Seaglass Summer (14 page)

D
oris brings Shopsy back to the clinic to be groomed. His hair is growing again, and his skin infection is gone. I comb him carefully. He’s still small and fragile, but I’m no longer afraid of hurting him. When I finish, he looks beautiful, if a bit patchy.

“Nice job, Poppy,” Saundra says.

Harvey brings Bremolo back for another checkup. He’s trotting along at top speed. “He doesn’t need the pain meds anymore,” Harvey says. “He’s started
hopping up and down the stairs. You saved his life.”

“That’s my job.” Uncle Sanjay gives Bremolo a treat, and the little dog struts around, wagging his curly tail. Even Saundra smiles at him.

Lulu comes back, too, her golden hair flying. Mrs. Lopez runs after her, calling, “Lulu, get back here! Oh, Lulu!”

Lulu stops and squats; Hawk cleans up her pee; and then she and Bremolo and Stu dash around the hospital together. “I’m so sorry!” Mrs. Lopez says. “She loves everyone, you see.”

I get to see Droopy and Francine one more time, when Toni brings Francine back with another eye infection. Uncle Sanjay gives her the medicine for free.

On my last afternoon at the clinic, Saundra throws a bon voyage party for me. She gives me the oversized lab coat. “For when you become a vet. You’ll grow into it.”

Duff gives me a dog brush, and Hawk gives me a chunk of white quartz.

“We’re gonna miss you, Poppy,” Duff says. “Now I have to weigh the cats by myself.”

“I’m going to miss you, too.” I hug everyone.

The next morning, Hawk comes over for breakfast. He hangs out in the backyard, petting Stu while Uncle Sanjay cooks up samosas and eggs. Oil splatters all over his glasses.

I give him a big hug. “I’m going to miss your cooking.”

“My cooking will miss you, too.” He gives me a soft smile.

Outside, birds twitter in the garden. I’ve grown to enjoy their song, and I even rescued a spider last night. I scooped her into my hand and dropped her in the garden. Her hairy legs didn’t scare me.

I sit at the kitchen table and rest my chin in my hands. “I don’t want to leave, Uncle. I wish I could take the island home.”

“I wish you could stay. I’ll come and visit you soon, and perhaps you’ll come back next summer?”

“Every summer. And you know what? No matter what Dadu ever said, I think you’re the greatest vet on the planet, better than Dr. Dolittle.”

He gives me a startled smile. “Thank you, my dear niece. I have a present for you—a memento of your stay.” A small box wrapped in brown paper in a Trading Post shopping bag. “Don’t open it until you get home. Keep it well cushioned.”

I pack the gift in my suitcase, wrapped in two sweaters.

When my parents show up, my regular life comes flooding back to me, but it feels like a different life now. The smog and freeways and noisy traffic of Los Angeles have become a strange, faraway world. My days and nights on Nisqually Island, the furballs, worms in jars, newborn puppies, and ancient cats—the messiness
and joy and sadness all feel like my real life.

I could stay here forever, with my new island family and friends, but my heart leaps as Mom emerges from the passenger side of the car, Dad from the driver’s side. My parents look smaller and thinner than before. Mom is wearing a new loose Indian shirt painted in bright flowers, and a colorful bead necklace. Her bangles jingle and clink. Dad’s white shirt is rumpled, his hair a little messier than usual.

Uncle Sanjay steps out onto the porch and waves. Hawk stands in the yard, throwing the ball and catching it. Stu gingerly prances back and forth, staring hopefully at the ball.

Mom rushes over and hugs me. “We missed you so much. We’ve brought you some presents. Everyone asked about you.”

Stu limps over and jumps on Mom, knocking her back into the grass. She sneezes once, twice.

“Studebaker Chatterji!” I yell, pulling him off. “Bad dog. No jumping.”

“It’s all right.” Mom gets up and brushes off her clothes.

Uncle Sanjay runs down the steps and clips the leash to Stu’s collar. “I’m so sorry—”

“So good to see you.” Mom hugs Uncle Sanjay. “What a lovely cottage! I wish we could go inside, but I’ll never stop sneezing.”

“Poppykins!” Dad rushes toward me, lifts me up, and presses wet kisses to my cheeks. “What have you been up to, my grown-up girl?”

“Oh, Dad, I have so much to tell you.”

“She’ll have many stories to share,” Uncle Sanjay says, hugging Dad. Mom’s eyes are watering, and her nose turns pink from all the sneezing.

“Next time you come, you can stay at the Witless Cove Motel,” Uncle Sanjay says. “No pets allowed there.”

Stu’s tail wags a mile a minute.

“Here, I’ll take him,” Hawk says. He dashes over, grabs the leash, and steers Stu away from my mom.

“This is my friend Hawk,” I say. “He showed me around the clinic, and the beaches, and the town.”

Hawk grins at me.

“Lovely to meet you!” Mom says. Dad nods at him and smiles.

“We’ve brought you some tea,” Mom says to Uncle Sanjay. “Darjeeling, first flush. Your favorite.”

Uncle Sanjay’s eyes twinkle with happiness. “Come come, we can all sit at the picnic table in the backyard. I’m afraid the house is full of Stu’s hair. You’re better off out here.”

Mom opens her arms and takes a deep breath. “Smell the freshness. Isn’t it wonderful, Poppy?”

“Beautiful,” I say. “It’s Nisqually Island air.”

Chapter Thirty
HOME AGAIN

B
ack home in my room, I hang the lab coat in my closet. Mom and Dad brought me sandalwood soap, jewelry, and cotton kurta shirts from India. They also gave me a brand-new veterinarian first-aid kit. I donated it to the local humane society. I have plenty of time to learn how to use the tools of a veterinarian. Sometimes, you don’t need all that equipment anyway. You need your mind, your heart, and steady hands. And maybe a T-shirt and a pair of socks.

But I keep my original, battered first aid kit, the one that fell into the stream. The plastic is cracked, the hinges busted. But even a broken box can be useful. I put it on my bookshelf. Inside, I arrange my treasures from Nisqually Island, including the dog brush, chunks of white quartz, ridged pink cockleshells, a 1968 penny, and a bouquet of dried lavender.

Downstairs, Mom is singing, clinking dishes in the kitchen. She is making
mishti doi
, my favorite Bengali yogurt, for dessert. Dad is outside, pressure washing the concrete driveway. Across the street, kids are shouting and playing. Traffic rushes in the distance, and the afternoon sunlight slants across my bed, but I am not quite all the way home. Part of me is still in Witless Cove, petting Bremolo, hugging Stu, walking in Marmalade’s garden.

I open Uncle Sanjay’s present, an empty spice bottle made of clear glass. Well, not empty. The bottle is labeled
GENUINE WITLESS COVE AIR
. I’ll return to the island to feel the salty sea breeze on my face, to ride bikes along shady lanes, to explore the beaches with Hawk. Until then, I will keep the jar on my windowsill, where I can see it every day.

I
’m grateful to Monet, my beloved cat, who followed me around, slept next to me every night, and sat on my lap while I wrote this book. His death was sudden and unexpected. I wish I could’ve said good bye. He joins the spirits of the other animals I have loved and lost—Shanti the cat, Whitely the dog, Friday the rabbit, and more. Thanks to the robin that first brought out my compassion. When I was eight years old, my friends and I dressed in our Sunday bests, buried him under a makeshift wooden cross, and held an elaborate garden memorial service.

I’m also grateful to Dr. Tara Nanavati, the James Herriot of the town of Seymour, Connecticut. I learned of him from an article in
India Abroad
magazine. Dr. Nanavati has dedicated his life to helping animals, although he knows vets are a “neglected lot.”

My editor, Wendy Lamb, helped me brainstorm the book. I’m thankful for her support. She wouldn’t give up on me and ultimately helped me find the true story here. I would not have found my way without her and the primary editor for this book, Caroline Meckler. Infinitely patient, Caroline has helped me craft my work with the
finesse of a master. Thanks also to the rest of the Random House team, including the wonderful copy editors, and Marci Senders for her brilliant design. I’m also grateful to Jodi Reamer.

My deepest gratitude to my wonderful Bainbridge Island fellow writers—Susan Wiggs, Carol Cassella, Sheila Rabe, Elsa Watson, and Suzanne Selfors. Special thanks to Susan for her last-minute read of Chapter One and for helping choose the book title. Without her, I would have been lost.

Thanks to Dr. David Parent, DVM, and his staff at the Useless Bay Animal Clinic in Freeland, Washington.

Special, heartfelt thanks to Carol Ann Morris, DVM, beloved friend and veterinarian, and her wonderful associates at Belfair Animal Hospital—Shannon Stewart, Jaci Peifer, Niki Day, Lisa O’Donnell, and the hospital owner, Dr. Gary Sleight. Thank you for allowing me to sit in on appointments and for sharing your stories.

Way back when, I worked with Alan and Nancy Kay, DVMs, at the Oakland Veterinary Hospital in California. My experience there gave me texture for this story as well.

My friend Susan Neal contributed some great brainstorming.

Thanks also to my Silverdale writing group: Jim Gullo, Skip Morris, Penny Percenti, Sherill Leonardi, Cassandra
Firman, and Mike Donnelly. Special thanks to Kate Breslin and Janine Donoho for reading a late-stage version of the manuscript, and to Uma Krishnaswami, for her wise feedback. Karen Brown and Kristin Von Kreisler gave me thoughtful input at the last minute.

I can’t forget Lois Faye Dyer and Rose Marie Harris for in-depth discussions while swimming at the Parkwood Community Club pool. Many thanks to Gitana Garofalo, Vito Zingarelli, Amy Wheeler, M. Louise McKay, and everyone at Hedgebrook, an idyllic retreat for women writers on Whidbey Island.

Members of my Friday Tea group gave me some great ideas—thanks to Terrel Hoffman, Carol Wissmann, Jan Symonds, Dee Marie, Toni Bonnell, Sandra Hill, Soudabeh Pourarien, Jana Bourne, and Elizabeth Corcoran Murray. My “title brainstormers”—Brenda Gurung, Kari Yadro, Ada Con, Justina Chen Headley, Mitali Perkins, and Mary Palmer—provided much-needed perspective.

As always, I thank my husband, Joseph; my mom, Denise, for her insight; and my stepdad, Randy, for his encouraging laughter at scenes read aloud. Thanks to my family for their support, and of course to our wonderful cats—Luna, Cheyenne, Simon, and Ruby.

Anjali Banerjee
is the author of
Maya Running
and
Looking for Bapu
, as well as books for adults. She was born in India, grew up in Canada and California, and received degrees from the University of California, Berkeley. At the age of seven, she wrote her first story, about an abandoned puppy she found on a beach in Bengal. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and four crazy cats. Learn more about Anjali on her Web site,
www.anjalibanerjee.com
.