Seaglass Summer (13 page)

S
tu limps toward me and whines. Blood seeps from a cut on the top of his paw. The sky darkens, and the wind picks up. I glance down the beach—nothing but sand and rocks as far as I can see. I cup my hands around my mouth and yell, “Help! Anybody!” My voice disappears in the wind. “I need help!”

No response.

I grab Stu’s collar. “Come up to the grass, or you’ll get sand in the wound. Oh, Stu, what did you do?” I
should’ve been watching him. I rush him up the beach to a grassy area at the edge of the forest. He whines all the way.

“It’s going to be okay. Don’t worry, Stu.” My voice shakes. Nobody’s on the beach, and it’s a long way home. I wish my cell phone worked. I wish I had my veterinarian first-aid kit. Okay, breathe. I have to think about what to do.

I kneel to get a better look at the cut. It’s deep. Blood is coming out in a steady stream. A flap of skin hangs off. Stu could bleed to death. I fight nausea. A seagull squawks in the distance. I wish the gull could help. I wish it could carry a message to Uncle Sanjay.

“What do I do?” Put pressure on the wound. With what? Nothing but grass, rocks, and sand on the beach. Leaves? They’re too small. I have a tissue in my pocket, but the blood will soak through in a second. Panic rises inside me. I have to use
something
.

I take off my sweater and pull my T-shirt over my head. Then I put my sweater back on and zip it up. I try to rip the shirt, but the fabric is too strong.

“Oh, come on!” I shout to nobody. “Help!” Still no answer. My heart is pounding.

Stu whines more loudly.

“Okay, Stu, it’s okay.” I fold the T-shirt once, twice, three times. Then I press it to the wound. Stu stays still,
as if he knows I’m trying to help him. I press hard. The blood is soaking through. What if the bleeding doesn’t stop?

Keep up the pressure
, I hear Uncle Sanjay say.
If the blood is spurting, it’s probably from an artery …
And you apply pressure above the wound.

“The blood isn’t spurting. The blood is seeping.”

Then it’s probably from a vein. Apply pressure below the wound
.

I hold the T-shirt with one hand, and I press below the wound with my other hand. “Good boy, Stu,” I whisper. “Good boy.” Blood covers my fingers.
When you are calm, inside and out, the animal calms down, too
. I imagine the future, the cut all healed. Stu’s paw as good as new.

“You’re going to be okay.” The T-shirt is soaked in blood. What else can I use? I need to clean the wound, but I don’t have disinfectant. I wish we could fly to the clinic.

“We need to get you back.” I can’t carry him.
Wrap the wound from the bottom up
. From the bottom up. Bottom up. I can’t use anything on this beach; there are only logs, rocks, seashells, and discarded bottle caps. What can I use? What do I have left? My jeans, my sweater, my underwear.
My socks and shoes
.

The bleeding slows. The T-shirt has begun to stick to the wound. I hold it there with one hand, and with the
other, I undo my left shoelace and push off my shoe. I peel off my thick, striped sock.

“Hold still, Stu. This might hurt a bit. Give me your paw.” I pull the sock up over Stu’s paw, over the T-shirt. The sock fits snugly and holds the T-shirt in place. My hands are clammy. The air grows colder. Inky twilight spills across the sky.

I put my shoe back on over my bare foot. “Come on, we have to go.” I clip the leash to his collar, and he limps along beside me. The sand ripples toward me, rising like a wave. I’m going to faint. No, not now. I grab the lavender sachet from my pocket and take a deep whiff. The sweet scent revives me.

Blood seeps through the sock on Stu’s paw, so I stop and pull my other sock over the first one. “We’re almost there. Come on.” He looks up at me with those deep brown eyes, and I know he believes me. He’s relying on me. I can’t let him down. But the long way back takes forever, as if we are walking across the entire planet.

Then I see a tall, dark shape running toward us, feet pointing sideways, hair sticking out in every direction. “Uncle Sanjay!” I shout.

“My dear niece! Stu! What on Earth has happened?”

Chapter Twenty-seven
HAWK

A
t the clinic, Uncle Sanjay cleans the wound and closes it with tissue glue. Then he wraps Stu’s paw in a bandage from the bottom up. Stu suffers through his treatment with quiet patience; then he limps to the office to drink from his water bowl. Then he eats. Then he farts and goes out back in the darkness to poop. He limps back in and stays close to me.

“You did well, my dear niece,” Uncle Sanjay says. “You did a wonderful job of improvising. If you hadn’t kept
pressure on the wound, Stu would’ve been in bad shape.”

“I should’ve been watching him every second.”

“We can’t prevent every bad thing from happening in the world. Dogs cut their paws all the time. Stu must’ve stepped in glass, but I didn’t find any in the wound.”

“I shouldn’t have walked that far.”

“I should’ve gone with you. But you did well on your own.”

The next morning everyone at the clinic overwhelms Stu with kisses and hugs. Saundra brings him lavender biscuits.

Hawk gives him a new chew toy. “Wanna go for a walk to the beach, Poppy?”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I know. I just want to talk.”

I hesitate. “But Stu can’t come.”

“It’s okay. He’s happy here.” Stu limps around, wagging his tail, basking in love and sympathy.

“Okay. Fine.”

When we get to the beach, Hawk says, “I hear your parents are coming all the way out here to get you.”

“In three days.”

“Are you gonna come back? Maybe next summer?”

“Yeah. I want to.” The island spills over with life—
leaves rustling, birds chattering, and the sea rushing.

“I’m glad Stu’s okay,” Hawk says.

“Me too,” I say.

“Hey, I didn’t mean what I said, about you being just a kid.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“We could go out in a boat next time you’re here. My friend’s dad owns a yacht, takes it around the islands.”

“We could see J-pod up close, maybe?”

“If you spot killer whales from a boat, you have to cut the engine and drift, and you can’t get too close.”

“That would be awesome.” We walk near the waterline. The tide is going out, leaving new seashells embedded in the damp sand.

“When do you go back to school?” Hawk asks.

“The end of August.”

“We start in September. I go to Island Middle School.”

“I go to Coast Elementary in Santa Monica. But I wish I could stay here a few more weeks.”

“Me too. Next summer, I could show you more beaches up north. There’s a lot to see on this island. There’s some cool stuff at the maritime museum. Sea cucumbers, a whale skeleton, and some gross stuff. You might faint.”

I grin. “When I’m not here, who will you tease?”

He shrugs. “I’ll wait for you, I guess.”

I turn the seaglass around in the sun, study the small speckles trapped inside. Maybe they’re dust, or dirt, or tiny fish tears. I can’t know for sure. All I know is I don’t need the glass anymore. I throw it into the waves for someone else to find.

Chapter Twenty-eight
TIME MARCHES FORWARD

I
n the morning, I’m up early. I arrive at the Trading Post the moment the store opens. I buy a sympathy card with a picture of a brown tabby cat and
We’d like to believe they’ll be with us forever
on the front. Inside are the words
… and in our hearts, they are
. I can’t find a card with a picture of an orange cat, and anyway, it wouldn’t be Marmalade.

I write,
Dear Mr. Pincus, I know what Marmalade is doing in the next world. He’s meowing at birds and eating jam
.
Then I end with what other people usually write:
I’m so sorry for your loss
. But “sorry” doesn’t seem like enough.

I slip my lavender pillow into the envelope; then I ride Uncle Sanjay’s antique bike through town, the salty sea breeze in my face. Mr. Pincus lives in a two-story house made of wood and tall windows. I park my bike in the driveway and run up the steps to the front door. Cat wind chimes dangle from the eaves, and a carved wooden kitten sits by the door, batting at imaginary butterflies. Mr. Pincus answers the door in a robe and slippers.

“Oh, did I wake you up?” I ask. “I know it’s still early—”

“Poppy, what a pleasant surprise. Please, come on in.” He steps back to let me inside. His house is made for cats; toys, kitty condos, and scratching posts are everywhere. Pictures of Marmalade cover the walls. Marmalade in the garden, Marmalade sleeping on a blanket, Marmalade with his head in a jar of marmalade.

“Won’t you have something to drink?” he asks.

“I, um, just wanted to give you this.” I hand him the envelope.

“For me? You’re very kind.” He opens the envelope, takes out my lavender pillow, and sniffs. “Ah, I never get tired of that fragrance.” Then he reads the card, and his
eyes fill with tears. “Oh, my Marmalade.” He presses his hand to his chest.

I swallow tears. “I’ll always remember him. Forever and ever.” Outside, on the deck, a flock of yellow birds lands on a tray of birdseed.

“Come, I want to show you something.” Mr. Pincus leads me out into the backyard, into a sunny garden of colorful flowers and leafy plants. In the center of the garden is a white rock with words painted in orange:

“I planted catnip all around the edges,” Mr. Pincus says. Tears stream down his cheeks. “He loved catnip.”

We stand there for a few minutes, silently remembering Marmalade, and then we go back inside.

“Would you like to see the newest members of my family?” Mr. Pincus says, wiping his eyes. “They’re still getting used to their new home.”

“New family members?” I blink.

He motions me to follow him down the hall, a finger pressed to his lips. “Stay quiet. They get spooked easily.”

At the end of the hall, a door is ajar. He pushes it open. On a fluffy bed, a white cat is curled up, staring
at me through nervous green eyes. A black cat sits on the headboard, flicking its tail.

“Hansel and Gretel!” I say. “But—”

“I adopted them a few days ago. Toni rescued new foster cats, so she asked me to take these two.”

Hansel hops onto the floor, trots toward me, and rubs against my legs. I pick him up and pet him.

Mr. Pincus smiles. “See, he likes you. Gretel’s still nervous. This is her safe room. Hansel is a bit bolder. Come on.”

I put Hansel down, and we tiptoe back down the hall. Hansel follows us. “I’m glad you adopted new kitties,” I say. Mr. Pincus won’t be so lonely now.

“I’ll never forget Marmalade. He’ll always hold a special place in my heart. I will always love him. Nothing will ever replace him. But these kitties needed a home right away. I couldn’t say no.”

On my way down the street, I pass a man jogging in shorts and a Nisqually Island T-shirt, a girl walking a poodle, and a lady pushing a stroller with a round-faced baby inside. They all wave at me, and I wave back.

I’m beginning to know my way around these streets with Northwest names—Chinook Place, Samish Street, Orca Lane, Witless Cove Road. I love the cool, salty breeze, the sound of the surf, the call of seabirds, the way each day is different. Some mornings, mist rolls in from
the sea; sometimes the rains come; and sometimes the sun shines warm and bright.

Before turning the corner, I glance back at Mr. Pincus’s tall wooden house. As the sun rises higher, the windows begin to reflect the swaying trees, the sky, and the clouds speeding by, on their way to somewhere new.

Chapter Twenty-nine
LEAVING