“You’re giving her away because she sheds?” Winnie asked. Clearly, the woman was a Disney villain if that was the case.
Fiona sighed. “I have two kids under four. I don’t know what we were thinking. I just can’t give her the attention she needs.” She began to cry. “It’s not fair to the dog. I thought I’d try you, but if you can’t take her, I’ll bring her to a shelter or whatever.”
“No! I mean, yes, I’ll take her,” Winnie said. “But I live in Wellfleet, not here, so you and your kids won’t see her.”
“I’ll just tell the kids a nice lady owns her now. Will you take her to the beach? She loves running.”
“I live right across the street from the water. Here, give me your phone number, and I’ll text you pictures. You and the kids can even come visit if you want.”
“Really? God, thank you. And like, you can stop by if you’re down here, too. Seriously. Thank you.”
A few minutes later, Fiona had given her a bag of food from the car (she’d clearly assumed Winnie would say yes), some squeaky toys and a dog bed covered in a thick layer of white fur on it. “Bye, Bailey. I mean, Fluffina, you said?” She smiled at Winnie. “Good luck. Thanks again.”
The dog’s tail wagged as Fiona walked away, but otherwise, she didn’t seem at all sad. “Well, then, Fluffina,” Winnie said, and the dog looked at her, eyes bright and excited. “Who wants to go for a ride?”
TWENTY-TWO
LORENZO
In the weeks since he’d fired Winnie, Lorenzo’s life went along in an uninterrupted, seamless fashion. The cleaning staff came and went with only a text notification that they had been there. The landscapers cleaned up after a Thanksgiving nor’easter before he was even aware of how hard the storm had hit. He received emails saying his various bills had been paid automatically, something Winnie had set up during her tenure. In Boston, his dry cleaning and laundry were picked up and delivered, neatly folded or hanging in biodegradable plastic, waiting in the foyer of his building with the doorman. Groceries appeared in refrigerated bags at the promised times. He received a notification that his Lamborghini had been detailed at his home in Chatham. And each night when he arrived home, either in Boston or Chatham, the lights were glowing warmly, thanks to a daylight sensor. Almost like someone was home.
Seamless and sterile. No flowers, no unrequested baked goods, no holiday décor or insouciant notes.
Which was fine, of course. He preferred it this way.
A colleague asked him to come to Mount Sinai in New York to guest lecture her residents and scrub in on a delicate surgery. Lorenzo made his own hotel and train reservations without issue. The train was on time. The hotel manager at The Carlyle welcomed him back, and the suite was as nice as Lorenzo remembered. He ate dinner alone in the bar—a salad with grilled chicken. No drink, no dessert, no conversation. At Mt. Sinai the next day, the residents watched in reverence as he and Dr. Lad performed a multivisceral resection. Afterward, the younger doctors asked intelligent, respectful questions. He and Dr. Lad had a pleasant dinner together. His travel back to Boston the next day was uneventful, and he worked on the train.
His orderly life was like a vast white tunnel, silent and immaculate, the memory of little flashes of color and noise reverberating around him. He found himself running along the Charles, a deviation from his regular course, his steps slowing near Fiedler Dock.
He managed to dodge his family at Thanksgiving by covering trauma surgery for the weekend at Mass General. The following Friday evening, he drove down to Chatham. No traffic at the bridge, smooth sailing on Route 6.
On his front steps sat an insulated bag of groceries and two flower arrangements. Right. In a moment of weakness yesterday, after the bowel resection and before the laparotomy for the septic abdomen, he’d gone online and ordered two flower arrangements. Why? Because he missed having flowers in the house. Now, staring at them, he felt ridiculous. They looked forced and fake, like the flowers for an elderly aunt’s funeral. They were well-intentioned, but stiff and off the mark.
Just like he was.
With a sigh, he left them there and went inside. The house was cold since he’d forgotten to turn on the heat via the app Winnie had downloaded. He tapped the thermostats, heard the low hum of the furnace, and wandered through the house, adjusting the lights.
Once, it had been a relief to come here to pristine, sleek silence, knowing the house would be exactly as he’d left it. Now, he felt as if he was living in a staged model home. He paused at the picture of himself meeting William for the first time, the infant staring straight into his eyes. He’d felt such a rush of connection to the baby, his sister’s firstborn. His beautiful, kindhearted sister had become a mother, and this perfect little child had made him an uncle. He’d always imagined that his siblings would procreate, but he had not expected the intensity of his new role, like a flash-fire in his chest. William had made him an uncle. An eight-pound baby had looked up at him with complete trust and love, gazing back at him in wonder, and suddenly, Lorenzo was someone entirely new, something he had never been before.
Now, the same child was terrified at the sight of him.
That moment with Winnie in the elevator at the Mark Hopkins Hotel, he’d felt the same way—new. Full of potential, about to start something incredible. She saw him. And God, she was…everything. Fierce. Wise. Subtle and sharp, and funny. Brave. She took down her former lover in that airport without a single thought for how she might seem, who might be watching or listening, or judging. When that little boy was floating off into the Charles, she’d known exactly what to do, and because of her, Lorenzo had been able to hang onto the boy while she got them both to safety.
Had he actually told her she was an underachiever?
God, he’d fucked things up.
Lorenzo knew he was on some sort of spectrum, both because of biology and his upbringing and, at some point, choice. Medicine, the human anatomy, the miracles of science were clearer and more beautiful without the clouds of emotion. If he looked at a hemorrhaging pancreas, he needed to think about repairing the splenic artery, not about the fact that the patient was the mother of three and the victim of a hate crime.
It had always served him well professionally, this lack of emotion. But lately…since Winnie, damn her…he didn’t feel well-served at all.
The vast darkness of sea beyond his yard was inky tonight, not a star to be seen. If he went outside and walked on the beach, he’d see the glimmer of lights in other houses along the shore and hear the shushing of the ocean. The thought made him feel unbearably lonely.
He wished he could get a dog. It just wasn’t practical for someone with his schedule. Maybe a turtle, then.
He shook off the melancholy. This place was his escape, his time off after ten days solid of surgeries and teaching. He unloaded the groceries—fresh produce and fish—but was not inspired to make anything. Got out the bottle of Brennevin. He should’ve chilled the glass. He opened the freezer to stick one in, only to find one already there.
There she was again.
