“Oh, the dog died,” says the vet, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “You’re golden. I’m Dr. Clark, by the way. Or just . . . Michelle, if you want.”
For a beat, no one says anything. Walt’s voice comes quietly, surprising us all. “Your dog died?”
Somehow, the kid is able defuse even the strangest of situations with nothing but blind innocence.
“Michelle,” Beck cuts in, “this is Walt. We think he has food poisoning, or something, and the . . . people clinic is closed for Labor Day weekend.”
Walt, still slightly hunched in his chair, seems frozen in this girl’s presence. “You’re really, really pretty,” he says. He points to her shoes. “Shiny shoes.” He points to her face. “Shiny teeth.” He lowers his hand, nods. “I like your shininess.”
Dr. Clark tilts her head, smiles, and—curses, even her smile is solid. Kneeling down on one knee, she puts an arm on Walt’s shoulder. “That’s so sweet of you, honey. I’m sorry to hear you’re not feeling well. What hurts?”
Walt touches his head. “I’m not all wrong anymore, but my head is. My head hurts.”
Dr. Clark looks up at Beck, as if I’m not sitting right next to her. “Vomit or diarrhea or both?” she asks.
“Umm, neither,” he answers.
“Really?” She takes his pulse, then stands and helps Walt out of his seat. “Come on, honey. We’ll be right back, guys. Make yourselves at home.”
“You smell shiny, too,” says Walt, disappearing with Dr. Clark into the back.
Beck falls into the chair next to me, leans his head back, and closes his eyes. “I’m exhausted.”
“Sleeping in trucks will do that.”
“Mim, I don’t know what I said to upset you, but I’m sorry.”
Just hearing him say it out loud makes me cringe. He’s only looking out for us, which is nothing to apologize for. I think about his words at the restaurant, about how I’m trying to figure out home. And he’s right, I am. But it’s not just that. All my life, I’ve been searching for my people, and all my life, I’ve come up empty. At some point, and I don’t know when, I accepted isolation. I curled into a ball and settled for a life of observations and theories, which really isn’t a life at all. But if moments of connection with another human being are so patently rare, how is it I’ve connected so quickly, so deeply with Beck and Walt? How is it possible I’ve forged deeper relationships with them in two or three days than I ever did with anyone else in sixteen years prior? You spend your life roaming the hillsides, scouring the four corners of the earth, searching desperately for just one person to fucking get you. And I’m thinking, if you can find that, you’ve found home. Beck’s words at the restaurant cut deep because . . . “I don’t know how to say good-bye to you.”
He opens his eyes, his head still resting on the back of the chair. “I know.”
It’s quiet for a moment while I try to shape these impossible words. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be, like, a solid good-bye, you know?”
“As opposed to a liquid one?”
“Yes, actually. I much prefer liquid good-byes to solid ones.”
Beck smiles, yawns, stretches. “So—I think my best course of action here is to just, you know, let the ridiculousness of that sentence marinate.”
God, I could eat him. “Ditto,” I say.
Closing his eyes again, Beck repositions his head on the back of his seat, and in one sure movement, reaches over and grabs my hand. Even with his eyes closed, he knew where to find me. I want to cry for a thousand reasons, laugh for a thousand others; this is my anomalous balance, the place where Beck and I can let the ridiculousness of our collective sentences marinate, and other things, too. It’s a singular moment of clarity between two people, and rare or not, I’m not about to let go.
I’m done roaming hillsides.
I’ve scoured the corners of the earth.
And I’ve found my people.
God, I’m almost jealous of myself.
Holding Beck’s hand in my lap, I find a courage I never knew I had and drop my head on his shoulder.
“HEY, HEY!”
I wake in a daze. Walt is standing over us, and while he doesn’t look completely like himself, there’s a little more color in his face. Beck lets go of my hand, sits up straight, and rubs his eyes.
“How long have we been out?” he asks.
“About ten minutes,” says Dr. Clark. She’s sitting behind the front desk, typing at the computer, and I may be mistaken, but she sounds a little less Michelle and a little more Dr. Clark. “I hated waking you up at all, you both looked so . . . cozy.”
What I’m thinking: Victory! Your giant bow, perfect hair, tiny skirt, and expensive-ass shoes are no match for the wiles, the skillz of Mim Malone, Mistress of Moxie, War-Crazed Cherokee Chieftess, Conqueror of Voodoo Vets the world over!
What I say: “So what’s the verdict, doc? We need to remove Walt’s spleen?”
Dr. Clark, completely ignoring my (hilarious) joke, pulls a piece of paper from the printer and rounds the desk. She hands the paper and a box of pills to Beck.
“What’s this?”
“Aspirin,” she says. “May I ask—you didn’t happen to eat at Ming’s Buffet, did you?”
It’s quiet for a second—this time, I’m the one who breaks the silence. “I fucking told you.”