The Dog Park Read online

  When I pulled away from Gavin’s hug, I took a step back. And I realized I was standing there between the two of them, almost equidistant to each of them.

  “How did you know?” I said to Gavin.

  “I called every pet hospital in town. The news of Baxter getting hit has been all over the internet.”

  “Really?” I looked to Sebastian.

  His expression registered embarrassment. “I don’t know.” He looked at Gavin then with what looked like scorn. “I don’t watch stuff like that.”

  “Like I said, dude, get over yourself.”

  “‘Dude, get over yourself’?” Sebastian said in a mocking tone. “Really?” His voice was getting louder.

  “Uh, gentlemen,” I heard. The receptionist stood, looking hesitant.

  But Sebastian didn’t break his gaze from Gavin’s. “Dude,” he said, with more scorn. “What are you, some kind of surfer? You want to follow that up with how you can ride a rad wave?”

  “You think you’re some hot shit?” Gavin’s voice grew loud, too.

  “Guys!” My word was a bark, as biting as Baxter’s could be. “Guys,” I said again.

  I looked at Gavin. “Is there a video of Baxter getting hit?” I was horrified.

  “No, but there’s a shot of the SUV driving away.” He shook his head, as if to say, It doesn’t matter. “How is he?” Gavin said, his voice measured, as if falling back in time, away from the skirmish with my ex-husband.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know.”

  25

  A grueling night—Sebastian, Gavin and I all in the silent, sterile waiting room, all night.

  Sebastian shot Gavin eye daggers, once suggesting aloud that Gavin could go home, but Gavin returned to the laid-back guy I knew and didn’t take the bait. He sat near me, but not so close it would be uncomfortable for Sebastian. Every hour or so he ran to a convenience store down the street and bought snacks, drinks.

  He’d also bought some magazines. “To distract us,” he said. Then he sat right next to me, cutting off my view of Sebastian.

  He flipped through a magazine, almost as if he was doing it for me, and I leaned on him, staring down at it, blankly noting a celeb wedding, some celeb’s kid.

  “Is this the magazine you work for?” I said when he opened another one.

  “Yeah.” He made a bitter-sounding laugh. “I can’t believe I actually put money back into it by buying these.”

  He often complained about his job. And I wanted anything right then to really distract me.

  Sebastian had gotten up and was across the room on his cell phone. Who knew who he was talking to?

  “What’s so bad about your job?” I asked, my voice low.

  It didn’t take long for him to answer. “I sell nothing. I mean, I literally sell a blank space. Someone else will come up with the words or images that will go there. Someone else will design how those words and images will look on a screen. I do nothing of substance.”

  “Not everyone creates something. In fact it’s kind of painful sometimes to be one of the people who do.” I told him how my parents fretted over their work.

  “But I always wanted to create,” he said.

  We heard a frustrated sound and both looked at Sebastian, who was looking at his phone. Then he was on it again, talking, moving farther away.

  “He gets to create,” Gavin said, looking at Sebastian. “I can’t stand him, but I keep reading his stuff. He is really talented.”

  And we were back to my ex-husband and his job, which was a better topic than Baxter’s health, but still a bummer.

  Luckily, Dr. Kasha came out then.

  “Nothing yet,” she said. Again.

  A few hours later, another vet, a guy. He essentially summarized everything he’d learned about Baxter’s case, but he had no real info or updates.

  But then finally, a few hours after dawn, the male vet stepped out, the double doors swing-swinging behind him. This time he cut his words short.

  “He’s going to be okay,” the vet announced.

  None of us moved.

  “Baxter is going to be just fine,” he said.

  Sebastian dropped his head in his hands, murmuring, “Thank God. Thank God.”

  I covered my mouth with my hand, not sure I’d heard right, afraid to feel good. Gavin scooted closer and put his arm around my shoulders.

  “The IV fluids addressed his BUN elevation,” the vet said. “And the ortho saw him just now and there is no leg fracture. He was concerned about a pelvic avulsion but he ruled that out. The spot in the eye is reducing. He hasn’t shown any other signs of concussion.”

  “Now what?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Now you can take him home.”

  * * *

  Home. My condo was filled with balloons and flowers and gift baskets and cards.

  “I don’t know who most of these people are,” I said, putting down a Get Well Soon card that read, “Superdog, we love you! Missy, Charlie and Lucky Chapman.”

  Another was on the letterhead of a lawyer from Chicago. She also wished Baxter well, then added, “Our dog, Bob, is a terrier. He usually only likes girl dogs, but my husband and I think he and Baxter would be friends.” Their phone number followed. A photo had been included in the envelope. Bob was a short but very solid dog the color of sand, his snout nearly as big as his chest.

  “I don’t know any of them,” Sebastian said, looking at some of the gifts. He had Baxter in a football hold against his chest. Baxter’s head lay on his blue shirt, sleeping.

  But then I saw one from Betsy, mother of the toddler who Baxter tackled on the video.

  Dear Jessica,

  I hope you are both doing okay. I break into tears every time I think about Baxter being hit! Every night when I put Clara to sleep, I kiss her and we say good-night to God and then to Baxter.

  Love, Betsy.

  The card made me a little weepy, too. I looked at Baxter. He’ll doze a lot, the vet had said when he discharged us. He has mild soft tissue injuries. You’ll want to keep him on the pain meds for a few days, but it will make him drowsy.

  The words soft tissue injuries, which would have slain me if Baxter had suffered them last week after, say, running too hard at the park, were now little uttered gifts. That’s all he has! Soft tissue injuries! I kept hearing the slam of the SUV against Baxy’s tiny body, but then I reminded myself, That’s all he has! Soft tissue injuries!

  But something else the vet said was nagging at me. He’d heard Sebastian and me discussing Baxter. We’d been talking about when we got Baxter, yet it must have been clear we were no longer together.

  “So who does he live with?” the vet had said.

  “We both have him,” I said, my finger pointing to Sebastian, then myself.

  The vet’s brows came closer together. “So he goes back and forth?”

  “Yeah. We have joint custody.” Funny how that joint custody thing had seemed so adorable in the news piece. Now it sounded silly. “We share him,” I said, which only made it worse.

  “How does he handle that?” the vet said, his head nodding toward Baxter.

  “Fine,” Sebastian said with a snap in his voice.

  But I was thinking about when we first got divorced. We’d both been miserable, heartbroken, and we’d both remarked that Baxter seemed to be suffering through his own grief.

  When I’d first noticed his sluggishness during that time, I thought it was me being hyperaware. Or maybe Bax was unhappy without Sebastian. Sometimes I would open a closet door to find he had pulled from far-reaching hangers a sweater (or other garment of Sebastian’s he hadn’t yet moved) and made a bed of it. This from a dog who loved to sleep in the sun on the hardwood floor. We’d never known him to burrow int
o closets, Sebastian’s clothes or no.

  It made me want to cry—finding our sweet pup, a golden mass of curls, his round black eyes looking up at me as if to say, This is all I can find of him.

  The first few times I made the mistake of saying, “Oh, Baxy. He’s here. Sebastian is here.”

  I meant existentially he was still around, that he was still Baxy’s dad, but just the words He’s here sent Baxter bolting from the closet. He ran, frantically, from room to room, searching, yipping. The cries from that dog’s throat felt like blades through me, mirroring my own.

  “Baxy, Baxy,” I said, running after him. “Come! Stay!” But you can’t explain to a dog, I just meant he’s not “here” here. He’s still alive—he’s around.

  I thought about giving Sebastian full custody or at least giving him more time with the dog. I couldn’t be selfish or let the dog be unhappy when he missed Sebastian so much.

  But similar things happened at the corporate apartment Sebastian rented those first few months, one I’d never set foot in, had no claim to.

  “He finds anything that smells like you,” Sebastian said, describing a similar episode of Baxy’s at his place. “Once, he found something of yours in my pocket.”

  “What was it?” What piece of me had Sebastian been carrying around?

  “Makeup. A compact.”

  I felt a tinge of disappointment. I’d thought, for a moment, that Sebastian had been purposely holding on to something, but he was only speaking of the backup, nearly gone powder I sometimes put in Sebastian’s coat when we went out together and I didn’t want to carry a purse.

  “That MAC compact,” Sebastian said. “The gold one.” I would not have thought Sebastian would ever register that kind of information—the brand of makeup I used—or be able to describe it.

  “Did he just want to chew on the case?” I said.

  “No.” Sebastian shook his head. “He hid it. Since then he’s somehow smuggled other stuff of yours from your place and hidden it at mine.”

  “Like what?”

  “One of your blue socks.”

  “The cashmere ones? I lost one of those a long time ago.”

  “I think he stuffed it in the hole in the side of that tennis ball.”

  “Are you serious?” I was smiling now. “That’s so cute.”

  “He misses both of us, Jess,” Sebastian said.

  And the smile slid from my expression. I knew what he meant—he misses us together.

  Eventually, Baxy got better, his spirit returned (although he still stole socks on occasion).

  Still, the vet at the hospital hadn’t been convinced.

  “Have you guys heard about the Blue Star Dog Ranch?” he asked.

  “The Blue Star Dog Ranch?” Sebastian said, not sounding impressed.

  “It’s like a dog ranch and spa.” He caught Sebastian’s expression. “Seriously, it’s nicer than any hotel I’ve ever been to—totally lux—and the dogs can get spa treatments and physical therapy. A lot of people send their dogs there when they’re out of town, but I know of a lot of dogs that went to recover from injuries or illness.”

  “Where is this place?” I asked.

  “Somewhere in Wisconsin. Come with me.” He took us into an office and pulled up Blue Star Dog Ranch on the computer.

  The ranch was legit. Fenced-in fields and riding greens. A handsome row of white-roofed red barns. And a manor at the back of the property—sprawling, exquisitely decorated and exquisitely luxurious. Bear furs hung on the walls of the living room, the beamed ceiling above three stories high. Small pieces of furniture—resembling large, furry bean bags—were arranged around a roaring fire. In another photo the bean bags held dogs—an apricot poodle in one, a French bulldog next to a German shepherd in another.

  “And this place is all for dogs,” Sebastian said. He’d lost his cranky tone and now sounded almost wistful.

  “Check it out,” the vet said. He clicked on the welcome button and we watched a video of a chocolate Lab and his owners being greeted at the ranch. A receptionist gave the owners a beer and the Lab a packet of treats, a bone and a big bowl of water.

  A movement brought me back to my living room. Now Sebastian was brushing the curly hair from Baxter’s eyes and kissing the top of his head. I walked across the room to them. “Do you think he should go to that ranch?” I said.

  “Do you?”

  I thought about it. “No. I don’t think he’d want to be away from us.”

  “Exactly,” Sebastian said, ruffling the fur on Baxter’s head.

  He asked a question about medications. Soon we were talking softly, our heads bent over our sleeping dog. I didn’t realize how close we were until Gavin cleared his throat. I’d almost forgotten he was there.

  I leaned away. “I do think Baxter should be in only one of our places for a while,” I said, raising the level of my voice a little and looking at Gavin as if to consult him, as well. “I think he should stay here.”

  “But I’m going away in a few days,” Sebastian said.

  “I know.”

  He looked at Baxter, his face sad. The dog leaned into Sebastian but could only seem to get so far, having none of his usual spring or sprite.

  “I just think he should rest in one place,” I said, trying to explain more. “He should have to adjust as little as possible.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Sebastian bounced his hip a little, as if gently bouncing an infant. He turned away and returned to appraising the gifts—stuffed animals and gift baskets filled with dog cookies.

  I smiled at Gavin, who frowned, but I couldn’t read him.

  I picked up another card. I’d already read about eight florists’ cards from names I didn’t recognize, some addressed to Superdog, some to Baxter, some to Bax and myself.

  A bouquet of white and yellow asiatic lilies was addressed to Sebastian Hess and Jessica Champlin. “We have joint custody, too!” the card said. “Thinking of you from Texas. Shannon Ritter and Malcom Went.”

  I glanced at Gavin who stood next to me, reading it. He shook his head a little and I could feel a rift between us, one apparently caused by my ex and the fact that we shared the dog.

  I thought about what to say to him to make him feel better. I wanted to make this experience inclusive, if possible.

  “Gav,” I said. I took a perverse pleasure in the way Sebastian turned at the sound of that nickname. “Would you mind helping me keep track of the cards and addresses or emails if we have them? I want to write thank-you notes.”

  It was a bullshit task, and I think Gavin knew it. I think he was also grateful for it.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said, turning around, clapping his hands as if coming out of a huddle.

  I picked up another card that showed a cartoon of two people boxing. When you opened the card, it read, “Never Give Up!”

  There were a few lines written there. I skimmed them, then made myself stop and really read. “We’ve joined the hunt for the driver. We’ll get them, whoever they are!”

  “Hey,” I said, turning, “this card says something about the hunt for the driver.”

  “Yeah,” Gavin said. “Once the video of Baxter being hit went nuts, people kept commenting that they should find the driver and charge him with a hit-and-run.”

  “Really?” I said. “That’s taking it a little far.”

  “Is it?” Gavin said. “He hit a dog and took off. He didn’t even ask if it was okay.”

  “Why do you assume the driver’s a he?” Sebastian said.

  “I can’t imagine a woman being that big of an asshole,” Gavin said. He was looking directly at Sebastian when he spoke.

  “He or she,” I said, “doesn’t matter. The accident was technically our fault. My fault. I shouldn’t have let Bax carry
that ball in his mouth, not when he was so attached to it he’d run out into the busy street to retrieve it.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Sebastian said.

  “I just wish I could tell them to stop looking for the driver.”

  “Why?” Gavin said. “That driver should be caught and criminally charged. That’s what people are saying, and people seem into the mystery of it.”

  “But Bax is going to be fine,” I said. “And everyone has done something wrong before.”

  Sebastian glanced at me and held my gaze for a long moment, then looked away. Now it was his reaction I couldn’t read.

  “If the public thinks that driver should be caught and they can help, then let the public do the work it wants to do,” Gavin said, sounding very sure about his opinion.

  “What if the only thing the public wants is revenge for revenge’s sake?” Sebastian asked Gavin.

  “Who cares?” he answered.

  “Well, I care about people being accused rightfully,” Sebastian said.

  “It doesn’t sound like you care much about your dog.”

  That caused Sebastian to swallow hard, like he did when he wanted to quash an emotion. “It doesn’t sound like you know much about anything.”

  Gavin’s mouth was tense. He pulled out his phone, his thumb scrolling. “I don’t think you could stop this if you wanted to.”

  He took a few steps toward me, holding it out for me to see. “Just watch this, Jess. They’ve got someone analyzing a video of the license plate.”

  “Are you serious?” Sebastian said, moving closer, looking at the phone, then pulling his own from his pocket.

  On Gavin’s phone I saw the car that had hit Baxter. The accident must have been caught by a video camera on some building across the street. It showed the car screeching away, then showed it again and again, each repetition of the video adding to a collection of results at the bottom, seeming to be getting closer to an identification of the license plate.

  “It’s an Illinois license,” Gavin said, glancing from his phone to me, acting as if Sebastian wasn’t there. “Starts with H-7-Y. They got it on an angle, so they haven’t figured out the last part of it.”