I nod slowly. “Oh, okay.” I hadn’t expected an actual answer.
“No seriously. He’s ruined everything for me.”
I look at Phoebe. She makes a sad face, then rolls her eyes. “Everything.”
“Everything I’ve done—dropping out of law school, starting this puppet company—has all been because of him. It’s all his fault.”
I feel like the ground underneath me has shifted the way it does when total validation appears for long-held seemingly insane opinions. Like thinking the soft and fuzzy man-bunned teacher was a phony. I feel like calling Teddy back downstairs to prove that I’m not actually crazy: Mr. Noah is not who he pretends to be.
“I’m sorry to hear you have such a troubled relationship,” I say, my voice dripping with empathy. “That can’t have been easy for you.”
Suddenly, they both fold over with laughter. “My dad?” Nick says. “I’m kidding! He’s the best guy ever. Obviously!”
Phoebe nods her confirmation, then taps her heart with her paws. “A total sweetheart.”
I’m so confused. I pull away from both of them, leaning as far back on the couch as I can, hugging the dog in front of me like a protective shield. Who are these awful people? How could I have been so stupid to invite them into my home?
“I love my dad,” Nick says. Suddenly there are tears in his eyes. His voice cracks. “He’s basically my best friend. He ruined everything for me because he made me think the world would be as accepting and loving as he is, and it’s not. It’s been a long, slow, rude awakening.” Phoebe puts her hoof-paw over his until he clears his throat and regains his composure. “So to answer your question,” he says with his hooves in the air as a signal that everything’s fine, “I pursued this art form because I was looking for a way to hide for a while. I was miserable after my parents’ divorce. I never felt like I fit in with other kids because no one else had a dad who was such a free spirit. And, I may have gone through a slight chubby phase.”
Phoebe’s sad face returns, as do the paws to her heart. “He was so cute. But so chubby.” Then she laughs, blushing. “But not anymore.”
“Nope. Underneath the costume I’m rock-solid.”
They fold over laughing again.
Oh. “Guys,” I say. “Let’s have this conversation another time. Like when you’re both not so high.”
* * *
Upstairs, I slip into bed, making sure to carefully stay on my side. In the dark, once my eyes adjust, our two separate figures under the blankets, peaks and valleys, look like one of those special sectioned plates where all the food is separated so that it can’t touch.
“Teddy won’t go with me on the trip.”
Gary turns toward me, leans up on an elbow.
“I thought it would be fun,” I say. “The old Teddy would have jumped at the chance to have an adventure and miss a day of school, to eat out at diners along the way, but he refused. I’m kind of devastated.”
“I’m sorry. That sucks.”
“I miss the old Teddy.”
“So do I.” In the dark I know we’re both thinking about how perfect he was then—the skinny skater jeans he used to wear, the long hair that always covered one eye and almost reached his shoulders; the willingness to do anything to make us laugh, including running around with his pants off.
I sigh. I’m so lonely I think I might die. I could reach out to Gary, but the divide between the past and the present feels too far, too deep, too wide. It is too late for us. It’s been too late for a long time. And besides, the dog is there, sprawled between us. I pull the blanket to slide her closer to me, then put my arm around her, tucking my hand under her paws and chin and bringing my knees up around her until we’re spooning. I instantly feel better. Which isn’t surprising, given what I’ve learned since starting to wear the sling. (“Newsflash: new study shows that women who interact with their dog for twenty-five minutes have a 58 percent increase in oxytocin, also known as the ‘hug hormone.’” “‘An Examination of Adult Women’s Sleep Quality and Sleep Routines in Relation to Pet Ownership and Bedsharing’ is the study we’ve been waiting for, proving that women have higher-quality sleep when they share their bed with at least one dog.”) But I don’t really need scientific studies to tell me what is already so obvious and intuitive, like the fact that women who sleep with their dogs may actually be disturbed as often by the dog as they are by the human they sleep with, but they self-report being less bothered or less aware of the dog-disturbances than the human disturbances. Though sometimes I do wonder what all this forced human affection feels like to the dog. If Charlotte were interviewed and could talk, what would she self-report about sleeping or slinging with me? Does she also get a boost of oxytocin and higher-quality sleep or does the dog-human closeness make her feel more claustrophobic than comforted?
“I’ll go with you,” Gary says.
I look at him over Charlotte’s ears. “To the workshop?”
“I’ll drive with you. You can drop me at my mother’s—I’ll get points for visiting her and raking some leaves—and then you can pick me up when you’re done with the seminar. The Puppets can watch the dog and Teddy.”
“Maybe I’ll stay at your mother’s the first night to save money, then find a cheap hotel for the second night.”
“Good. It’ll give us time to talk.”
“Time to talk about what?”
He flops onto the pillows, then rolls over and away, back to his side of the bed. “Oh Judy. I give up.”
Off to See the Forehead
Two days later, on a chilly, bright blue morning, we’re packed and ready for the weekend—we’ve done a huge food shop for us and a smaller one for Glenn, including making sure she has all her meds and that friends are coming to check on her while we’re away; left Gary’s mother a voicemail about our last-minute visit; let the school know that the People Puppets would be driving Teddy to and from school today; taped a list of our cell phone numbers and emergency contact numbers—pediatrician, veterinarian, and take-out vegetarian—to the refrigerator. Gary takes our bags out to the car while I throw a notebook and a bunch of Sharpies into my bag just in case inspiration strikes early and I start writing or drawing before the workshop. Then I wave at Phoebe, who’s lurking just outside the kitchen, to come in. I have things—important things—to show and tell her before we go.
“We got you a whole bunch of new food,” I say, opening the refrigerator door. “Healthy food! Vegan food! Puppets-from-Vermont food!” I don’t register Phoebe’s frozen and fading smile. “Kale-this and quinoa-that.”
Phoebe blinks, looks miserable. “Great.”
I touch her lightly on the arm. “Don’t worry. We’ll only be gone two days.”
She looks at me like I have a bird on my head.
I open the freezer and the cabinets above it. “Teddy eats regular food. Frozen pizza. Chicken fingers. Cereal. You know, teenage-boy stuff.” I roll my eyes like I can’t believe he’s related to me, even though just saying all those words makes me suddenly want to eat all his food. “With kids you just have to pick your battles sometimes.”