Page 38
Thirty-One
THE RAPTORS ENDED the regular season at twelve and five, which let them squeak into the playoffs but not earn a bye.
Middle of the pack wasn’t a bad place to be, Scott reminded himself as they won their first playoff game against their wildcard opponent, the New York Jets.
Not when most teams didn’t even make it this far, but the second week would be a hard fight for every yard, every point.
And then, assuming they survived, they’d still go on to face the first-seeded team: the ever-present, always-dominant, Kansas City Chiefs.
One week at a time , Scott reminded himself, lacing up his cleats. Beat the Texans today. Worry about the Chiefs next week.
His phone chirped. Good luck.
He clenched his hands into fists, pretending they didn’t tremble too much to type a reply. Then, shaking them out, he took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled.
Thanks. Love you.
She didn’t answer. He didn’t expect her to.
He’d have to be content knowing Abby would watch the game on her tiny television, Gen curled beside her.
Maybe, eventually, he’d convince himself the space benefitted both of them; with only a couple weeks until Dylan’s final custody hearing, he didn’t need Lindsay getting all upset again about Abby and Dylan spending time together.
Or worse, learning of Gen’s illness and making an ill-conceived comment that would devastate his son.
Then again, Abby’s presence hadn’t been an issue the last few weeks. Since Gen’s diagnosis, they’d only seen her a few times, and even then, she’d been quiet. Withdrawn.
Gen had bounced back from her trip to the vet, although she’d lost weight.
More subdued than usual, still, her enthusiasm at seeing Dylan again had overwhelmed Scott.
Like long-lost best friends, Dylan had opened his arms to her, and she’d bounded into them, throwing both of them to the floor, and proceeded to wash his face with doggy kisses.
Abby, protective, had warned Gen to settle down, had warned Dylan not to rile her up too much, had refused to let them retreat to his room, had warned him not to feed her or sneak any treats, then, after a few minutes, had recalled the dog to her side.
“Dad, why wouldn’t Abby let Gen play with me?” He’d been tucking his son into bed.
He brushed the fine shock of hair back from Dylan’s forehead. “You remember I told you Gen had been at the vet?”
Dylan nodded.
“Well, it’s worse than we thought. Gen’s sick, and Abby’s worried about her.”
Dylan popped the end of his pinky into his mouth, chewing the tip of it, an old throwback to a nervous habit he’d had as a young child. “Will she be okay?”
Scott opened his mouth, shut it, cleared his throat. “I... I don’t know, bud.”
Dylan pondered Scott’s words for a long time, then asked, “Will she die?”
“Everyone dies eventually.”
“And Gen? Will she die like Liam?”
Dylan had attended his friend’s funeral but hadn’t understood much of the service. Instead, he’d clutched the small card tucked into the bulletin with Liam’s picture and a short poem about love and loss to his chest.
On Dylan’s other side, Abby and Cara had sat together, shaking hands clutched and knuckles white, eyes shimmering.
When Dylan had cuddled into Abby’s side, she’d ruffled his hair and hugged him, but she had only been half-present, a part of her beyond Dylan and Scott, as was so often the case these days.
Grief-stricken, she sat alongside all those who had helped care for Liam during his long battle.
Dylan had shuffled back across the bench into Scott’s side.
“We hope not. Abby enrolled her in a clinical trial at the university. They’re going to use a new treatment to help Gen get better, and her weekly shots already seem to be making a difference.
” Scott couldn’t explain the possibility of Gen being relegated to the control group to Dylan, and with everything in him he’d been hoping she’d been chosen for the treatment group.
Abby couldn’t handle losing Gen.
“Is that why Abby’s been so sad? Because of Liam, and now Gen being sick, too? Does she have what he had?”
Scott leaned down and pressed his cheek to his son’s. “Yes, she does.”
The boy sniffled. “I’m sad.”
“Me, too.”
Shaking his head, Scott brought his attention back to the locker room, back to Coach’s usual pre-game speech, back to the men clustered around him, old faces and new, veterans and rookies, but all wired, all buzzing with the tension of a playoff game.
It never got old, never became commonplace.
And, as the excitement in the room surrounded him, anchored him, Scott let himself slip into the quiet place in his mind that he found before every game.
Losing wasn’t an option. Play hard. Play harder.
Then, at an unseen signal, they trooped out of the locker room. A few of the younger guys whooped, but most of them remained quiet, marshalling calm, game faces on.
Jogging onto the field, Scott headed straight for their sideline, scooped up a ball, backed up and threw a few passes to keep his shoulder warm.
Checked the plays, squinted across the field at the bright white of the Texan jerseys, swiveled and found the section where his son sat, Kelly beside him, happy to keep an eye on him so he could be at his dad’s game.
National Anthem, coin flip, Raptors defer, and then nothing more than another sixty minutes of playing the best football he could.
Abby couldn’t keep her attention on the game. Gen had only pecked at her breakfast and now curled beside her, eyes dull and tail limp. A high-pitched whine accompanied each exhale.
She rested her hand on the dog’s head and ran her nails along the delicate bones of Gen’s scalp. “It’s okay, girl. I’m right here. You’re okay.” Shifting, she lifted the dog into her lap, cuddling her close.
There wasn’t much else she could do.
She’d picked Gen up the morning after her diagnosis, brought her home, bought two bags of dog food, three types of canned food, and five new bowls, setting each one out so Gen could have her choice.
Rubbing her thumb over Gen’s nose, dry and cracked, she frowned. She wished she could explain to the dog why she needed to drink.
Dehydration had become their greatest threat.
Gen refused to lap much more than a mouthful or two of water each day, and if Abby added any liquid to her food, she’d refuse it outright.
They’d been back at the vet twice in the last month for IV treatments, but Abby didn’t mind paying, especially not once they’d been accepted into the clinical trial.
It had been a relief knowing all of Gen’s care would be covered.
Dr. Singh had personally welcomed her on their first visit, introducing her to the team of graduate students who would run the trial and examining Gen himself. He’d explained the T-cell treatment in detail, answered all her questions, and thanked her for considering their program.
“I’m so glad my dear friend Jim referred you to us. If the therapy is successful, perhaps you’ll allow us to include some of the details of Gen’s work in our papers? We treat lots of pets, but a working dog is extra special to us.”
She understood how clinical trials worked, but it had given her an ember of hope Dr. Singh and his team seemed to care about Gen’s prognosis at a more personal level. Hope she desperately needed as the treatment took its course and Gen seemed to get worse.
“It will seem that way, at first,” Dr. Singh had reassured her. “It will be hard on her system, but we’ll keep a close watch, and we should start seeing improvement soon.”
The Raptors scored, Scott connecting with Finn in the end zone off a solid screen play and a beautiful spiral pass into the back corner. One foot down, two, and then sliding out the back, ball clutched in his cradled arms.
“I should be there,” she told the dog in her lap. “He invited me to go, but I... I couldn’t imagine leaving you.”
Gen’s tail thumped once against her thigh, her wide eyes gazing up at the face of the person she loved most in the world, and if Gen had a voice, she’d be saying, Yes, you should be there. He loves you as much as I do.
Wrapping both arms around Gen, Abby buried her face in the dog’s ruff and breathed in her scent. “I love you, too, girl.”
Gen pressed herself closer, as she always did when Abby needed her.
She stretched toward Abby’s face, slow and weak, but Abby bent toward her dog, and tears flooded her eyes when Gen’s jaw worked for a moment until she could take a lock of Abby’s hair in her teeth and pull.
Abby couldn’t help the half-sob that escaped.
Even being eaten alive from the inside out, Gen couldn’t stop being a therapy dog.
The game ended. The Raptors had been strong; the Texans struggling with injuries to several key players. The muscles in Abby’s cheeks contracted in a way they hadn’t in weeks. As the last few seconds ticked off the clock, she smiled.
Next Saturday, they’d be playing in Kansas City.
Table of Contents
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