“Here’s another piece you should understand. Daniel and I, when we were little kids, made a solemn pact between us that whoever died first had to stick around and haunt the other, and we’d cross into Heaven together.” He looked back to see how she received that.
Her brows pulled together. “Is this your idea of a joke?”
“Joke was on me, it seems,” Gabriel said. “You should know—because I sure didn’t— that at the end of my brother’s illness when he was in hospice, he listened to opera. My sister, Cathy, told me how Daniel listened to music and tried to get Whiskey to howl along. Whiskey would only howl to certain songs, not to the radio, only to live singing, from what I can tell. So that’s how Daniel entertained himself.”
“And you thought that Whiskey was remembering the songs and singing to your brother? Can dogs do that?”
“According to Whiskey’s trainer? No. Did her trainer have an explanation for what I had on my video that I took to ask Cathy if she understood what was going on? No.”
“That’s how Whiskey knows my songs. For my part, I choose them because I find them easier to manage, and I like how they feel in my body.”
“Mournful.”
“Maybe. Or maybe just an expression of the human experience. Since I’ve started singing again, I find those songs help me process difficult days in the emergency department.”
“High adrenaline all day every day.”
Sommer turned to continue up the trail. “Can be, yes. But I’m trying to figure this out. Did you think it was cute that she was singing with me?”
“From where I stood, outside of the graveyard, I didn’t hear you sing. Not at all. I just found out that Whiskey was howling along with someone a couple days ago.”
There was a long silence between them.
“So Whiskey walked to the graveyard,” Sommer said. “She started howling a song of death, and—” Sommer took the next several steps in silence. “You just told me your brother had sworn that he would haunt you. Shit.” The conversation hung in the air between them. “I would have freaked the hell out.”
“Yup.”
“And you kept coming back at different times when I was singing.”
“Yup.”
“Because Whiskey wanted to go for a walk.”
“She’d get her lead and go stand by the door.”
“It’s been going on for three months.”
“Yup.”
“This lens that I’m now seeing through … Gabriel, it’s painful to hear. All this time, you thought …”
“I didn’t know what to think. I’ve had some really odd things happen to me in my life—things that don’t have an explanation. I’ve had my brothers in arms tell me stories that raised the hair on the nape of my neck. There are things that defy logic.”
“Did you hope it was your Daniel?” she asked quietly.
“I didn’tnothope it. If that makes any sense. My sister, though—”
“No, your mourning sister was privy to all that? Crap. This feels bad.”
“She was obsessed with the idea. Daniel’s death has hit her hard. She’s the eldest sibling and was the nurturer in an emotionally austere household. My mom called Cathy LittleMommy somewhat derisively, as in ‘Go get Little Mommy if you want someone to cry to.’”
“Oh.”
“I’m going to have to tell her,” Gabriel said.
“Yes.”
“I honestly think Whiskey’s mourning my brother and your songs were soothing. Possibly they reminded Whiskey of Daniel, and she wanted to hear them. Meanwhile, I was recording the songs for my sister and sending them to her, and she would look at Daniel’s playlist and figure out what Whiskey was singing.”
