As the vet pushed the needle into his vein, I held my face against Crocket’s ear, whispering over and over again.

“Tell him I love him when you see him.”

I felt a shudder and then nothing.

When I opened my eyes again, he had slipped away, the last thing anchored to Jacob.

* * *

When we got back to the house, the sun had started to fall behind the little red bungalow.  Oranges and reds painted across the milky blues and whites of the ocean. In the fading August light, the imperfections scattered across the house were cast in shadow. The old red paint glowed bright against the pinks coloring the sky. We stood awkwardly in the front lawn, the four of us unsure of what to do now. Dad was leaning against the apple tree, looking up at the house that he’d once called home, glancing every now and then at Mom. I was still holding Crocket’s collar in my hand, rubbing my thumb across the engraved plate on the back of it, his named etched forever in thin cursive.

Tommy pulled out his cigarettes again and was counting them. Mom started walking towards the porch, her flip-flops clapping on the cement. Her shoulders were hunched, and she hadn’t spoken since she’d offered to cook everyone dinner. No one had responded in the car. We were all looking out different windows, unable to share our grief together, unable to think of anything to say, unable to let each other in after so many years of building walls.

“Dad, why don’t you stay for dinner?”

Dad smiled.

“I would love to as long as we’re having chicken pot pie.”

We all smiled. It was Jacob’s favorite.

“Sure,” Mom held out her hand to Dad. “Come help me get it going.”

Tommy and I watched our parents walk into the house, Dad’s hand on her shoulder as he opened the door for her. Tommy pulled me into a hug.

“I’m sorry, Rory.”

I looked up at him.

“I know.”

“I don’t know why I can’t just let things go.”

“I know you don’t mean it.”

“Jacob loved you. You know he didn’t really think you were a bitch. He was just mad. You were the best big sister. We both were so lucky. Are so lucky.”

I closed my eyes. Tears welled in my eyelids.

“I just miss him.”

“Me too, every day.”

“Do you think it will ever stop hurting?”

He shook his head.

“No, but I don’t think it’s supposed to.”

I looked up at the house. For the first time in years, I felt the warm, homey feeling that I hadn’t felt since before the accident.

“Let’s get inside before Dad gets too drunk. He might have a breakdown now that Mom’s finally got a boyfriend.”

I laughed and rolled my eyes.

“It’s his bed.”

We walked up the porch steps together. The creaking old wood sagged beneath us. I could hear Dad pouring ice into glasses in the kitchen and Mom grabbing mixing bowls from the bottom drawers. They’d turned the radio on, and Van Morrison’s voice billowed through the open windows into the sticky late summer wind.  Tommy walked through the open door, and I stood for a moment alone on the porch. Once upon a time, they would have been dancing in there, barefoot. Dad would have been a little drunk with his lips pressed lovingly on Mom’s forehead. There was no dancing tonight, but at least there was music.

The sun was sinking fast, and I could hear the cracking of a beer can opening and chips being dumped into a salad bowl. It was 1999 again, all of us under the same roof, moving around in circles throughout the kitchen. Jacob was there, young and beautiful, his dimpled smile and laughter vibrating through our hearts.

“What a wonderful dog funeral this has turned out to be,” someone said.

We laughed, filling the old bungalow with songs that hadn’t been sung in years.

 

Alix Bullock’s work has appeared in Gravel Journal. She earned her MFA in fiction from the University of New Hampshire and was the fiction editor for Barnstorm Literary Journal. Alix lives on the North Shore of Boston with her dog Kona and boyfriend Andrew.