen, dog lovers and cat lovers, thank you for—”

“Where’s the love for the parrot?”

There’s a ripple of laughter, and I wonder how many of them are already drunk.

“Let me try that over. Ladies and gentlemen … pet lovers …”—smiles, murmurs of approval—“thank you for joining us tonight as we celebrate a new beginning for your home town veterinary practice, Bedside Manor.”

A round of applause and there’s another
cha-ching
from the doorbell. I wish I could tell you it’s another pet owner, but it’s not. A few in the crowd notice my reaction and turn to see “what” not “who” must have walked in—my personal grim reaper, Mr. Critchley.

“Before I hand you over to a man who has already proven himself capable of delivering a kitten and a baby with equal aplomb….”

There’s a whoop, a whistle, heads turn, and this time I follow the stares to find Denise Laroche, blushing but unable to conceal a proud smile as she rocks her swaddled baby on her shoulder.

“… I must say a special thank-you to Peter Greer of the
Eden Falls Gazette
”—polite applause—“and the wonderful generosity of Ginny Weidmeyer for providing the drinks and snacks. Thanks, Ginny.” Cheers all round, more vigorous clapping, and once again I follow the direction of nodding heads and jutting chins to find Greer and Ginny at the way back, waving away the gratitude.

“So, without further ado, it is my great pleasure to formally introduce to you Dr. Cyrus Mills.”

Lewis gestures to me, backs away, and gives me a hearty go-get-’em thumbs-up before he disappears behind the door that leads directly to the central work area.

Nice time to abandon me.
Don’t think; feel
. Feel what? Like I need to run? Like I need to vomit?

“Um, thank you for coming this evening …”

There’s a cry of “speak up,” a “can’t hear you,” and a throaty bark of disapproval that I instantly recognize as belonging to Greer’s terrier, Toby.

“… Obviously, I … um … I had no idea about …” I see heads tipping back to drain drinks, heads scanning left and right, looking for more mobile refreshments, the telltale murmur of people already losing interest. My knees are shaking, I don’t know what to do with my hands, and I think I’m about to have a nosebleed.

“I wanted to … I’d like to take this opportunity to share something … something that might come as a surprise.”

As if on cue, the examination room door bursts open and I catch sight of a stupefied and practically airborne Brendon Small hurtling into the masses followed by a collective gasp, followed by a squeal of delight and then cheering and laughing and finally more than enough chatter to totally drown me out.

I’m left hanging for a full minute before Lewis emerges from the mayhem. “Sorry, Dr. Mills, we couldn’t keep your surprise waiting any longer.” Then addressing the room, “This afternoon, Dr. Mills found a dog wandering the trails behind the practice. Mr. Small was kind enough to drop by and confirm that she is his missing retriever, Frieda.”

A gap in the crowd opens up, enough for me to see Brendon Small holding the other end of the dog’s leash, Anne Small, on her knees, hands in supplication, tears running down her cheeks, and Emily, her little arms wrapped around the neck of her golden, tiny fingers laced together, the grip sure, as though she will never let go.

Lewis glances over at me. “Looks like the lost dogs of Eden Falls have found themselves a new Patron Saint.” And in his smug grin, his flashing brows, I suspect that finding Brendon in my exam room was the icing on the cake. Getting Anne and Emily Small to come this evening so he could return their lost dog had always been part of his master plan.

A new Patron Saint
. If Lewis’s intent is to pass the baton, no one notices my fumble. Everybody’s back has turned my way and they miss my grimace of unworthiness, of remorse. There’s the flash of a camera and the chink of glasses. It’s as though my speech is over, as though finding Frieda was the surprise I spoke of, a surprise the citizens of Eden Falls would obviously prefer over listening to me stutter and ramble. It’s time to set the record straight.

“I’ve got two things I need to share.” I’m shouting, the noisy heckler, spoiling the show but impossible to ignore. “The first is a series of photographs.” I hold up the collage from the basement, high over my head like a banner. For now I have their attention, though expressions appear more puzzled than interested. Mr. Critchley, standing at the way back, is the exception. His chin is raised, eyes narrowed, as though he is above all this, the excuses, the empty banter, because the time has come to pay up or suffer the consequences.

“Some of you will recognize the woman in the pictures, but I’m sure all of you know the man in the central photo with the little boy on his lap. Please, pass it around and take a closer look.”

I hand out the collage, and there’s another chime from the shopkeeper’s bell, a collective glance back, but this time, when my eyes discover the target of their shared curiosity, I’m left staring and then they’re left staring at me.

It’s Amy.

Instantly three thoughts flutter across my mind. Mentally I grab the first, a question, a curious but nonchalant “hum, what’s Amy doing here?” This gives way to an impulsive, “wow, Amy looks great—the way she’s done her hair, that hint of makeup accentuating her eyes and lips.” But this is rapidly followed by a scream of, “
oh my God, Amy’s here, dressed for dinner, for dinner with me at seven thirty and I’ve totally forgotten about our date, and Mr. Critchley is here to claim his pound of flesh, and there are all these drunken people staring at me, expecting me to examine their pets for free.”

I look into the crowd. I look at Amy, the picture of me on my father’s lap heading her way. I wanted to tell her tonight, tell her how wrong I have been, but not like this. I wanted to tell her in private, in increments, in carefully constructed sentences that give me my best chance to explain.

It’s too late. There’s no turning back. I reach for the FedEx package sent from Charleston, open it up, and pull out a framed sheet of paper.

“They say … they say there’s only one thing certain in life and that’s death. I think they’re wrong. I think there are two. Okay, death, but also, regret. You know what I’m talking about—the things you never did, the things you never said, the things you wish you’d never said. It’s not a question of
if
you will regret, it’s a question of
when
. Trouble is, for most of us, these two certainties—death and regret—come as a package deal, and by then it’s too late.

“The other thing about regret is the way regret means you care. That’s what makes Bedside Manor one of the biggest regrets of my life. I’m not talking about the way the building’s falling apart or the outdated equipment or the bad debt or the financial screwups, I’m talking about what counts, the Bedside Manor that you know will be here every time you walk through that front door with a sick animal. That certain something is here because the woman in those photos, Dr. Ruth Mills, helped keep it alive. That certain something is here because the smiling man with the half-closed eyes, your Doc Cobb, always took his time, always made time, kept his focus on his patient and not on the dollar. As for that little boy on his lap, well, that little boy will always have regrets, but I want to assure you that he’s committed to keeping that certain something you cannot see, cannot measure, cannot buy, cannot fake, and cannot ignore about Bedside Manor alive. That little boy is Bobby’s son, Cyrus. It’s time for that little boy to pay his respects. Here, tonight, I am so very proud to tell you, that little boy is me.”

I hold up my framed veterinary degree for everyone to see, the one given to Dr. Cyrus
Cobb
, and despite everything that’s happened, I brace for the collective gasp, for people to put down their glasses, drop their half-eaten chicken satay or shrimp cocktail in the trash, grab their leash or cat carrier and storm off in a show of solidarity to the former deity of Bedside Manor.

But as I look around the room, for the most part, people’s expressions remain essentially unchanged. Maybe they already knew? Maybe they just don’t care? Maybe it doesn’t matter to them in the way that it matters to me. You see, it’s not enough to be Bobby’s son. When you’ve got this much catching up to do, you’ve got to flaunt it.

Among the masses I glimpse the shiny bullet head of Chief Matt. He turns my way, looking even more confused than normal. Then I notice the faces of three people in particular—Lewis, Peter Greer, and Ginny Weidmeyer—heads held high, eyes and lips connected by a smile I last saw in my mother, like the smile of a parent humbled by the achievements of someone they love.

Then, from one end of the room to the other, I bob and weave and get on tippy-toes until my eyes finally meet Amy’s, trying to get a read on her reaction to my speech. Was she shocked by my change of heart about my father? Was she disappointed because I couldn’t talk about it when the two of us were alone? The waiting stretches until she simply turns away, breaking the connection, pushing her way through the front door and out into the lot.

I’m after her, jostling through the crowd, throwing out random apologies and “excuse me’s” and I’m halfway there when I’m jerked to a complete stop by none other than Lewis.

“Cyrus, your father would have been so proud of you. And …”

I should be thanking him, letting everyone know how much Lewis has done for me, but there’s Critchley at the back of the room, beckoning me with an insistent claw, like it would be foolish of me to ignore him.

“Sorry, Lewis, but could you fend off Mr. Critchley for a few minutes? There’s something I need to do.”

I don’t wait for a reply. I keep squeezing, nudging, and ultimately shoving my way through the crowd.

Out into the night and there she is, across the lot, unlocking her SUV.

“Amy. Amy, wait.”

I’m shouting but Amy totally ignores me, hopping into the driver’s seat.

“Please,” I scream, halfway across the slick asphalt, doing my best Bambi impersonation. “Don’t go. I screwed up. I should have faced my past. I should have talked things out with my father when I had the chance but I never did.”

The driver’s-side door is ajar, as though maybe she’s listening. I survey the lot to make sure we’re alone. “Thing is, I’m a loner. I’m … I’m not good at expressing what’s inside. Sometimes I wish I were more direct, like you, but I’m not.”

Get to the point, Cyrus
.

“Look, I want you to know … I want you to know I’ve ditched my pride. If I could have kept Bedside Manor alive I would have stayed.”