A Dog's Perfect Christmas Page 2

  “You are laying down the law,” Juliana observed.

  Hunter stubbornly stuck his chin out.

  “Drawing a line in the sand,” she continued. “Coming back with your shield, or on it.”

  He threw up his hands. “Okay, what?”

  Juliana set her husband’s breakfast down in front of him with a tolerant expression. “I’ve learned to fight the battles that are important, Hunter, and otherwise just let things go. Ello won’t always put on so much makeup, I promise. Right now, she wants to look exactly like every other girl in her grade. When she gets to high school and sees the older girls, she’ll want to look like them.”

  He sighed. “I just miss our little girl. Isn’t there some sort of pill we can give her so that she goes back to being how she was?” Hunter obviously meant to be kidding, but his face reflected real bewilderment that the child in bunny slippers who used to crawl in his lap for a story now acted as if everything about her father burned her like acid.

  “If it makes you feel any better, she treats me even worse,” Juliana informed him. “You get to escape to your job every day, while I’m stuck here with the twins, and when Ello gets home…” Juliana’s words jammed in her throat. She hadn’t meant to get started on this.

  Not yet.

  * * *

  Ello stood in her room, leaning forward slightly, staring at her face in the mirror. She hated every single aspect of everything she saw. She had inherited her mother’s Brazilian features, but without the extra melanin to have it all make sense. Instead, God’s perverse joke had been to paint her skin in the same pale, soulless vanilla that her father’s people had brought over with them on some boat from some place where everyone looked disgustingly the same.

  Her distaste also applied to everything below her neck. Especially below the neck. She took in all her flaws, all of the intolerables that she dragged around with her, the Worst Body Ever, and turned away in disgust. This morning she had resentfully appraised her mother, who was still thin and sexy despite childbirth, making Ello feel like a walrus in comparison to the supermodel cooking breakfast. Her mom was old. It was So Unfair.

  On the dresser beneath the mirror stood her trophies from ice dancing, which she had been doing since she was seven years old. In fifth grade, she had competed with other girls from all over the region and won, her father yelling and whistling as she glided out to accept her trophy. Then every other girl received the exact same trophy, which meant there was no point in trying hard at anything.

  Ello reached for the drab, baggy sweater that had exemplified her style since before summer vacation. The shapeless garment draped her in featureless folds, exactly how she wanted. No one could see anything below her shoulders except her feet.

  Not for the first time that week, or even that morning, Ello glanced at the framed photo montage that had replaced her unicorn poster a year ago. A birthday gift from her best friend, each photograph featuring only the two of them, Brittne and Ello, mostly selfies, all laughing, smiling, happy happy happy.

  Brittne. She was the center of Ello’s universe. The largest brown eyes of any human on the planet, perfect smile, hair blond and straight and flowing. Brittne’s parents personified the word “average” in every apparent way, yet their daughter could silence a room by walking into it. At thirteen. But Brittne loved Ello and Ello loved her and the two were inseparable. Brittne was the only reason Ello was alive.

  She turned back to the mirror. “Ugh,” she pronounced, eloquently summing up how she felt about everything. How was she going to survive gym class?

  Utter Disaster.

  * * *

  Grunting because the thing was so heavy, Sander pulled the urn off the shelf in the bathroom closet. He kept it up so high to prevent the twins from taking it down and scattering their grandmother’s ashes all over the living room.

  Barbara was taking powerful occupation of his thoughts this morning—probably because of the chest pains in the night that had led him to believe he was having a heart attack, an event he viewed with ambivalence. He set the urn on the vanity and regarded the bright turquoise finish with irony. His wife had always loved southwestern-style jewelry, and would have been delighted, but she was inside it and he was outside, loathing how the color jammed a cheerful mood into a somber purpose. When they cremated Sander, they’d probably put his incinerated remains into a dull metal box, because that represented who he’d been ever since the light of his life was extinguished.

  “I will see you again soon, darling,” Sander whispered. He silenced his breathing, listening for a response from beyond the urn, but heard only the sound of Winstead scratching his ear.

  * * *

  Juliana sympathetically watched Hunter’s stress crackle through him like an electric current, manifesting in the agitation with which he chopped up his scrambled eggs.

  “So this is like the most important meeting of my whole career,” he fretted. “Mrs. O’Brien and I haven’t spoken much about the new installation, but now she wants a full briefing. Now. When we’re, like, T-minus five.”

  Juliana assessed her husband. “And is that what you’re wearing?” she asked blandly.

  Hunter jerked his head up in alarm. “What? What do you mean?”

  Juliana gave him a kind smile. “Maybe that tie doesn’t go so well with that shirt,” she suggested. “Let me get you something else.”

  “Have you seen where I put my coffee cup?” he asked.

  Juliana walked to the counter and retrieved it. She took a breath, steeling herself. “And don’t forget, we’re having lunch today.”

  Well, he obviously had forgotten. He gave her a stricken look. “Oh.”

  Juliana shook her head. “This has been on the calendar for a long time, Hunter,” she admonished. “We need to talk. It’s important.”

  He stood and took his plate across the kitchen, setting it in the sink so that the housekeeping fairies could put it in the dishwasher for him. “I know,” he agreed, though it was obvious he did not know, had not a clue what she wanted to talk about, “but it’s just that this installation is running behind. This is huge, honey.”

  “I know,” she responded. They said that to each other a lot, but did they “know”? Really?

  Hunter absently set his coffee cup on the counter and left the room. Juliana waited patiently. After a minute or two, he poked his head back into the kitchen. “Did I leave my coffee in here?”

  Juliana wordlessly handed him the cup, then turned to put his breakfast plate in the dishwasher. Her sigh was full and heavy. She’d prepared for this lunch the way she had once prepared for trial. Yet, despite her rehearsals, she felt filled with hesitation.

  “How am I going to tell him?” she asked herself aloud.

  * * *

  The twins were in their car seats, kicking their legs and babbling to each other. Juliana glanced up at her children in the rearview mirror. Ello was peering out the window, either moody or pretending to be moody. Garrett couldn’t manage to hit his brother with his tiny fist, so he threw a piece of cookie.

  Ewan made an unintelligible remark, and the twins began laughing hilariously.

  “What did he say?” Juliana asked her daughter, the translator.

  “He said Garrett just peed his pants,” Ello advised.

  More raucous laughter.

  “Well, did he?” Juliana asked.

  “No way I’m checking that,” Ello answered with a smile.

  Juliana found herself marveling at how her daughter could go from being a wicked witch to a normal human being in seemingly no time at all. She decided not to mention it, for fear her daughter would transform back into The Creature Who Used To Be Normal.

  Following the established routine, Juliana dropped Ello off at middle school first. Her daughter left the car with a slouch, telegraphing contempt. She made a beeline for the small, defensive cluster of almost-women chatting in front of the building.

  “Those are the people,” Juliana murmured, “my d
aughter prefers over her own family.”

  The leader of the pack had been Ello’s best friend since first grade: Brittne. Juliana did not trust the girl, had never trusted her since the day Brittne’s family moved into the house next door, back in their old neighborhood. When Juliana and Hunter bought their new house, Juliana had fantasized that Ello would make new friends, but all Ello ever talked about was Brittne.

  The minivan dropped a wheel into a pothole with an artillery-level bang, startling the boys into silence. Juliana waited for the grinding vibration that would come with a blown tire. It didn’t come, but now she was ultra alert. Her eyes took in the dead vegetation that marked Michigan in late November; she blinked at the low, scudding clouds while waiting patiently at a stoplight. In the summer, this intersection was backed up for a quarter of a mile, but once the autumn leaves were flushed from the trees, everyone with money and any sense fled the state.

  Next stop: preschool. Juliana parked her car and wrestled her sons out of the grip of their car seats. “Ready for school?” she asked them in a singsong voice, holding their hands and guiding them into the building. There were days when the boys arched their backs and screamed as if she were leading them into Alcatraz. And then there were days like this, when as soon as they could yank their hands away, they ran to a pack of boys who were whacking each other with Styrofoam bats.

  Finally, Juliana was free. She smiled as she exultantly steered her minivan toward the store. “This is your relaxation time, your ‘me’ time: a trip to Target,” she announced to herself without irony.

  Her minivan’s video screen lit up with an incoming call: Mrs. Espinoza. Juliana stared at the display, her heart pounding.

  “Oh no.…”

  She couldn’t let Mrs. Espinoza’s call roll to voicemail, so she thumbed the button on her steering wheel.

  “Hello?” she answered, trying to sift the dread from her voice.

  “Mrs. Goss?” Mrs. Espinoza’s voice inquired.

  Though Mrs. Espinoza was from Honduras and Juliana was from Rio de Janeiro, and though they did not share a common language, Juliana had always felt that Mrs. Espinoza was her one secure ally in the world of tempers, timeouts, and laundry, laundry, laundry. But allies could be fickle, and Juliana always sensed that any ultimate betrayal would come in the form of a morning phone call from this woman.

  Mrs. Espinoza was probably sick and wouldn’t be able to work today. Or she had won the lotto, or her husband had gotten a transfer—something. It would be something.

  “I am driving my brother’s car,” Mrs. Espinoza informed Juliana. “My own car broke. Do I need to register with the preschool?”

  Juliana nearly sobbed with relief. “No, you’ll be fine,” she replied. “So, you can pick the twins up from their school today?”

  “Oh, yes, as regular,” Mrs. Espinoza assured her.

  “Thank you. Thank you,” Juliana all but gushed. She did not say it, but if Mrs. Espinoza had asked for a million dollars, Juliana would have found a way to get the money. Plain, unmarked bills. No cops.

  They hung up. Juliana had her list for Target and knew she would blow through it quickly. “Plenty of time to make your lunch with Hunter,” she told herself.

  Her heart began pounding again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Winstead lay in his dog bed, a comfortable, pillow-based arrangement large enough for his huge, lanky frame. He had spent so much time lying in it that he could smell it as strongly as he could smell himself.

  He had been aware of the house slowly draining of its occupants. First the man, Hunter, exited on a solo mission. Then the rest of everybody, a jumble of people-sounds as the mother, Juliana, herded her pack out into the garage. Then some mechanical noises, and then nothing.

  Daddy sat slumped in his chair, a book slack in his hands, his mouth open, his chest barely rising and falling. Though Daddy did not seem to be able to sleep much during the night, in the day he often lapsed into these moments of slumber, a steady whispering sound escaping from between his teeth.

  Winstead felt aches in his joints and knew that his person suffered from the same—it was evident in the involuntary groans and gasps Daddy emitted when struggling out of bed.

  Winstead was concerned for Daddy. There had been a time when his person would take Winstead for walks around the block and actively play on the floor with him.

  Then something happened to Mommy, who had been taking a lot of naps and was tended to by people who smelled of sharp chemicals. Winstead couldn’t see her when it happened, but he registered Daddy’s sharp cries and frantically scratched at the door of the room where Mommy had been shut in. Finally the door opened and Daddy came out, collapsed with him on the floor, and pressed a wet face into Winstead’s fur. Whispering people slipped almost silently into the bedroom and later trundled Mommy’s smell away on a high, rolling bed.

  It was a day Winstead would never forget, a day he would never understand.

  Shortly after that, Daddy and Winstead moved here, a house with two young boys who yelled a lot, a nice girl who sometimes petted him, and two adults who seemed too busy to pay much attention to a dog.

  Winstead and Daddy had lived in the new, louder house long enough for two winters to pass, and another was approaching. Winstead did not understand why they didn’t go back home, but Daddy was his everything, and as long as he was with Daddy, Winstead was happy, even though he knew Daddy was not. No matter how much Winstead loved his person, only Mommy could make Daddy happy. Often, as Winstead drifted off to sleep, he pictured Mommy at home, waiting for both of them to return.

  Winstead inhaled, drawing in Daddy’s scent. It was familiar, strong and sour. When they lived in the other place with Mommy, Winstead usually detected the soft fragrance of her bathroom items on Daddy’s skin. Daddy was spending less and less time, though, getting wet and then dry in the bathroom. Less and less time doing anything at all. He was almost as motionless as Mommy had been toward the end.

  Winstead’s musings caused a quick uptick in his concern for his person. Ignoring the protest from his knee joints, he rose from his bed, stretched with a groan, padded over to Daddy, and put his head in his person’s lap.

  After a long internal struggle, Daddy finally opened his eyes. He seemed to search the room in confusion before settling his gaze on his dog. Winstead gave his tail a little wag.

  “What is it, buddy?” Daddy asked. “You need to go out?”

  Winstead knew what “go out” meant.

  There was nothing the dog could do about it now; events had been set in motion. Daddy labored to his feet like a man weighed down by heavy blankets, finally setting his posture so that he could shuffle down the hallway. Winstead followed. Daddy proceeded to the sliding doors to the backyard and, grunting a little, wrestled one open. Cold air curled in, bringing fresh scents to Winstead’s nose.

  “Okay,” Daddy urged, “go ahead.”

  Winstead reluctantly stepped out into the yard. The grasses were matted and dead. Vast amounts of leaves had fallen and been blown away by men with buzzing apparatuses, so the dry-leaf smell was less sharp than before. Winstead trotted over to a bush and lifted his leg, looking back toward the glass doors. This had worked before: a quick lift of the leg, and then Daddy would open the slider and Winstead could race back in.

  Not today. Daddy was staring at the back fence, as if there were squirrels there, which there were not—that was the first thing Winstead had checked. And then Daddy turned away and was swallowed up by the deeper recesses of the house.

  Winstead sat. He liked it out here in the backyard, but he loved it so much more when Daddy came out with him.

  But Daddy never did.

  * * *

  This is it, Hunter announced dramatically to himself.

  Would the suit impress Mrs. O’Brien? Juliana seemed to think so, but Hunter was dubious. His new boss was so hard to read. Thus far, he’d only interacted with her in the context of a larger meeting, with everyone there. The
way she spent all of her time on sales and development told Hunter all he needed to know about her priorities. He had a multimillion-dollar redesign underway for the entire office, a project more than a year in the planning, and she’d never asked him a single thing about it.

  But now they were about to have a face-to-face, prearranged, one-on-one exchange.

  So many things could happen today. It could be, though the odds were against it, that Mrs. O’Brien would award Hunter the promotion he had been working so hard to secure. Maybe she wouldn’t need to wait for the installation to be complete; she might be persuaded by the sheer magnificence of the plan he had electronically forwarded to her. Hunter had thought of everything and written it all down with color-coded priorities and dates. He knew that people regarded him as scatterbrained (“dreamy,” Juliana insisted) but that was only in his personal life. His profession—managing what the four hundred employees probably thought of as the simple givens of an office building: the lights, supplies, elevators, admins—was plotted and documented and controlled. The company’s recent hiring boom had meant constantly shifting and restacking and cramming until, finally, something had to give, and Hunter’s proposal to refit the office with better, more space-efficient work surfaces had been approved because it was brilliant. His moving plan (a misnomer, because they were staying in the same place) proved he deserved that promotion. How could the company design, implement, and support their business software without him?

  The soaring self-confidence deflated like a blown tire when he considered the alternative. So much was at stake with the moving plan that the meeting might be more along the lines of an indictment. Even if everything went smoothly—and what ever did?—he could still end up as the fall guy for a project that admittedly had gone a little over budget. Okay, a lot over budget.

  That wasn’t Hunter’s fault. The previous boss, Mr. Park, had demanded a lot of fancy décor and installations that did nothing to add efficiency or value to the operation, although it did make it look as if Mr. Park were an important man running a successful company. That didn’t matter now. The old boss was gone, Mrs. O’Brien was the new boss, and Hunter was the man straddling the two administrations with a set of decisions whose momentum could not be halted. The redesign was on track, and this train would either be a bullet or a wreck.