“Mark?” I said.
“Dogs… ‘better than human beings because they know, but do not tell,’?” he mumbled.
Another Emily Dickinson quote.
Dickinson had had a Newfoundland named Carlo. Mark was full of Dickinson facts and quotes, even in his sleep. But did the poet’s dog wake her in the night, growling like this?
“Mark, I don’t think it’s a deer. She hears somethingin the house.”
No response. Just more gentle snoring.
I loved my husband, but he was useless in the middle of the night. Even when the girls were babies, it was me who always woke when they cried, me who did middle-of-the-night changings and feedings. It was me who got up to soothe bad dreams, to take temperatures, to search for monsters under the bed. It had always been easier for me to just do thesethings on my own than wake Mark up and hope to get him coherent enough to be actually useful.
I got up now and followed Moxie into the hall. She crept along the carpeted corridor slowly, cautiously. This was very un-Moxie-like behavior. She was one of the most chill dogs I’d ever known. Not reactive or territorial in the slightest. And I’d never known her to be afraid of anything.
I followed, pausing to open Olivia’s bedroom door. It stuck, as most of the old doors in our house did, and let out a little creak as I pushed it open. Olivia was there, sound asleep, surrounded by the piles of stuffed animals that she insisted we tuck her in with each night, her ladybug night-light glowing softly.
I pulled her door closed gently, then opened the next door on the right, looked in to see Izzy asleep in her bed, with her headphones on. She looked so young, asleep in Mark’s old oversized UVM T-shirt, face bare of makeup, relaxed. Vulnerable. Her room was a mess, clothes and books strewn everywhere, brightly colored empty energy drink cans on every surface. Her desk was covered with things she used for her artwork: old gears, doll parts, cut-up magazines, bits of broken mirror. I spotted a copy of theI Chingand a deck of tarot cards. When had my daughter become interested in divination?
There were other kids, I knew, who shared things with their mothers. Who told them about trying pot, who confessed who was hooking up with whom at parties, the little heartbreaks and dramas of teenage life. Izzy used to be like that with me. Just last year she would come home from school or a party to tell me some silly thing Noah had done, or that Chloe wasn’t talking to Ella anymore, or that Sasha had been caught vaping in the school bathroom. These days she didn’t hang out with the same crowd. She hung out with new kids, kids from the drama club and film club, kids in the LGBTQ Alliance. And suddenly, my daughter was a closed book. A secret keeper. Just like I had been at her age; like I was still.
Four feet in front of me, the dog stood at the top of the stairs, growling so low and deep that the walls seemed to reverberate.
“Shh, Moxie. It’s okay,” I told her unconvincingly. She started down the stairs, ridge-backed, head down, teeth bared. I didn’t think I’d ever seen my goofy, lovable Lab quite this ferocious.
There was a definite hiss from downstairs.
And flickering lights.
I froze, holding tight to the banister, not wanting to follow her. Not wanting to see whatever was down there waiting for me.
I swallowed hard, forced my feet to move forward, as I trailed Moxie down the stairs into the living room.
The television was on, the screen showing only static, the whole room flickering from its white buzzing fire.
My mother was sitting on the couch, staring at the static on the TV, entranced, the remote in her hand.
“Mother?” I said. “What are you doing?”
She was in her white nightgown. Her feet were bare, pale, looking like alabaster against the hardwood floor.
She looked up at me in surprise. “Alison?”
“Yes?”
“What on earth are you doing here?”
I looked around the room. Saw the unlit tree looming in the corner, the new angel swaying slightly, watching us with a cold curiosity. Outside, the moonlight illuminated freshly fallen snow. I could make out the vague shape of the stuffed snowman on the bench, his back to us.
Moxie’s demeanor changed completely. She yawned nervously and made her way to her bed in the corner, where she curled in a tight ball, eyes on us.
“It’s my house.” I swallowed, took a step toward my mother.
“Is it really you?” she asked.
“Of course.”
Was this the effect of her medication? Or was it the illness itself? The stress and exhaustion of the day? I made a mental note to talk to the nurse about it in the morning. If this nighttime wandering and confusion was going to be a regular thing, we needed to be ready.
