Jurek didn’t speak for the first few minutes when I reappeared with a small box of cases. I slid them across the counter to him. “I wasn’t sure which genre she’d like but perhaps your mum could try a few of these,” I said, as, perplexed, he picked up one of the CDs. “Audiobooks,” I explained.
He looked up at me, his Adam’s apple moving up and down.
“I remember you telling me once that your mother was having trouble with her eyes . . .”
He frowned, clearly not recalling the conversation. “Cataracts.”
“Well,” I said, “maybe these are the answer.” I leaned over and pointed. “I can highly recommend the C.D. Major one—she is one of my authors and The Other Girl is great if your mum likes her books creepy. I also put a few of our Polish translations in. I’m not sure about the Rosie Blake ones—they might be a bit young—but her last one, The Gin O’Clock Club, has a wonderful older character, Teddy, actually based on the author’s real granddad—it’s cute.”
A silence stretched on as Jurek took in the box and I worried I’d somehow offended him. Did he not want me knowing so much about his mum? Did he think I was forcing my reading tastes on her?
I realized then it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence as he pushed back his shoulders, his expression wobbling. “This is . . . you are very thoughtful.”
“I’m not,” I said, batting away the suggestion. Christ, I mean I had literally only learned his name “today.”
“I give you another muffin?” he said, reaching for the tongs.
“No,” I laughed, feeling my chest lighten. “Honestly, it was nothing, I’m just pleased your mum might enjoy them.”
Jurek closed the lid of the box and gently carried it into a backroom. “She will be so happy, you will make her day.”
“Well, I’m really pleased,” I said, turning to leave.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said on his return.
I wavered, my back to him, and then I pivoted to face him. “I think you will,” I agreed. And I left the café, my steps light as I returned to the office, as I scooped up my bag and my mobile and told a desperate Jas, waiting to hear my thoughts on the pages, I’d be back in touch soon.
“The book’s complete, isn’t it?” I checked.
“Yes, it’s ready to go. If you think it’s good enough?” She bit her lip, hope filling her voice.
“Keep your mobile on today,” I called cryptically before slamming the door.
I was still feeling refreshed and brighter when I walked down the street back to our house, the sky a little cloudier, the temperature dropping. I opened the door, squeezed past the bike that today didn’t make me want to kick it. In fact, later I might even cycle it. My heart lifted as I took in the bright orange roses on the kitchen island, stopped to bury my nose in them, the sweet scent filling me up.
I had plans for this afternoon and one of them was lying in the basket next to the fridge.
“Oh Gussie, I’m sorry, how are you doing?”
I stroked him and he gave me a pitiful look as if to say it’s taken you long enough to notice.
Finding his leash, I carried him out to the car. The vet had moved an appointment to see him and I drove the short distance and coaxed him out.
Gus had been rescued with the intention of being the children’s dog. To teach them responsibility, empathy, and care. The kids turned out to be pretty fair-weather dog owners, happy to chase after him, cause chaos in the house (RIP ceramic coasters/glass fruit bowl/most of my shoes), happy to roam after him on sunny days in the park, less keen when it was cloudy and cold or raining. Gus loved us both but became Dan’s dog, accompanying him to the office some days where clients would fuss over him, chucking him tennis balls and feeding him treats. He’d pine for him if he went away and spin on the spot when he returned.
The vet emerged in blue scrubs, crinkled eyes over a face mask that he pulled down when he greeted me. Inside the small, square consultation room I gently laid Gus on the table.
“He’s lethargic, he’s off his food,” I explained to the vet, the stethoscope round his neck, the mask back up as he felt gently around Gus’s body.
Gus lay perfectly still. He’d always been playful and easygoing—I should have noticed the change in him. Relaxed wasn’t struggling, laid-back wasn’t lethargic. Shame stabbed me once more.
I wanted the vet to reassure me he’d be OK, that he’d be back to being the idiot we loved. I thought fondly of all the times he hadn’t wanted me to leave the house. He would steal one of my socks, race to the sofa, his bottom wiggling feverishly until he had got underneath it and, when I went to rescue said sock, would poke it out of his mouth like a comedy tongue. It never failed to make me laugh. He loved having his belly rubbed and would flagrantly roll about on the floor in front of visitors to see if they would oblige and, if their biscuit just happened to be in reach, they would lose their custard cream to his innocent face.
The vet took his bloods and asked if I could wait in Reception with Gus for the results. I bundled Gus out of the room, his expression bruised after the big needle.
The wait took a while and, with Gus nestled at my feet, I could have started phoning or emailing the people I planned to, I could have scrolled social media. Instead I reached down and stroked him behind his ears, feeling him lean into my hand as we waited together.
When the vet emerged I stood, my palms slippery as he walked the few steps toward me. What was the verdict? How badly ill was our beloved dog?
“Thank you for waiting, Mrs. Jacobs. We ran the bloods and found Gus here does have a raised white blood cell count.”
I felt my stomach plummet.
“Fortunately,” the vet continued, “none of the major organs appear to be affected. He’s fighting an infection. We’ll inject him today with Synulox, an antibiotic, and send you home with some tablets. I’d also like to give him something to bring his temperature down and you can administer more of that at home.”
I was nodding as he spoke, desperate to fix him.
“He should hopefully start feeling better within twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”
My body sagged with the relief that Gus was going to be all right, that this was fixable. I clung to that thought. Gus’s problems were fixable.
It’s a gift, I repeated. It’s a gift.
We left the vet with me professing my thanks, medication in a bag. Even in the car I felt that something inside Gus had been ignited. Maybe that wasn’t possible. I placed a hand on his head, my fingers lost to the curls. “Good boy, you’re such a gorgeous boy.” I was rewarded with a wag of his tail.
The kids were almost home as I let us both in and settled Gus in his bed. I made myself a frothy coffee and sat by the window as the sky grew more overcast. Today had already beaten the endless angry days, the spewing hate, the terrible loneliness. Perhaps Jas was right and I could make something of this time. This weird broken world. I knew one thing: I had to try. I had been so close to giving up, so close to losing everything I loved. This was a chance to get things right.
That thought filled me with hope as I sat back, hands cupped around the warm mug, the enticing smell of coffee in the air. I’d been missing so many of these small, precious moments, not just in this loop but before too, leaping ahead on the To Do List in my head rather than pausing to look around, to feel, to taste, to smell: to live.
Better yet, I could bring joy to other people too. I thought of the pages I’d read earlier, the fact that Jas was waiting on a call. I drew out my phone and scrolled down the names feeling a frisson of possibility, a spark in my belly. Something I hadn’t felt in ages.
A gift.
The phone rang and a woman greeted me. “Charlie,” I said, launching in, “this isn’t totally normal but I’m sending you over a few chapters and a synopsis and I need you to read them today, now really, and get back to me, tonight if you’re interested to read more . . . I know . . . I know it’s fast but it’s important, I think you’re going to love them.”