Thirteen

ABBY DUCKED INTO an empty room, cleaned and sanitized and waiting for its next patient.

Locking the door, she leaned against it, teeth gritted.

She still had three rooms to visit, and her wet and bloodshot eyes would reassure neither the children nor the parents.

Sinking to her knees, she wrapped her arms around Gen, pressing her face into the dog’s fur, letting the silky softness absorb the tears on her cheeks.

Death never surprised her anymore; there were always signs near the end. Doctors didn’t lie to parents, but they did try to remain optimistic. Parents would never believe the worst, anyway. But sometimes, you know. And sometimes the fight lasts longer than others.

Anna’s battle had been swift and brutal, only a few weeks.

Diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia, even aggressive treatment had failed.

The once bright-eyed little girl withered, hair falling out in handfuls from the chemotherapy, cheeks sinking, skin stretching, corpse-like, over her brittle bones as the disease ravaged her from within.

Only the fact that she had passed painlessly consoled Abby, one hand in her mother’s and one arm wrapped around Gen’s neck, her breath ruffling the dog’s long fur. Then, in a moment, it wasn’t.

Abby understood the long, relentless journey toward a single moment. There... and then not, but no amount of knowledge or experience could ease the moment of stark realization; all the future somedays swallowed by one overwhelming never again .

And it didn’t get any easier. In some ways, her pain reassured her: easier meant calloused, apathetic, indifferent.

The white-hot knife’s edge of grief cut both ways, reminding her it hurt to care so much, but also reassuring her she’d done her job, had loved these children well, and had brought them some measure of solace in their last hours.

The door bumped the frame behind her as someone tried the handle, and Abby wiped one hand across her face before glancing around for a tissue.

“Abby, it’s Cara. Let me in.”

Finding a scrap of paper towel, Abby dabbed her eyes before flicking the lock, letting Cara tumble inside, as well.

Throwing herself into Abby’s arms, Cara sobbed, shattering Abby’s fragile control.

They cried together, another devastating rite that had become heartbreakingly familiar working in this department.

Sharing the grief eased the terrible burden.

The family would have each other, but those who cared for the patient found no closure when the end came.

Those at the hospital became a family of their own, then, supporting one another as they each worked through the pain of loss, magnified dozens of times over.

A number, fortunately, dwarfed by those who were able to return home, treatment successful, happy and healthy, their whole lives ahead of them.

Could she change those statistics? With another dog, or a team of them, could she do for the staff what she did for the kids and their parents? Help with the pain? Bring some consolation and solace on the most difficult of days?

Maybe, but for now, they cried together, Gen curled between them, doing for her handler what she had done for one little girl, broken by the battle she couldn’t win.

By the time she made it home, Abby’s tears had dried, but the tell-tale burn of too much crying and her bloodshot eyes in the mirror were plenty to keep the burden of the day fresh in her mind and heart.

She remembered too many nights like this one, grief shared between herself and Will, but devastating all the same.

Then, they had cuddled up together on the couch, ordered pizza, and found some horrid rom-com or ridiculous action film, laughing until the wetness leaking from the corners of their eyes could as easily be mirth as misery.

Abby wrapped her arms around her torso, too spent to cry any more, but still fragile and shattered, nonetheless.

The tinkling notes of her phone distracted her, and Scott’s picture on the screen reminded her that, although the face had changed, she didn’t have to be alone anymore.

“Hey.” Her voice quavered but it didn’t break.

“Hey, yourself. You going running? We could meet you at the park.”

“No, not today,” she managed to reply, then paused. She cleared her throat, weighing her words before saying them aloud.

Life had happened to her again today. She couldn’t control the outcome for every child she helped, but she could control her own actions, her own responses.

“Listen, umm, I had a crappy day at... at the hospital.” Her voice broke, but she fought on. “We lost one of our kids, and it always sucks so much.”

Scott didn’t speak, didn’t try to fill the silence with empty platitudes.

Too many people would be quick to jump in, thinking they could share in her grief, or alleviate it with their words.

Scott waited, as he always had, for her to let him know what she needed.

She couldn’t even verbalize how much she appreciated that about him in this moment.

She sniffled, then continued. “We used to do this thing, you know, when we lost one of our kids. We’d order pizza and watch crappy movies, and pretend the tears were from laughing...”

This time the silence quivered with anticipation. Then, “I can be there in twenty minutes. Pepperoni or veggie?”

Abby let out the breath she’d been holding.

It had been too much to ask. Too much to expect him to fill in for a ghost—especially for one he already worried he’d never be able to compete with.

But it was a step forward, too: Abby learning to ask for help and believing it would come.

Deciding which traditions were important to her, which ones actually helped her get through the rough times and finding the person who could stand beside her as she did it.

And she’d taken it on her own, without prodding from Cara or pressing from Scott. Her choice, to ask.

“Whatever. I don’t even care. I... I want you here.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Here, Dylan, like this.” Abby helped Dylan rearrange his fingers in the leather leash until it wrapped around his hand and looped over his thumb. “Now, tell her to heel and walk five steps. Then, mark it with her word if she’s still in position. You remember?”

Dylan nodded, brows furrowed in concentration.

“If she isn’t in position, remind her with the command.”

Scott watched as Dylan lifted his chin, pride in every line of his body. “Okay, Gen. Heel.” His lips moved as he counted his steps, Gen pacing beside him, then glanced down to check the dog’s position. “Yes!”

Gen’s ears came forward and she lifted her front paws off the ground before planting them again, mouth dropping open in joy. Her tail waved through the air behind her as Dylan fumbled with the pouch of food Abby had attached to his belt.

“Feed at the side,” Abby reminded him as he withdrew his hand from the treat bag. “That’s right. Don’t let her curl in front of you.”

Once Gen had taken the food, Dylan checked in with Abby, eyes shining. “Can we do it again?”

Abby laughed. “Go ahead. You can walk her around the playground, but mark and feed every five to ten steps if she’s in position. If she isn’t...”

“Remind her to heel. Yep! I’ve got it, Abby. I promise, I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t, Dylan. I believe in you.”

Dylan beamed, and Scott’s breath caught as his heart stuttered an extra beat.

The adoration with which Dylan gazed at Abby tugged at something deep within him.

His son deserved someone who would love him with the kind of care and attention Abby lavished on him, and it stitched up a broken part of Scott’s heart when the two of them were together.

But it terrified him, as well. This thing he had with Abby was new, and fragile, and tentative.

What if it didn’t work out? What if she ran again? What would it do to Dylan?

Scott would move mountains for his son. He would protect him with the last breath in his body and the last shred of his being.

Seeing the way he idolized Abby, if she left now, the fallout would be devastating.

Dylan had already been rejected by his mother.

Could he handle another woman rejecting him?

“Great job, Dylan!” Abby tracked the pair’s progress around the playground, turning slowly to keep them in sight. “You’ve got this. Remember, big voice. Right now, she’s working, not playing.”

Dylan frowned and his mouth formed the word heel . Gen slowed her steps and came back from where she’d creeped out in front, and a few moments later, Dylan stopped and dug in the food pouch for another treat.

“You know, he asked me last night if we could get a dog.”

Abby turned to him with wide eyes. “Oh no. I’m sorry. I should have realized...”

Scott slung an arm across her shoulder and couldn’t help his pleased grin when she let him. “Don’t worry about it. I told him about your idea for a therapy dog school, and then he wanted to sign up for that, too. I should have seen it coming.”

“He’s working hard with Gen. Training can be difficult, especially staying firm when you’d really rather not.” She smiled, an expression on her face Scott recognized easily. Pride. Pride in Dylan.

His stomach turned over again. “Dinner!” The word came out before he thought it through. “Come to dinner with me? This weekend.”

Abby stiffened under his arm, pulling away. “Like... a date?”

He turned toward her, meeting her gaze. He’d been so patient, so careful, but suddenly he needed to know. Was she as committed to finding out if they had a future as him?

“Yes. Exactly like a date.” He waited, breath held. Would she agree? Or would it be too much? Would she run again?

She fiddled with her fingers and glanced toward Gen and Dylan, then her eyes darted back to his. “Nothing fancy?”

Scott mentally scratched Circa 1886 off his list. “Absolutely, something low key.”

“And I don’t...”

“Drink, I know. No pubs.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? As in, okay, yes?”

Abby turned to welcome Dylan and Gen back, ruffling his hair as she praised his effort. Then, glancing up at Scott, she smiled. “Okay, yes.”