So far, the morning had her digging out from the bottom. Her overly enthusiastic uterus had decided today of all days to unleash the floodgates, her air-conditioning unit stopped working when the temperature was predicted to hit a hundred degrees, and her little prince showed his disapproval of breakfast options by throwing his microwaved French toast sticks on the floor . . . after breaking them into microscopic pieces that he pretended were fish food for his imaginary piranha.
He also did the said event while belting out an unintelligible tune—one surely meant to assure Maggie that her headache from sleep deprivation could only be worse, because she was blessed with nurturing a tiny being and was justly rewarded with messy hugs and a promise that she could sleep when she was dead.
Charlie is a blessing, Charlie is a blessing, she kept reminding herself as she sped around the house tending to a million little things.
Despite never having a minute to herself and feeling like there was an endless to-do list that hovered over her head, he was her everything.
Thankfully, he always considered staying with Auntie Quinn a fun adventure, which allowed Maggie to slip out without more drama to heap on her overflowing plate. Very generous of Quinn, considering that bookings were filling up after her successful opening of the inn.
Quinn never said no. She’d pushed Maggie out the door, telling her not to worry about Charlie, that they’d be fine. Even with Quinn’s help, though, Maggie was behind schedule by the time she and Woodrow left the inn and got on the road.
In her haste that morning, she should have paced herself by remembering that veterinarian waiting rooms were all about . . . waiting, even if she was slated for a job interview. She’d arrived at the clinic with only three minutes to spare, yet another ten minutes had already passed after her scheduled interview time. That left lots of opportunity for contemplation. She couldn’t have picked a worse day for a job interview. But this was the day, and Quinn’s boyfriend, Liam, had pulled some strings for her to get in. And honestly, how many jobs was she going to find that would allow her to keep Woodrow with her? This kind of opportunity didn’t come around often, so she had to put on her big-girl panties, suck it up, and get it done.
Mommy needed cash. Stat.
The lobby was already jumping though the hour was early. She remembered that Fridays and Mondays were usually busy for vets. It never ceased to amaze her how people brought their animals in for any tiny thing, including a sniffle or a discolored pile of poo.
Yes, your dog ate rabbit droppings. Or maybe he gobbled too many Cheetos. Are you sure you aren’t feeding him grapes? So many stories still in her head from previous pet patients and their well-intentioned but sometimes irresponsible parents. And it was standard for someone’s cat or dog to be near death on a Saturday or Sunday, when the office was closed.
But some of these early risers were definitely warranted.
Already she’d witnessed a young couple with their Lab puppy, frantic because the dog was barely eating. They described his vomiting episodes in detail as the receptionist jotted notes. They were strapped for money, obviously, and had tried to wait it out, hoping the dog would recover, but when he stopped drinking water, they’d brought him in and he was taken directly to the back.
Listening to the communication going on around her, Maggie could feel her clinical instincts coming back, and that gave her a small burst of confidence. In this case, she would bet anything the puppy had swallowed an object that was blocking either the esophagus or intestines. Many moons ago, before she was a fancy executive public relations manager and still worked a humble, wholly fulfilling job in a veterinary hospital, Maggie had helped treat dogs with those same symptoms, and most recovered if the item was found before it perforated anything vital.
Some dogs would eat anything.
Thankfully Woodrow wasn’t like most dogs. Maggie had seen the strangest things recovered from exploratory surgeries—the weirdest being a whole baked potato. The owner had expressed surprise at that, but Maggie couldn’t figure out how the woman hadn’t missed a whole baked potato from the dinner table. Did people just make so many extra they didn’t notice when one disappeared? She wished she could be so extravagant, but then she remembered how much it pained her that Charlie had wasted his breakfast that morning, and she was struck with a new bout of anxiety over how much she needed this job.
On the other side of her, a woman and her young daughter waited with a carrier full of newborn kittens. The little girl had been sliding around on the floor, hands all over the tile, making Maggie cringe at the germs she was most likely picking up that would inevitably land in her mouth.
But she said nothing. It wasn’t as if she herself would win any Mother of the Year awards. After the blatant refusal of the French toast sticks, she’d given Charlie sliced strawberries, and since they weren’t organic—because who could afford organic in Hawaii?—some might say they were fruit-shaped poison bombs.
She also hadn’t studied the fine print on the back of the accompanied juice box to see if it contained real sugar. Not to mention the fact that she’d be accused of frying his brain cells since she let him stare mindlessly at cartoons while she’d fluttered around cleaning the kitchen, putting a load of clothes into the washer, and searching through her wardrobe for an interview-appropriate outfit.
She needed this job, damn it. Charlie needed shoes. And other boy stuff. Maybe even the confidence that she could keep a roof over his head and running water. Yeah, that might be a requirement of this parenting thing she spent her days fumbling at.
One thing was for certain: being a single mom was not for the fainthearted. She struggled to make good choices for him and guilted herself constantly. Then sometimes she remembered that she and her brothers were raised on bologna sandwiches and tap water—snatching tube time whenever they could—and they’d lived through it, so she wasn’t that concerned if some days she failed as a modern parent.
If she could just overcome the anxiety that creeped in sometimes, reminding her that she alone had the responsibility of raising a productive, decent human being. That she’d be graded on it when he was eighteen, and not on a curve either.
The clock on the wall showed twenty minutes past her interview time. Her nails tapped against the side of her chair, almost at their own accord as though not controlled by her brain.
The tapping alerted the receptionist, who looked up from the computer. Maggie was surprised that the young woman’s short blue hair and nose ring were allowed by the veterinarian. Her name tag read “Juniper.” I guess a few things have changed since I’ve been at it, she thought. She had to remind herself that this was a new start in a new place, and things were a little different—a little more laid-back.
The girl gave Maggie a sympathetic smile. “He should be out any minute.”
“Okay, no rush,” Maggie said, stopping the tapping.
The phone rang again and Hip Receptionist picked it up.
“Dr. Starr’s office, how can we help?”
She watched Juniper nod, then smile, her ear to the phone.
“I don’t think you’ll need an appointment, but I’ll run it by Dr. Starr. If it makes you feel any better, my toxicology teacher said Cannabis sativa doesn’t cause serious implications if digested by dogs.”
Maggie was impressed by the girl’s response. And her unique style.