Lily And The Octopus Part 3

"I'm getting married!"

My mouth drops open and this kid sitting across from me, ignored by his own family, stares. Meredith explains how her boyfriend, Franklin, proposed on Christmas while they were visiting his parents in San Francisco. How they just decided to forego any period of engagement and tie the knot at city hall before returning home to D.C. Technically they're eloping, but since his parents are local, they are coming to bear witness, and since I live in Los Angeles, she wants Jeffrey and me to be witnesses for her side. When she's finished she asks, "How was New York?" as if nothing else has just happened.

"Good. It was good," I say, my voice swallowed by another announcement and a family pushing a mountainous pile of luggage on a cart with a rattling wheel. I can't tell if I'm lying or telling the truth.

"I can't hear you," Meredith exclaims.

"You're not inviting Mom?" I ask.

"You know Mom."

"Yes, we've been introduced." The boy across from me lifts up his nostrils and sticks out his tongue. I make a face in return.

"She's not one for ceremony. She probably didn't even want to go to her own wedding."

"I'm not so sure that's true." Although I wonder which wedding my sister is referring to-the one to my father (which I can't picture because there are no known photographs), or her second, the one to her current husband, which Meredith and I both attended.

"Ted? Can we count on you?"

More noise. "Sure."

"I can't hear you!"

I raise my voice. "I'll see you in San Francisco."

A woman dressed like the Statue of Liberty stands in the middle of the terminal and I'm curious how she'll get through security. I wonder if she's the same Statue of Liberty we saw just yesterday handing out pamphlets when we impulsively hopped in line at the TKTS booth in Times Square. We refused whatever she was selling and were rewarded with front-row seats to the Broadway revival of Hair. At curtain they called up the front few rows to dance onstage to "Let the Sunshine In"-our Broadway debut. As someone who struggles at times not to be seen, it was exhilarating to stand onstage and feel the hot lights on my face, the audience still in darkness (but out there), waving my hands in the air.

Life is around you and in you; Let the sunshine; Let the sunshine in.

I could still feel the white heat of stage lights as we exited the Hirschfeld Theatre onto Forty-fifth Street, spilling into Times Square. I could see the sunshine, even though it was dark and had started to snow the lightest, most magical, movielike flakes. Street vendors selling chestnuts, buskers banging on pickle buckets, dancing tickers with holiday stock prices, workers preparing Times Square for New Year's Eve-everything seemed touched by light. Everything, that is, except Jeffrey. Jeffrey stewed under his own cloud, worried by the snow and the forecast for more. I convinced him to grab a slice of pizza with me by agreeing that we would eat it back in our hotel room. I ate mine perched in the window watching the city receive its gentle dusting. Jeffrey paced and checked the weather. He tried to call the airline, but after forty-five minutes on hold he gave up. I finally got him to come to bed by agreeing we could head to JFK at the crack of dawn.

Now that we're here, I'm anxious to get home. I miss Lily. If we can get on this flight, we might even get home in time to collect her from the sitter's and celebrate a little Christmas together. I have a stocking for her at home filled with chews, a stuffed squeaky toy, and a new red ball. Jeffrey is downright agitated. His desire is not to get back to Lily (although I'm sure he misses her, too). His desire is for certainty, for a plan we can execute; his growing need to control every situation is kicking into overdrive. It's almost laughable, watching him scramble in the face of a storm-I mean, how do you control the weather? C'mon, Jeffrey. Life is all around you and in you. Let the sunshine in!

My phone vibrates on the floor and I look down, thinking it's Jeffrey texting me flight options. But there's no message. Then I look over at Jeffrey's phone. He has a text message from his friend Cliff.

When are you back? I want to play.

Cliff. Do I know a Cliff? I think he's a friend of Jeffrey's he met playing online poker. I look over at the airline counter, but Jeffrey is nowhere to be seen. I scan the terminal left and right. No sign of him. I feel almost panicked when a shadow falls over me. It's Jeffrey holding two coffees and smiling. "Success."

When we're in the air Jeffrey pulls earphones out of his backpack and plugs them into his laptop.

"Are you going to watch TV?" I ask, knowing he always has a few episodes of something downloaded for a flight.

I must say it with an accusatory tone because Jeffrey replies hesitantly. "I was going to."

We never used to watch much TV; we used to talk about our days-commiserate over the things that bothered us most and laugh about the happenings that struck us as odd-but lately it has become a crutch. Our upstairs neighbor pulled me aside at their holiday party to say how happy it made her that she could hear the sound of laughter from our bedroom late at night. How well suited for each other we must be. I bit my lower lip to keep myself from saying it was Jeffrey watching reruns of Frasier.

Jeffrey closes his laptop to appease me and rests his phone on top of it. "Would you rather talk?"

I stare at his phone and think of the text message I saw and suddenly it doesn't sit so well. When are you back? I want to play. I want to play means poker, surely. That much is innocent enough. But when are you back? Why does he have to be back to play a game that is played online?

"When are you coming back?" Lily would ask me those words every time I had to leave her. The first time was four months or so after I first brought her home. She was fascinated when I pulled my luggage out of the deep closet in the second bedroom. As soon as I had the suitcase unzipped she climbed pluckily inside, and since she wasn't yet fully grown, a few wrinkles of skin puddled around her seated b.u.t.t.

WHAT! IS! THIS! COZY! BOX! THIS! WOULD! MAKE! A! GREAT! BED! FOR! ME! I! LOVE! ITS! SIDES! AND! THIS! ELASTIC! STRAP!.

"That is a suitcase. I have to put my things in it so I can travel."

"Great. I'm already in it, so you're ready to go!"

"Sadly, I can't have you in it. It's for my clothes and shoes and shaving kit."

"Why can't I be in it? I am one of your things!"

I sat down beside the suitcase and scratched the back of her head, between her ears. "You are, in fact, my most treasured thing." She raised her nose in the air and squinted her eyes. "But you're going to stay nearby and have an adventure of your own."

Lily looked at me with her soulful, almond-shaped eyes. "We're going on different adventures?" She was tugging my heartstrings the way she tugged at my shoelace at the puppy farm when we were introduced-slowly, but with purpose.

"Your adventure will be fun. You're going to play with other puppies, the way you used to play with your brother and sisters, Harry, Kelly, and Rita."

"Harry, Kelly, and Rita?"

"That's right. But other puppies whose names I don't know, but I'm sure are just as nice."

The boarding facility I had selected was a ways outside the city and it was clean and welcoming and alive. Dogs roamed indoors and outdoors on their own whim, and there was a special place sectioned off for smaller and younger dogs. Inside, it smelled like pine.

A woman welcomed us and did her best to allay our fears; Lily and I were both apprehensive. "Is this Lily? Welcome, Lily. I think you're going to love the other dachshunds here. Their names are Sadie and Sophie and Sophie Dee."

Lily turned to me. "Are they the other puppies whose names you didn't know?"

"That's right. Except now I do know their names. They are Sadie and Sophie and Sophie Dee."

"They are not Harry and Kelly and Rita?"

"No, they are Sadie and Sophie and Sophie Dee."

Lily considered this for a moment before adding, "My mother's name is Witchie-Poo."

I scooped up Lily and balanced her on my arm. "They don't need to know that."

The woman took the canvas tote from my shoulder that held Lily's blanket and food. I repositioned Lily so her paws were on my shoulder and I could whisper in her ear. "I'm coming back for you. In a week. Don't ever think I'm not coming back."

"When are you coming back?"

"In seven sleeps. I am coming back for you."

I kissed her on the top of her head and sat her on the ground. I handed her leash to the lady, so that she was now in control of my dog. "C'mon," she said. "I'll introduce you to Sadie and Sophie and Sophie Dee." Then she turned to me. "She'll be fine."

I nodded. I knew this. But also not. Would she? Be fine? Lily stood and turned back to look at me and we both swallowed the lumps in our throats.

The lady opened the gate to the smaller dogs' pen and I caught a glimpse of the other three dachshunds. Two of them were long-haired, and one was short-haired like Lily. I imagined the short-haired dachshund to be Sadie because she had a dappled coat and looked most different from the other two, who just happened to look like Sophies. All three greeted Lily with wagging tails.

h.e.l.lO! h.e.l.lO! h.e.l.lO! I'M! SADIE! I'M! SOPHIE! I'M! SOPHIE! DEE!

Lily paused before her tail started to wag and she entered the pen. Once inside she disappeared in a blur of paws and tails and ears as the gate closed behind her. The last thing I heard was her distinctive bark.

I'M! LILY!

In my car I broke down in ridiculous sobs.

How does she know I'm coming back? How does she know I didn't just give her away?

Because she trusts me.

Just as I should trust Jeffrey. There's a perfectly rational explanation for that text. I want to play means poker. I turn to Jeffrey and his laptop is back open with his earphones plugged in. I've drifted. I made a fuss about his watching TV and then promptly checked out.

I take a deep breath and try to reengage, tapping him on the shoulder, pulling the earbud out of his left ear. "We each have a few days before we have to be back to work. How would you feel about going to San Francisco?"

I wait for him to react. I wait for his body to physically reject the spontaneity. I wait for him to keep the sunshine out, to make an excuse as to why he has to stay in Los Angeles, something to cover this "playing" with Cliff.

But instead he simply smiles and says, "Okay."

Backbone My cell phone rings in an ominous way, sounding almost flat, the way it does when you know something is wrong before you answer the phone. I fumble to retrieve it from my pocket and the call almost goes to voicemail before I can answer. There's no time for anything to be amiss; we leave for Meredith's wedding in the morning.

It's Jeffrey. "Something's wrong with Lily. You need to come home."

I look at my watch. It's a little past three o'clock in the afternoon and I am more or less on my way home anyway. I'm just leaving the grocery store and the last thing on my list is to pick up our suits for the wedding from the dry cleaners.

"Can it wait thirty more minutes?"

I think of all the things that might be wrong with Lily. Vomiting. Diarrhea. Neither pleasant, but neither the end of the world. Too many treats from her Christmas stocking. Limping? She once had a thorn in her paw, like the old fable involving Androcles and the lion. It took some gentle prodding to get her to sit still long enough to remove the craggly thing. Bleeding? Bleeding is easy-just apply pressure. Jeffrey can be an alarmist. Whatever it could be can probably wait.

"She can't walk. You need to come home now."

When I burst through the door I find Lily in her bed in the living room with Jeffrey sitting on the floor beside her. Lily looks frustrated and concerned when she sees me, and she doesn't get up and her tail doesn't wag. The new red ball from her Christmas stocking sits motionless on the floor. Her inability to greet me in her usual way all by itself makes my stomach drop.

"What's going on, you two?" I almost don't want to know the answer. In eighteen hours we are supposed to be on an airplane again.

"Let me show you," Jeffrey says.

He gingerly lifts Lily out of her bed, in the heedful way he did the first few months we were dating, before they bonded, before he was confident in the proper way to do it. He places her squarely on the floor and the back half of her body immediately wilts, her hind legs splaying sloppily to one side. They just give way underneath her.

My heart sinks to depths normally reserved for my stomach, and it becomes difficult to think or breathe.

I kneel on the floor next to them and tuck one hand under Lily's muscular chest and one hand under her soft belly. I stand her up again, supporting her with both hands. I almost don't dare to let go.

"Stand for me, Lily." I say it like a hypnotist giving a directive to an entranced person under my command. When I let myself remove the hand under her belly, her toenails sc.r.a.pe on the hardwood floor as her legs once again slip to the side. "C'mon." This time I'm pleading. "Stand up for me, girl."

Again, when I let go, the awful slithering of toenails on wood and the total wilting of legs. She almost tips over entirely before I catch her at the last second.

"What happened?"

"Nothing happened," Jeffrey replies.

"Something happened," I insist before adding, "What have you done?"

"What have I done?" Jeffrey is shocked.

She was my dog long before we ever met, and while she has become his dog, too, over the course of our relationship, they don't have the same bond. He does not treat her with the same attentiveness (or, truthfully, the same permissiveness), and when he's displeased with her behavior he is always the stepparent absolving himself of responsibility by throwing his hands up and calling her "your dog." This can't really be Jeffrey's fault, but I wonder just the same.

"Are you accusing me of something?"

I stare at Jeffrey. Am I accusing him of something? Even in this moment I'm forced to wonder if my a.s.sertion is about Lily or the text message. I don't know. But I can feel Lily tremble in my hands, and I know immediately now is not the time. "No. No, of course not."

"I hope not."

"I'm not." I placate him while I place Lily back in her bed, where at least she's supported by the cushiony sides. "Just watch her while I call the vet."

When I get our veterinarian's voicemail it dawns on me that it is now four o'clock on New Year's Eve. I immediately dial the first animal hospital I can find a listing for, even though it's on the west side of town. When I explain the situation, they insist I bring her in right away. If they can do anything for her, there's a short window in which it can happen, and that window is rapidly closing.

I hang up the phone, grab an old blanket, and wrap it around my girl. I lift her carefully, and nod to Jeffrey. "Let's go."

In the car we hit a red light that I know to be a long red light and I burst into sobs. My choices now, as I see them, are either having a dog with wheels for hind legs or, possibly, letting her go. Without warning, without moving or standing or crouching, Lily p.o.o.ps into the blanket on my lap, and my sobbing becomes inconsolable. She's dying, my baby. Right here in my lap.

The light turns green. I yell at a distracted Jeffrey to "Go!" and he steps on the gas and in the chaos I find a doggie litter bag in my jacket pocket because doggie litter bags are in all of my jacket pockets-I have a fear of being caught without them. I clean up the blanket as best I can and drop the sealed bag near my feet. I know this bothers Jeffrey, but he doesn't say anything, and really, what other choice do I have? We both crack our windows for air.

Jeffrey makes decent time across the city, and when I see a sign that says Animal Hospital I make him stop even though the address does not match the street number I've scribbled down on the back of a Target receipt. I must have transposed some numbers in haste.

Inside, the waiting room is small and hot and chaotic and I worry about having a panic attack. The nurse hands us a clipboard with papers to fill out and I push it back at her and say, "There is no time for paperwork." Jeffrey apologizes for my outburst, which annoys me, and he takes the clipboard and a pen. There is only one free chair and he takes it so he can write. I lean in an empty doorway and cradle Lily in her tattered swaddling. Soon a doctor materializes for a consultation, and when I explain the situation she tells us that we actually want the surgical hospital that's across the street and two blocks down. Tick tock, tick tock. Precious moments wasted.

As we turn to leave, a woman who looks like the Log Lady from Twin Peaks (although I'm the one holding the log in the form of a paralyzed dachshund) grabs my arm and says, "Whatever they tell you, don't kill your dog." I want to tell her to f.u.c.k off, but I'm frozen speechless in my tracks and tears start to well. "She can still have a happy life if you let her." Instantly this woman is my everything.

I nod and my eyes overflow with moisture, but Lily does not attempt to kiss my tears and the part of my brain that knows I can't waste even another second unfreezes me and I'm out the door.

Jeffrey tears into the parking lot of the surgical center, cutting off several cars at my urging. Inside they are expecting us, the last doctor having called ahead on our behalf. A surgical technician pries Lily out of my arms and they rush her behind a swinging door. Before I can protest, she is gone. No one offers us paperwork. No one tells us to sit. No one tells me not to kill my dog. Lacking anything else to do, we stand in the middle of a large, sterile room, surrounded by anxiety and tragedy, with nothing to look at but our feet. There's free coffee, but it's probably awful, and I know that I can't drink black swill when the rest of the world is sipping golden New Year's champagne.

After a short but interminable wait we're ushered into a private examining room. Lily is not there. There are two seats, so we sit. We fidget until a veterinarian enters. She has blond hair and a kindly face and looks too laid-back to be a surgeon, but has such an authoritative air of command that I wonder if she served in the military. Based on Lily's neurological signs, she is most suspicious of a ruptured intervertebral disc and wants to perform a myelogram to determine the site of the herniation.

I don't know what a myelogram is, and I know I don't have time to educate myself beyond the context that it is some test to detect pathology of the spinal column.

"And then what?"

"And then, pending the results of the myelogram, Lily's best chance of walking again is surgery."

"Surgery." I'm taking this in as fast as I can.

"The sooner the better."

Apparently there is no time to think. "So, we'll know if surgery is the way to go after the myelogram?"