Natalie was surprised to see that it was brandy. The type of liquor that would roll smoothly down her throat, leaving a little trail of tasty fire. God, she loved a good glass of brandy, and she hadn’t had one since leaving the States. But how could Hom have known that? And where did she find a bottle of this quality? Where did she get the money for it?
Then she saw the white envelope. No writing on it. Odd, she thought. She slid her finger along the flap and opened the letter, fighting the mouth-watering taste for the brandy. If the brandy was from Hom, she’d return it. A bottle of this quality would be the equivalent of three months’ salary, minimum. Even if she had saved a member of Hom’s immediate family, Natalie didn’t expect a payment like this.
One eye on the burnished bronze bottle, she flipped open the sheet of paper and began reading. Andrew’s handwriting. “Congratulations,” he began, “your article on Sophie will soon be published. One of the editors is a friend of mine, and he called me tonight to ask more details about your work. He was quite impressed, young lady! You deserve a congratulatory drink. Cheers!”
She plopped into the desk chair, the letter still in her hands, a shocked grin on her face. She reached for the bottle, cradling it in her hands reverently.
“Damn it, you’re right, Andrew,” she said aloud in the quiet cabin. “I have a cause to celebrate. So I’ll start now. This very moment.”
It took a few moments to find something sharp enough to break the seal on the bottle and another moment to find a water glass to pour the precious brandy into, but when that liquid honey fire crept down her throat, she groaned like a woman climaxing.
She’d thank Andrew tomorrow. Tonight she’d enjoy this gift from the gods.
An hour and two drinks later, she brought the bottle and her glass down the moonlit road to Sophie’s barn. The elephant was sleeping on her side when Natalie arrived, but when she called out her name, Sophie raised her giant head and lumbered to her feet, instantly reaching her trunk out to touch Natalie’s arm.
Natalie put the bottle down and opened the door to the enclosure. Sophie rumbled softly, the greeting she always made when Natalie came near.
“You’re going to be famous, old girl,” Natalie said softly as she came abreast of Sophie. She leaned her forehead against the elephant’s lowered head and stood there silently for a moment wondering exactly when the two of them had come to this point of comfort with each other. She totally trusted Sophie now, and she knew the elephant felt the same way. It had taken many hours and days of work, but it was worth it.
Through the years, Natalie had owned dogs, trained horses, rescued more cats than she could count, but she’d never had a more profound relationship with any animal than the one she shared with this elephant. She knew now why mahouts were so happy. Sometimes it felt like Sophie actually realized and mirrored the emotions she felt.
She pulled her head back and looked into Sophie’s good eye. Sophie chirruped and reached her trunk towards the bottle Natalie had set on a bench. She chuckled. “I’d love to share a drink with you, Soph, but I’m afraid you’d drink the whole bottle, and god knows what kind of a drunk you’d be, so you’ll have to be content with a few bananas.”
She found some in the storage bin and fed Sophie, who shifted from side to side and tried to back up as she did when Natalie took her down to the river for a bath.
“No, we’re not going out right now, girl. It’s night-time.”
Still, Sophie backed up.
Natalie looked up the road, well lit by the moon. The night remained balmy and clear. The crickets had long since stopped. The only sounds breaking the silence were the ones she and Sophie made.
“Ah, what the hell. Let’s take a walk. But we’re coming right back, okay?”
They strolled silently side by side down the road. Natalie with her bottle, Sophie with as much spring in her step as an elephant could muster. Her version of wagging her tail.
Natalie watched Sophie frolic in the water like a huge moonlit shadow, rolling over and over and shooting fountains of river water into the air. The gentle splashes of water and Sophie’s occasional delighted shrieks echoed in the tiny canyon created by the surrounding hills. In the dark spaces cast by the moon’s light, Natalie imagined she saw movement or eyes watching them, but she brushed away the specters and found her thoughts easily diverted.
With the bottle cradled between her legs, she thought about what would come next, delivering the paper in front of an international group of her peers, and the feeling of dread at being in the spotlight again made her fingers tighten on the bottle’s neck.
No need for panic, she told herself sternly. Nothing’s happened. And this isn’t the States. The media’s far more interested in the revolution here than the story of some American woman who lost her children in a school shooting thousands of miles away. And no one’s going to send the paparazzi to hunt down a veterinarian who wrote a journal article about how to treat elephants with PTSD.
But she couldn’t stop her hands from trembling, couldn’t stop the fractured scenes from flashing in front of her eyes. She knew she was in Thailand, could feel the night air around her, but her vision was stolen and replaced with the scene in front of the school, borders of yellow tape, small groups of people huddled together. She saw the ambulances arrive, seen their spinning roof lights, heard the police’s orders as they tried to clear the parking lot where she’d come every morning to let the kids off. She smelled the Indian summer heat, knew even then that there’d been an afternoon thunderstorm that would wash the area clean of important evidence. And she must sit down because the vignettes come faster. She hears the questions from reporters and judges and lawyers and family and from herself. Questions that could never be answered. Questions she never wanted to hear again.
The scattered images blur her vision even more, blend in with each other, and time passes. She remembers the days after the shooting. The funeral plans her family made for her boys because she was unable to. She doesn’t remember the funerals, not one moment, but she sees herself in bed for weeks, remembers the heaviness of her head against the pillow, and doesn’t quite know how she rose from that bed, how she even functions today so far from home and all that was painful. Still, today, how does she function with both of her children gone?
She breathed into the fear which sat, fist-like, in the middle of her chest, convinced herself she’d feel better after taking another sip of her brandy. For more than an hour she sat on the riverbank nursing her drink before sleep crept over her and made her eyes droop. She called for Sophie, who didn’t argue and followed Natalie back to the enclosure.
It was past one in the morning when Natalie finally set the half-empty bottle back on her desk and fell into bed. Her last thought before passing out was that she had forgotten to write home.