As first-time parents, Steve and I had devoured books on child-rearing. We knew all the developmental milestones and waited eagerly for Austin’s first smile, his first laugh, helping him learn to sit up on his own. He reached all of the physical milestones on time – sitting, crawling, standing, walking – and he showed some interest in his toys, but he didn’t smile, or laugh. Or even cry that much. But the pediatrician wasn’t worried. He assured us that babies all develop at different rates. And Austin’s motor skills were right on track.
When Austin was nine months old, I signed us up for a local ‘Mommy and Me’ playgroup. The group was run by a woman called April, and she shared my concerns.
Austin had no interest in the other children. He would sit quietly and play with the puzzles and building blocks. He didn’t respond when I called his name and he’d throw tantrums over seemingly nothing.
Just after Austin’s first birthday, April referred us to an early intervention center that assessed children for developmental delays. On the day of our appointment, Steve was working, so I sat with Austin in the waiting room, apprehensive about what the doctor would find.
After observing my son for forty minutes, attempting to engage and interact with him, Dr. Claire Bernard sat across from me and delivered the news. Austin was definitely on the autism spectrum. I felt so sad that Austin would never have a normal childhood, or adulthood. That he…we…would struggle to navigate everyday life. The tears I cried then were mingled with relief at having my concerns validated. It was no longer an unknown worry. My son had autism and now I could get him the help he needed.I took him to see all sorts of doctors. Occupational therapists, speech therapists, audiologists, nutritionists, psychologists. Eventually we settled into a routine of appointments and once he was enrolled in school, our family life became more predictable and settled.
When the vet calls out Munchkin’s name, I rise immediately. A middle-aged man in a white medical smock with the name ‘Dr. Nick Flemming’ stitched above the left-breast pocket smiles and beckons me into the exam room. “You must be Munchkin’s caretaker.” His voice is warm and friendly. “What brings you in today?” He opens the carrier’s door and waits for the cat to walk out.
“He’s limping and I found a swelling on his right front leg,” I say as I watch him examine Munchkin’s ears and mouth. “I was playing with him a few days ago. He ran around a bit. You don’t think that’s what’s caused this?”
“I doubt it,” Dr. Nick says, running his hands over the cat’s body before turning his attention to the leg in question. “Oh dear, that does look sore.” He finally addresses me. “His dewclaw has grown back into the skin and caused an infection. It’s pretty common in older cats. I need to trim the nail and drain the infection. He’s not going to like it, so I need to give him a light sedative to keep him calm, and a local anesthetic to numb the area while I work on it.” My face must not look too reassured, because he says, “You didn’t cause this.”
I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding in a long sigh. “Oh, thank goodness. Sam loves this cat so much, I couldn’t bear it if I did anything to hurt him. So, should I wait outside?”
“I’d prefer to keep him overnight. Let the sedative and local wear off completely. You can pick him up tomorrow.”
That throws a spanner into my morning routine, but I can work something out. “Okay, sure, I can do that.” I give Munchkin a quick stroke. “Be a good boy,” I tell him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Dr. Nick opens the door for me. “Jackie will have an admittance form for you to sign.”
I sign the form, leaving my contact info, and type out a message to Sam when I get to the car.
Munchkin’s dew claw is overgrown and causing an infection. I’ve left him overnight with Dr. Nick. Will collect him first thing in the morning.
So, it’s nothing serious?
I explain what the doc said, and the plan for treatment. I want to set his mind at ease, even though I’m anxious myself. He’s such a lovely man, and so attached to his pet. It’s heartwarming, and I want to make sure he’s not fretting. He sends a message in reply to my text.
Poor old man :( He’s not going to like staying over.
I feel terrible again, still a little responsible. This man seems so besotted with this cat. I know some might find it odd, but it warms my heart. We live in a world that’s so uncaring and intolerant of the simpler things. Kids and animals seemed to bear the brunt of it. It strikes me that a man who could love an animal so openly must have a pretty big heart. I’m growing to like my employer more and more. I send him another message to assure him that Munchkin is in good hands.
I’ll be back first thing and get him home as early as possible.
Thanks for taking care of him.I can’t tell you how much stress you’ve taken away.I hate leaving him, especially now. I don’t know how much time he has left.
My heart gives yet another surge as I end the conversation.
Chapter 7
Russian Mafia
Samuel Foster
The beady-eyed man is staring at me suspiciously as I try to communicate brokenly using a combination of English, bad French and the Russian I’ve tried to decipher from my Google Translate app. I’ve dropped a bag of jewelry on the chipped Formica counter of his dingy pawn shop. I’m dressed in jeans, sneakers and a bulky hooded jacket lined with fake fur. The hood is over my head, along with a fur-trimmed beanie. Dark glasses mask my eyes. The shop owner will never mistake me for a local, but I’m hoping that if I’m caught on camera, it’ll be harder to pick me out from any of the other warmly bundled men shuffling through the snow.
“So, what will you give me?” I ask again. He’s rifling through the glittering gems. Rings, bracelets, heavy diamond-studded chokers. It’s the real deal – I know this, because I stole it from a man who wouldn’t be caught dead adorning his women with fakes.
“Ahhh…” The man is licking his lips, his greedy eyes doing a mental tally. I know he’s going to offer me a fraction of what the stuff is worth, but I don’t care. It’s not my jewelry, and any cash I make is going straight to the kids in the park. We spend the next ten minutes haggling over the price, and eventually I leave. My pockets are padded with cash – less than I’d wanted, but more than he’d hoped to pay. It’s an unhappy compromise, but it will do.
An hour later, I’ve converted the cash into food and warm clothing, after shopping at a department store nearby. Boxes of items have been offloaded from a small delivery van at a park I passed the day before. Odessa is a magical city in winter. Like something out of a fairytale. But the weather is brutal, and the park has become a cold haven to the homeless. The snow-quilted grounds may seem magical beneath the icy frosting, but I’d seen people huddled in there, dotted amidst the bushes under makeshift shelters. Men curled beneath cardboard boxes on ornate benches. A wizened, hunched woman on her knees, hands clasped before her, sharing a filthy blanket with a mangy dog. A couple of kids picking hungrily through a filthy dumpster. The images won’t leave me. I’ve picked through trash before.
I settle at a grimy little coffee shop and watch as a man from the department store speaks to some of the street people. It’s too risky for me to hand anything out myself, but I need to see that it arrives safely. I need to see food in the hands of those starving kids.
The man is still talking; now arms are waving, and suddenly people are emerging from all directions. Within minutes, the boxes are gone, but there’ll be more every day for the next few weeks. Hopefully it will see them through the worst of winter. I hide a smile, finish my coffee and get up to catch a cab to my hotel.
