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When Dr. Griffiths inserted the IV to administer the pentobarbital, Harry had barely whimpered. Dad had kept his hand on Harry’s back the whole time. It’d been instantaneous. Or at least it’d seemed that way. One second, Harry was peering out at us with sad eyes, and the next he’d fallen asleep. He didn’t cry out, didn’t twitch, didn’t moan.
It was the most peaceful thing I’d ever seen, but also terrifying in its permanence. There was a part of me that’d wanted to scream, “No! I’ve changed my mind!” as soon as Dr. Griffiths gave Harry the shot. But there was no going back. It was done.
Mom sat at the kitchen counter drinking coffee when we came in. She saw our faces, and her eyes welled up. “Oh, no, honey,” she said, putting her arms first around Dad, then around me. “He’s gone?”
Dad motioned toward the backyard. “I’m going to put him by the lilac bush.”
Mom ran her hands up and down his arms. “I’ll help you.”
“No. I need to do this alone. I’ll come get you when I’m ready to bury him.”
Dad grabbed a shovel from the garage to put Harry in the ground, and I waited at the window, looking out at the backyard. Mom stood next to me, and I suddenly realized she was crying.
“It was fast, Mom,” I said, hoping to comfort her.
Her shoulders shook harder, and I pulled her into my arms.
After a few minutes, she pulled away, her mouth still twisted with sadness. She ran the back of her hand over her eyes, pushing away her tears. “Adam’s been calling,” she said, her voice soft and hoarse. “I told him you’d call when you got back from the vet.”
Adam.
My chest tightened. I couldn’t deal with anything more today. The weekend had been overwhelming and scary, and this morning was starting out too painfully to risk taking on more. I decided not to call him yet. Instead, Mom and I stood together by the window to watch Dad dig the hole for Harry in our backyard.
Chapter Seven
‡
Rome, June 6, 1991
Dear Eater,
I’m sitting here in front of the Pantheon again watching people go by. The sun is sitting low in the sky and the light is thin. The shadows aren’t the same here; the angle is different at certain times of the day. It reminds me of how far away I am from you, Knoxville, and the mighty Sunsphere. Just one difference among so many.
Still, I’m not unhappy. Why? Because men in Italy know how to dress! Months of being surrounded by American men in their baggy jeans and dorky shorts made me forget that men in other parts of the world make themselves worth drooling over.
Also, I’d forgotten how much I love to speak Italian. I’m not totally fluent, but I love how the language feels in my mouth. I enjoy haggling with people in the market for every little thing, knowing enough not to be taken advantage of, and I love sitting in the cafes and eavesdropping on other people’s conversations, making up lives for them and writing stories about them in my mind.
I’m sending along a copy of one of those stories. It’s about a market vendor and a prostitute—which, obviously, I see a lot more of in Rome than in Knoxville. That and stray cats. And nuns. Lots and lots of nuns.
Here are a few pictures I’ve taken too. I know they suck, but hopefully you can see what I’m talking about a little better.
I have to go. I told Mom I’d be back by 11.
I love you,
Adam
Adam’s second letterarrived the next day while I was still sick with sadness over Harry and hurt by our last interaction. He’d called twice the night before, but I’d told Mom to tell him I was too upset about Harry to talk. I didn’t have it in me to deal with him.
I sat at the kitchen table in my cut-off uniform pants and a worn-out Wonder Woman T-shirt I’d found at the bottom of my drawer. It was a gift from one of my few friends in middle school. It fit tightly now, but I didn’t care. It felt more “me” than the bland shirts my mom had picked up at the beginning of summer.
I turned Adam’s letter over and over in my hand, trying to reconcile the lighthearted cheer of it with the angry guy who’d hung up on me. He’d written the letter over a week ago. So much had happened in that time, it might as well have been last year.
Mom breezed into the kitchen wearing the same flannel gown she’d had on the other morning. Still working on the prairie romance then. “Whatcha doing?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
I was supposed to go to work soon, but with all that’d happened, I didn’t feel up to it. For the first time since he’d hired me, I was considering calling Robert and bowing out of my responsibilities for the day. I had a feeling he’d be more than okay with it. He was always telling me to take a break.
