I wasn’t entirely sure why, which wasn’t a feeling I liked. I rarely offered my opinion or words of comfort, unless asked. He hadn’t asked me, but I’d felt compelled to offer something.
He was so upset, and more often than not, I found people’s outward display of emotions disconcerting. But with this man, I wanted to help him, which admittedly usually ended badly—my father typically intervened in situations such as these—but I’d said to this man the first words that came into my head.
Words that helped me process the reality of veterinary science—understanding my father’s profession and the path I’d chosen to follow—and appreciate the fact that we helped more than we lost.
Death was a part of life. I knew that. It wasn’t easy, but it was the undeniable truth. I couldn’t offer any words on loss or the pain which accompanied it because it was not my loss to bear.
But I wanted to comfort that man with words that I myself had found comfort in.
I wondered briefly how he was. Was he stillsad? And the kittens who were now fending for themselves. Were they warm? Were they crying for a mother, a source of food, who wasn’t coming back?
“Deacon,” Dad called out. “Our show’s about to start.”
I slid the book back into its place and found my dad in his favorite chair with Mildred, our bulldog, by his feet. I sat in my usual spot, unsure how to broach the subject.
“Everything okay?” Dad asked me.
“I’d like to find the kittens,” I said. “From the stray that was brought in. I should have asked the man where he’d hit her with his car, then I could have gone to see if I could find them. There’s no way of knowing how young they are, a few weeks perhaps, and they might not be able to fend for themselves. I should have asked him, and I didn’t. I feel bad that I didn’t ask. I didn’t even ask his name. He said he would pay whatever fees we charged, but I didn’t think to get his name. He was so upset, I...” I shrugged. “I thought it best if I just let him leave.”
Dad gave me a warm smile. “We can ask around tomorrow and have a look at the cameras at work. We might see his car, and we can find him that way. Don’t feel bad about the kittens. They weren’t your primary concern at the time.”
“I should have thought about it, but I didn’t. As a veterinarian, I’m supposed to think of these things.”
“We’ll see what we can find out tomorrow. I’m sure those kittens are in their little hideout, warm as toast. We can start looking tomorrow.”
I trusted his judgment, so I tried not to think about it and to enjoy our 7:00 p.m. ritual.
His attention turned to the TV. “Ooh, okay, it’s about to start.”
Every night we watched reruns ofAntiques Roadshow, guessing how much each item was worth. This little game we played was one of my favorite things.
The show began, and I tried to stop thinking about the kittens, which of course, meant I thought about them more. My mind did this to me often. Trying tonotthink about something usually made it the only thing I could think about.
Dad did his best to distract me, and the guessing games were fun. I appreciated his efforts, but I was relieved when it was time for bed. It meant I could lie in my room—my favorite place—surrounded by my things, where it was quiet and contained, and stare at the ceiling. I could think about finding the kittens tomorrow. My mind kept replaying the scenario of the sad man and how upset he’d been, how I’d tried to comfort him by quoting Haruki Murakami.
And of course, the more I tried tonotthink about him, about his kindness and his sad eyes, the more I thought about him.
I slipped out of bed, slid my copy ofNorwegian Woodfrom the bookcase and took it back to bed with me.
I’d read it a few dozen times, and I could have very easily began at page one, immersing myself in the gentle words. There was a pattern, a cadence to the writing that I connected with, and yes, reading it over would have been easy and would have stopped me thinking about the man from the clinic.
But for reasons I didn’t quite understand, I didn’t want to stop thinking about him.
So I slipped the book under my pillow, switched my lamp off, and closed my eyes. I pictured in my mind the man and the way he looked at me when I’d quoted those words to him.
His kind face, the way his sad eyes met mine.
I couldn’t get the image out of my head, but for another reason I didn’t quite understand, I didn’t even mind.
CHAPTER THREE
WINTER
I arrivedat the shop early. The contractors would be installing the shelves and the service counter today, and I was excited for the store to start taking shape. My first delivery of books would be arriving later this week and I needed the store operational by December first.
I had a week.
I parked my car, trying super hard tonotremember the carnage I’d caused last night, ending that poor cat’s life. It was an accident, a horrible, awful, no-good accident, but still...
