And just like that, before she could take it back, her mother was dead. Gus had no way of saying she was sorry for not tapping her toes. For not being nice to the puppy. For not being a good girl.
She was eight years old, and she was completely undone.
* * *
A sharp, distant bark gets Augusta’s feet unstuck. She hikes her purse over her shoulder and quickly heads back toward Rose’s house from the bus stop. Her feet thump against the pavement, the present hammering into her bones. She is far from her mother. Far from her childhood. Far from the life she was living just yesterday with Lars.
Far away and right here.
As Gus crosses the street, she spots him. There’s no mistaking those floppy ears and raggedy hindquarters. She slows and walks up the path toward the house. He’s torn the strap from her duffel bag. Augusta dropped it on the front step when she chased after Miss Santos. The strap has come loose and he’s whipping his head side to side, smacking his ears with it.
That’s Levi all right. But he’s no puppy anymore. A hint of gray sprinkles his brow and he’s about forty pounds heavier.
He looks up and spots her. His eyes widen, ears perk, and forehead furrows as recognition jolts some remote nook inside his tiny brain. He drops the drool-soaked strap and bounds over to her. Body wiggling, tail wagging, whimpering like a baby. He leaps at her chest. Claws scratch her collarbone.
“Get off me, dog.”
Augusta shoves him off. He’s unfazed. He circles excitedly, smells her shoes, then rubs his body against her legs. She feels the familiar pang of guilt. The same guilt she felt as a kid for never letting herself love the dog. But right now, guilt isn’t enough to bring her around. She doesn’t want him. She doesn’t know him. She never did. He was Shannon’s, then he was Rose’s. He was never hers. She tries to ignore him. Grabs her duffel bag and heads through the open door of Rose’s house. Levi races ahead down the wide hallway that stretches from the front foyer to the large kitchen at the back. Gus drops the duffel and follows the clinking of his dog tags. Golden hair flutters off his body.
It all in fucking letter. I leave on kitchen table.
The kitchen smells like brussels sprouts. Augusta crosses to the table. She drops her purse on the floor next to her and plunks down into the chair where she used to sit eating digestive cookies with cheddar cheese while her mother weeded Rose’s garden.
Levi flops on the floor like a bag of bones. The excitement has tuckered him out. His droopy neck spreads across the cool pine floors as he lets out a big sigh.
There are two piles of paper on the table. Junk mail and bills. Set apart from these is a plain envelope. Torn open. A letter shoved back inside. It’s addressed to Augusta Monet. The handwriting is shaky. Definitely from Rose. In red ink, a Return to Sender stamp obscures the address in St. Catharines. Rose thought Augusta was still at boarding school. She’d stopped sending her birthday cards when she was thirteen so it’s no wonder she had no idea how old she was. Gus pulls the letter from the envelope. A business card for a Mr. Beath Honey, LLB falls onto the table. She reads the letter.
My dearest Augusta,
I am sorry I was not a better great-gran to you. I loved your mother very much. She was like a daughter to me. I should have done more for her only child. My deepest regret in my twilight is that I failed you both. I cannot change the past, but I can do something about the future. That is why I have decided to leave you all of my worldly possessions. My house. All of its contents. My money, my car, and my sweet Levi. My lawyer, Mr. Honey, is aware of my wishes and will take care of the arrangements when the time comes. I hope you can forgive my shortcomings.
Yours truly,
Rose
The letter is dated just a few weeks earlier. Rose died before it was returned. Miss Santos must have found it while sorting through the mail. And opened it.
She promise. She wreck her promise.
What had Rose promised Miss Santos? Maybe the house.
Gus picks up the lawyer’s business card, and with her other hand, she reaches for her purse on the floor. She riffles through it, finds her cell phone, and checks the screen. Ignoring the voice mails and texts from Lars, she dials Mr. Honey’s number. He’ll take care of things. So says Rose’s letter. The lawyer picks up and in a few short minutes it’s all arranged.
As she hangs up, a wave of nausea floats up her throat. Augusta looks around for something to eat. She’s famished. The kitchen is filthy. Mossy dishes fill the sink. Hairy tumbleweeds inhabit every corner. Tomato sauce stipples the backsplash like blood splatter. Miss Santos might have been capable of administering medication and picking up dog shit, but she was clearly no maid.
Gus gets up. Wobbly legged. She opens the fridge. Big mistake. A head of iceberg lettuce has turned to mush and is oozing a puddle of soupy brown water across one shelf. A moldy jar of applesauce and a supersize bottle of prune juice are stranded in the puddle. Old lady food. Gus covers her mouth to stop herself from puking. Then she spots the bottles of Vanilla Ensure lining the fridge door. She grabs one, breaks the seal, and takes a sip. Tastes like vanilla milkshake. Gus downs two full bottles then collapses back into the chair.
She rests her forehead on her folded arms and drapes herself over the kitchen table. Shuts her eyes as a deep-boned heaviness envelops her, gently holding her down. Levi whines a little as Gus falls asleep, unable to fight gravity or fatigue any longer.
And then just like that, as if no time has passed at all, Gus lifts her head. She gazes out the back door. A purple dusk has descended on the yard. She’s napped almost the entire day away. She can’t yet lift her leaden arms or fully open her eyelids. She’s still drifting somewhere between asleep and awake. Dreams and reality.
Here and there.
Wishing herself gone, Gus carries herself away, to there. To another purple sky.
Beneath its glow, she’s eating corn on the cob with her mother on a front porch. She can hear a bicycle clip-clapping as it passes. Playing cards stuck in the spokes. Her mother laughs at the kernels stuck between her teeth. Gus wants to stay in the comfort and warmth of that moment, but it’s too painful to linger there long. The evening draft cools her skin and pulls her back to her great-grandmother’s kitchen table. She grips the chair beneath her. Trying to stop herself from floating away again. From disappearing completely.
The setting sun suddenly peeks out from below a line of low clouds, streaking the sky with slivers of orange and gold that cascade through the maples at the back of Rose’s yard. The rays make their way through the kitchen window and sprinkle the table with dappled light that dances across her fingers. She touches the screen of her phone. It remains black. Battery’s dead.
Darkness falls fast. Without turning on any lights, Augusta wanders down to the foyer. Grabs her phone charger from her duffel bag, plugs in her phone, and leaves it on the table in the foyer to charge. Still dead tired, Gus heads into the living room and stretches out on the sofa. She stares at the china cabinet filled with porcelain figurines shaped like horses and hummingbirds. Levi tiptoes into the room and gently hoists himself onto one end of the sofa and nestles in. She tucks her legs away from him into an uncomfortable fetal position. Looks down at him. He’s completely at ease lying next to her. Much more than she is with him. Maybe it would be kinder to take him to the pound. Let some really great family with kids adopt him. Kids that would love a dog. The fantasy dissolves into sadness, then quickly shifts to anger. She didn’t ask for any of this. Not when she was eight and not now. Tomorrow he’s gone. Gus wonders how long the Humane Society will let him live if he doesn’t get adopted right away. His problem, not hers.