“Replace it with something good,” I’d told them. “Instead of fretting over the math test tomorrow, picture yourself somewhere safe and peaceful where you feel relaxed and happy.”
For both of them, their happy place was the beach at low tide.
Adam and I had taken the kids every August to Maine for a week, even when Ian was a baby and we had to lug in a pop-up tent to screen him from the sun, change diapers on a towel, feed him baby peaches and carrots from tiny jars with a rubber-tipped spoon. By the following summer, Ian had been on the go, crawling away from us toward the crashing waves of the ocean, or following flocks of seagulls ready to bite his little toes.
Madison had thrown a handful of Cheetos once to feed the birds and they descended in alarming numbers on our beach towels, scaring the hell out of her. But Ian held up his baby fists, shaking them at the birds as if to defend her, her little hero. I remember getting annoyed with Adam for taking pictures with his cell instead of rushing to scare off the birds.
My thoughts were already stuck on the image of Penny lying on her side near the kitchen door, her legs crossed so prettily at her ankles. I tried to distract myself with images of the beach, the birth of my kids, a particularly amazing Christmas. Then I thought about the day we got Pen from a friend whose Yorkies had puppies.
The puppies were loud and raucous, trying desperately to reach us to be picked up and held. They had formed a dog pyramid, each standing on another’s shoulders. Down at the very bottom was a tiny girl dog waiting for the other dogs to calm down. When they did, she looked up at us, wagging her little tail excitedly, not barking at all, just staring up at us, and that was it. We all knew we belonged together.
In four years, Penny had seen me through my divorce from Bryan, watching the kids grow up and need me less and less, several thwarted relationships, a new job, days in the sun and rain, nights when she licked my tears and settled herself against my legs to tell me I wasn’t alone.
“You save my life every day,” I used to tell her before we fell asleep. Now it was up to me to save myself, something I was completely unprepared to do.
“A little shorter,” I told the stylist.
I didn’t know why it was so urgent to get my hair cut off. All I could think of was having it be as low maintenance as possible. No more tons of product. No more fuss. Without Pen, nothing else mattered, least of all my own appearance. I left the salon with a short bob that I could wash and air-dry and never think about, which was exactly what I was looking for. The world felt like a different place, and I was a different person.
80
Maddy called my office and told them I was taking a few sick days.
“Joe said to tell you they’re all very sorry,” she said when she got off the phone.
I knew it was time to call Bryan. I wanted to wait until I could tell him without sobbing, because we had promised one another long ago to not break down in front of each other. But that could take months, and he needed to know now.
It was around bedtime, but I dialed his number. This wasn’t something I could text him about.
“Jess? What’s wrong?” Bry sounded alarmed already.
“Hey,” was all I could manage. “How are you?”
“I’m OK, but what’s wrong?”
“It’s Penny,” I said, trying hard to hold back the tears. “She’s gone.”
“You mean lost? Run away? It’s not like her to leave your side.”
I started flat-out crying. “No Bry, she passed away. She died.”
There was a long pause from the other end of the line. I could hear Bryan taking deep breaths. I could picture him pacing, taking long strides across the room, then back again.
“Jesus,” he said at last. “Not Penny.”
I had no response because he was right. Not Penny.
“Are you guys OK?” I could hear a break in his voice and knew he was trying not to cry. He and Penny had always been close, wrestling on the floor, playing tug-of-war with her chew toys, running around the backyard.
“We’re all right. Just trying to get through the days.” I lay down in bed next to the pillow that still smelled like Penny.
“What can I do to help?”
Nothing, I thought. No one could do anything to help.
“Tell you what,” Bryan said, his voice a little less shaky. “I can come up there. If I leave in the morning, I’ll be there tomorrow, middle of the night.”
I closed my eyes. It was just like Bryan to want to make things easier on the kids and me. But I thought if I saw him, and went into his arms, I would break down even more by leaning on him. I had to try and get through this, the kids and me, even though nothing would ever be the same again. Nothing.
“Thank you for saying that, but you shouldn’t do that.”
“I want to help.”
“You do help, just by knowing how much we love her—all of us, including you—and by remembering all the good times we had with her.”
“I don’t think I have a picture of her,” Bryan said, his voice shaky again. “Can you send me one?”
“Sure.”
“Promise you’ll call if you need anything?”
“Promise.”
I’d avoided looking through the photo gallery on my cell, because I knew it was full of pictures of Pen: Penny in a little Santa suit, in a glow-in-the-dark skeleton Halloween costume, Penny on her birthday eating a doggie treat shaped like a cupcake, rolling over for someone to rub her tummy. Sleeping at the edge of
