Cherished (15 page)

Any type of truck made Hallie crazy, and she raised hell whenever one drove by. One cloudy afternoon, she took on the UPS truck. As Spencer, our favorite UPS driver, rounded the corner, Hallie jumped our front picket fence and raced toward the truck. Luckily, Spencer stopped in time, albeit barely. I could smell the burnt tires from him stomping on the brakes to avoid hitting her. She sat inches from the grille, looking over at me with a satisfied look on her face. We built a higher fence.

Hallie loved to be higher than anyone else. She ran our canyon hiking trails nimbly and fast, dashing to the top of rolling hills and then kicking up the light brown dirt on her way back down, beige powder forming a cloud around her delicate legs.

Wills was about four years old when we were hiking at Tree People Park. He'd gone several steps ahead of me and Hallie was right beside him. Suddenly, Hallie began to bark. Wills ran back and said, “A spider is walking.”

“What color?” I asked him.

“Brown. Hallie is mad at it,” he replied, pointing down the path.

Hallie was standing stock-still, her nose to the ground. I
pictured a small brown wolf spider or something equally benign, but when I got to where she was, her nose was resting on top of a tarantula. She wasn't moving, and neither was the spider. She was waiting for Wills and me to go by. We did, quickly, and then I called her. She did a little hop step back and came running. The spider scrambled down a hole and a small chipmunk came running out as if he'd been shot out of a cannon.

“Boy, that was close,” I said, my mouth dry from fear.

“A tarantula will bite, Mommy, but it's not serious,” Wills said, running slightly ahead. I caught up with him.

“Really?” I asked. “I thought they were poisonous.”

“I don't want to get bitten,” he said, “by anything.”

“Me, neither,” I agreed.

“So it's good that Hallie did that,” he said. “Tarantulas go bald on their thorax when they get old.” He picked up a stick for Hallie. Wills's autism contributed to his almost photographic memory. We had read about tarantulas two years earlier, and yet he knew every fact we'd uncovered.

“It
is
good that she did that,” I told him. “Imagine how big that spider must have looked to her.”

Maybe the spider hadn't intimidated her, because Hallie had seen it all in her eight years. The menagerie of animals that had come through our house since Wills turned three included hamsters, hermit crabs, dumpy frogs, land turtles, rabbits, and, of course, the retrievers. Hallie watched them come and go with stoic bemusement, curious, but not really bothered by any of it.

She shielded us, that was her job — especially when it came to Wills. There was deep love between them, but it was as if Hallie were a protective aunt, standoffish but fiercely protective. And in January, two weeks after our New Year's Eve party, Wills returned the favor.

W
ILLS WAS TWELVE YEARS OLD
when, on a sunny Saturday afternoon, he, Buddy, Leo Henry, and Hallie were walking toward the shallow end of our pool. I was on the patio, closer to the house but watching them go. As they started around the deep end, Leo Henry saw a tennis ball floating in the water and dove for it. When he plunged into the water, he accidentally knocked Hallie into the pool. Hallie had always been an excellent swimmer, but hadn't been in water for over six years. She sank like a stone. Her back legs were not agile enough to push her to the top and her front paws were equally unreliable.

I ran toward the pool, but I didn't need to. Wills, my boy who was anything but spontaneous, who usually refused to swim unless he was wearing goggles that covered his nose
and
eyes, and who was fastidious about not getting his clothes wet, instantaneously leaped into the water wearing sweatpants, a hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of fleece-lined Ugg boots. He even had on his beloved Mets cap, a gift given to him by his late grandfather and something that he cherished. By the time they'd made it to the side of the pool, Hallie's head was above water and Wills was underneath, holding her up and paddling his feet. He swam them both to the shallow end.

Wills's Mets cap was now lying at the bottom of the deep end. I hurried to meet them at the steps.

“Wills, oh my gosh, I can't believe Leo knocked her in,” I said, “and she went right under.”

“She can't swim,” he sputtered, water coming out of his nose and mouth.

“You saved her life,” I told him, lifting first Hallie and then Wills out of the pool. “You saved Hallie's life.” I wiped his face with the bottom of my T-shirt and cradled a wet and shaky Hallie in my arms.

“It's lucky I was here,” he said, suddenly smiling.

“Yes, it was,” I said, slipping one of my arms around his waist.

“I weigh about fifty pounds more than when I was dry,” he said, standing up. As he headed toward the house, his Uggs squished pools of water onto the tiles.

“Hallie was always a great swimmer, but now we know she can't hold herself up,” I said, my voice almost a whisper as I imagined both of them at the bottom of the pool struggling. After all, Wills loved to be in the pool, but he wasn't the best swimmer. But that's not what happened — at all. “Let's get you inside,” I said, lifting Hallie. Meanwhile, Leo Henry and Buddy began their nightly doggy laps in the pool.

After wrapping Hallie in a beach towel, I put Wills right into a hot shower, his pajamas lying on the bathroom counter. Hallie was so thin with her wavy hair stuck to her body, I happily held her on my lap and waited for Wills.

That night, I asked Wills if I could call some of our friends and tell them that he was a hero. “Yes,” he said, “I think that you should.” He smiled and leaned against me on the couch listening as I told the story over and over again.

I
T'S NOW
J
ULY
and we've been in this strange time with Hallie for a while now, where we know there might not be much time left, have been told as much. She's begun peeing and pooping on the carpet again and seems disoriented, even with the medication we've been giving her. Still, she has her good days.

The family room carpet needs to be replaced. Between Hallie's bathroom problems and Leo Henry's difficulty potty training, it's like living inside a litter box. But we're reluctant to go to the carpet store. So I have to ask myself, “What are we waiting for?” — even though I know the answer. No one wants to say it, but we're waiting for the unthinkable. We're waiting for Hallie to go.

“Wouldn't it be a shame to get new carpet only to have her pee on it?” my friend Emily asked. Yes, it would. But that ruined carpet reminds me every day that I'm literally waiting for Hallie to die. I can't do that to her or myself. Hallie's getting on with living, and so will we. Michael and I ordered new carpet — and long plastic runners to cover it.

We're going to quit saying good-bye before she's even gone.

T
HIS MORNING,
W
ills's
very last hamster, Teddy, died. He was four years old — our longest-living hamster (and we've had at least twelve of them through the years). I found him on his side, his head resting on the bottom of his red wire wheel and his front paws relaxed and casual against his tiny chest. Teddy's eyes weren't open but his mouth was, revealing he was so old that he'd lost one of his elongated front teeth.

I picked him up in a blue washcloth — his body still soft. Hallie was standing beside me, so I knelt down and let her sniff him. She gave him a good once over and then looked at me as if to say, “Damn, your animals have lousy constitutions.”

“You'll outlive us all,” I told her, kissing the top of her head. She followed me to the bedroom, where I picked out the perfect shoebox. It had to be plain, because Wills decorated all shoeboxes used for burying pets with plastic jewels, colored leaves, and special writings about what made that animal unique.

I laid Teddy in the box, wrapping the washcloth loosely around him so just his tiny face was showing. I placed the shoebox on the fireplace mantle to wait for Wills.

Sitting on the hearth, I took Hallie's face in my hands.

Buddy and Leo were hiking with Michael and Wills, so it was just Hallie and me. Her back legs were sticking out to the sides in an awkward slant. I couldn't help but wish she'd give up on those back legs for a little while and just sit or lie down. Standing looked so painful. But Hallie never gave up.

I looked into her eyes, but it didn't seem as if my image was getting past the cataracts. Still, she held her snout up for me to kiss. She'd lived with us at our first apartment in West Hollywood, at our house on Beverly Glen Boulevard, at the crazy house on Camarillo Street, and now here, in the home we finally owned.

I don't know where the years went; I don't know how long it's been since she was capable of jumping up onto our bed with one gentle leap, or how long since she could hear well enough to howl at a fire truck whizzing by us. Too long. Still, she's here, and that's what matters. She might be wobbly, but she's not in pain. The brain tumor is benign, but getting bigger. We have no idea what direction that will
take in the next few months.

My heart's been broken with many losses through the years, but there have been enormous blessings, too. Wills was born; my career has evolved; my son has grown into an adorable, smart, funny adolescent; my roots turned gray along with Hallie's; I survived a heart attack. Old friends came and went and then came back again. My marriage broke apart for more than a year, and I cried until my chest nearly collapsed. I painted the house and bought a new grill. My husband came back.

Hallie, this girl who's always preferred to stay in the background, choosing when she wants kisses or hugs, has been the one constant through the years, completely devoted but asking for nothing in return.

I carefully load her into the car, plastic underneath her blanket just in case she has to pee. I lift her up, mindful not to hurt her fragile bones and joints as I place her on the passenger seat. She can no longer sit on my lap and hang her head out the window. It's too exhausting for her to hold herself up.

Tonight we'll bury the hamster, but this afternoon Hallie and I are going for a ride.

S
chool assembly. Rows of hot, cheese-smelling socks lined up on the polished floor. No black-soled shoes were allowed to scuff up the ancient wood in the auditorium, according to our principal, Mr. Coldry. Outside, hundreds of pairs waited in neat rows to be claimed after we had been dismissed. Just thinking about the task of finding my shoes, the ones with one lace shorter than the other, made my hands clammy.

Inside, mouths moved, voices were raised in song. Backs were straight and eyes lifted to the teachers on the podium. Lips were parted in perfect O's. Everyone's but mine — they were clamped shut. My tongue trapped behind rigid teeth as the others sang, “Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so.” Voices blending one into the other, louder now, eyes bright with joy. Jesus, yes, Jesus was their savior. Everyone's
but mine. I was small and dark haired, a replica of my grandmother, Leah, so I had been told, although I had never met her. She had died giving birth to my mother, Ruth.

Leah was my Hebrew name, my heritage. I was a descendant of our tribe from a shtetl in eastern Europe, whose offspring had fled the pogroms and found their way as immigrants to Johannesburg, South Africa. I was a Jew. I could not sing the praises of Jesus, so I kept my mouth shut tight and hoped that no one would notice, while Abraham, Isaac, and Moses watched me from above. “Yes, Jesus loves me, the Bible tells me so!” Hundreds of voices sang the final chorus. And I was alone in my silence.

As we filed out of the pristine auditorium, I was relieved that I had managed to keep my singing secret safe for one more school assembly. I was eight years old, and there were hundreds more weekly school assemblies to come, but I tried not to think about them. As I put on my shoes and tied the one with the shorter lace into a less-than-perfect bow, I wondered why my parents hadn't sent me and my sisters to King David, where all my cousins went. But my mother and father were not the sort to send their kids to such a school. My parents were Jews of the delicatessen kind, heavy on noodle kugel and gefilte fish, but light on the Talmud and Torah. My father's beliefs centered on things that were grounded in the earth. He was pious about politics and religious about smoking two packs of cigarettes a day, Rothman's filtered, which he couldn't be without. My mother mentioned God only when she was in front of her vanity table. “Oh God, I've glued these false eyelashes on backward!” She mentioned
Jesus, too, mostly on the tennis court. “Jesus Christ, I can't believe I missed that shot!”

There was only one sign in our home that we were of the Hebrew tribe — those who had wandered in the desert for forty years — and it was a mezuzah placed on the door post to the entrance of our home. A little rectangular box, it contained the first verses of the Torah on parchment in Hebrew, I was told by my cousin Merlyn, who went to King David. They learned that kind of stuff at her school, she had told me proudly. I was always eager to hurry my best friend, Mary Waite, with the wispy blonde hair and blue eyes, through the front door when she came over to play, for fear she would notice the ancient scroll on the doorpost.