‘Baby. Please talk to me. Nothing is more important to me right now. What happened?’

She wrestles with herself to stop crying, her breaths coming in slowing stutters. ‘I knew this was coming. Esther has lived a long, good life. She’s my age. Did you know that? When we adopted her, they knew her birthdate, and it was the same as mine – the same exact day. Dogs don’t live this long. I’ve been so lucky.’

I’m about to snap this phone in two, I’m so frustrated that I can’t comfort her.

This long-distance thing is complete ass.

‘She started limping last week, and Dad took her to the vet. She’s got …’ More sobbing comes from her end and I turn towards the wall, clenching my jaw. ‘She’s got multiple tumours. All over. The last few days, she’s been whimpering when she walks, and she stopped eating yesterday. They’re taking her to the vet tomorrow morning.’ She dissolves again and I curse under my breath.

‘It’s just – the last time I saw her was the last time I’ll ever see her, and I didn’t know it. I didn’t get to say goodbye. Just like …’ More tears.

Just like Deb. Oh, fuck no. No goddamned way.

‘Dori. I need to go. I’m going to call you back in like – ten minutes. Maybe fifteen, okay?’

‘You don’t have to call back – Reid, seriously, thank you for listening –’

‘When I call, you answer. Okay? Swear.’

She takes a deep breath and squeaks out a heartbreaking, ‘Okay.’

I fight the urge to punch the stone wall in front of me. Breaking my hand will solve nothing.

When she answers, she’s more hoarse than before, but not crying. ‘Hello.’

‘Hey, baby. I’ve got some instructions for you. Do you have a pen?’

She sniffles. ‘Uh, instructions? What?’ There’s a paper-shuffling sound. ‘Okay?’

‘Are you in your room?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay, good. Write this number down – it’s important: 1360. That’s your flight number. I want you to start packing. Now. A car will be waiting outside the Starbucks to take you to the airport. That flight leaves in just over an hour, and it’s the last one of the day.’

‘What? But you can’t –’

‘Do not argue with me – you don’t have time. Pack a bag. Get to the Starbucks. Get in the car. The driver will drop you at the right gate. Go inside and head right to the first-class counter to get your boarding pass. Don’t forget to take your licence, by the way. I learned the hard way a couple of years ago that they don’t let you on the plane without ID. When you land, there will be another car – the driver will have your name on a placard – and he’ll take you straight home.’

She starts crying again, and I’m afraid she’s going to fight me, but thank God, she just rasps, ‘Thank you.’

I bite back the I love you on my tongue. I won’t ask for the return of those words from her, certainly not as a reward for this, and that’s what saying it now would be. She’ll say it when she’s ready.

‘Let me know when you’re home. Don’t worry about the time here – I won’t go to sleep until I know you’re there. Call your parents once you’re in the car.’

‘Okay. Thank you, Reid,’ she says again.

‘Go pack. I’ll talk to you in a little while. If you have any problem, call me. My phone is in my front pocket and set to vibrate the crap out of my leg.’

Her gravelly little laugh destroys me. I return the phone to my pocket and take a deep breath. If Dad wasn’t sure how serious I was about Dori before, he sure as hell knows now.

16

DORI

When I was six, Deb and I lost our last grandparent – my father’s opinionated, quick-witted mother, who made the world’s best sugar cookies, loved to sing and fondly recalled her years as a piano teacher. At her funeral, my sister held my hand, and at the end of the day, she put me to bed.

‘I love you, baby sister of mine,’ Deb said, tucking the covers to my chin.

‘How much?’ I asked, Esther settling in next to me, as she did every night.

Leaning over me, her serious fourteen-year-old eyes shining, Deb whispered, ‘As many grains of sand as there are on all the beaches in all the world.’

‘For how long?’ I pressed, and she rolled her eyes.

‘Forever and forever and forever.’ When I smiled, she added, ‘Duh.’

We’d repeated this ritual on occasion over the years, though I’d never doubted my sister’s love. Hearing her say it was a comfort that I sometimes craved.

I’ve had to accept that Deb is forever changed. I’ll never hear her quirky laugh or her sound advice again. I’ll never feel her arms around me. She’ll never tell me she will love me forever. She’s gone but not gone, and my heart is in limbo, unable to say goodbye.

Because of Reid, I got to say goodbye to Esther. Last night, she slept next to me one last time, nestled against my chest, her intermittent whines, so soft as to be apologetic, breaking my heart. We drove to the vet’s office this morning, and I sat in the back seat, stroking her head where it rested on my leg. Telling her in whispers how much I loved her, and what a good friend she’d been. Her big, dark eyes looked up at me, and I knew she was telling me goodbye too.

On the way home, I held her worn red collar tight in my hands, tears streaming down my face. I read the inscriptions on her tags – her licence info, our matching birthdate, her please-return-to number and address, and her name: Esther Cantrell.

It may seem odd to think of a dog as having a last name, because they don’t need it for school or a job, but it was right. Esther and I shared a surname because she was family, tip to tail.

Kayla: Dori, have you seen the photos in the link I just sent you? Maybe nothing is going on, but I never liked that Brooke Cameron. She’s probably as bitchy and stupid as her life’s a beach character.

Me: I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m actually home. We put Esther to sleep this morning. I’m going back to Cal tomorrow.

Kayla: Oh no! I loved Esther. I’m so sorry. Can me and Aimee come over to cheer you up?

Me: I don’t think that’s possible, but thank you. I’m going to visit Deb tonight. I’ll see you guys next time, I promise.

Kayla: Okay. {{hug}} We’ll keep an eye on that Brooke bitch for you.

The link Kayla sent goes to a gossip website. At the top are two photos – clearly cell-phone taken – of Reid. And Brooke Cameron. Together. In one, they’re sitting together at the gate, talking and waiting for a flight. In the other, they’re sitting together on that flight.

I spoke to him earlier today, and he’d not mentioned her. Perhaps he’s waiting for me to bring it up. Or hoping I won’t. He didn’t tell me they were going to New York together, but they clearly did. There are separate photos of each of them there too – attending the opening nights of their new films last night, both alone. No dates, no plus-ones. The media, of course, speculates wildly over what that means, and the post includes a photo of the two of them from years ago, holding hands, happy. They look the age I was when I fell in love with Colin.

I don’t want to ask him about her. This day has drained me emotionally, and I’m incapable of thinking rationally.

There’s also my gratitude for the fact that thanks to Reid, I’m at my kitchen table, making a gravestone out of a clay tile and ceramic buttons to place on Esther’s spot in the back-yard garden. Two hours ago, Dad and I lowered her carefully into the deep hole he’d dug at dawn, before we left. We positioned Esther’s body as Mom stood by, holding a rawhide bone and her favourite toy – a squeaky banana – to be buried with her.

Esther loved chasing and rough-housing. She was one of those dogs who discouraged any fragile things placed on low tables for fear of her long, constantly wagging tail accidentally sweeping them to the ground. But wrapped in a beach towel of mine which she’d absconded with so many times – dragging it to her dog bed like a security blanket – that I finally gave it to her, she’d seemed so small.

‘Would you like tea?’ Mom asks now, her voice as gruff as mine. Our grief over Esther has revived every anguished memory of Deb’s accident. The three of us are wrestling with the tacit loss of my sister all over again, though no one says so.

‘Yes, please. Chai?’

Mom nods and moves to the sink with the tea kettle. She stares out of the back window, gazing at that new mound of earth within the flower bed, where my identifying tile will go. In a month or so, the dirt will have compressed back into place and the weather will be warmer, and Dad will plant new flowers there.

Deb used to tell me hilarious stories of Esther as a puppy – how she regularly dug up part of Dad’s flower garden to bury her treats and toys. She’d then deposit newly uprooted flowers on the back step, like a confession, or a gift – infuriating our usually unflappable father.

‘How’s … Reid?’ Mom asks, and her question takes me by surprise.

‘He’s good, I think. He came up for a visit last week.’ Keeping my eyes on the tile I’m working on doesn’t prevent my ears from growing hot, because I’m hoping she doesn’t ask where he stayed the night.

She’s quiet for a few minutes, making the tea. When she sets a mug in front of me, she says, ‘It was a nice thing he did, flying you home last night. Are you … planning on seeing him, while you’re here?’

I note the slight judgement in her tone and answer defensively. ‘He’s in New York, actually. He won’t be home in LA until tomorrow, after I’ve gone back to Berkeley.’

‘Oh,’ she says, considering. She offers nothing more, padding from the room to take Dad his tea. He’s in his study, working on tomorrow’s sermon. I can’t imagine trying to stand up in front of a congregation tomorrow and be encouraging or instructive – but then, he had to continue doing his job after Deb’s accident. In the face of it, even.

No matter what grief or loss takes place, most of life flows on all around us, as though nothing’s changed. At some point in our sorrow, we each make a choice to sink or swim. There’s no other alternative.

REID

The paternity test results are in. No surprise – I’m River’s father. I anticipated this answer, of course. What I didn’t expect was the irrational dread that tore through me, in the seconds before Dad gave me the 99% confirmed answer: I was afraid he was going to say he wasn’t mine.

‘He’s definitely yours.’ Dad’s dismal tone makes it clear that this wasn’t the outcome he was wishing for. I can’t fault him. This can’t be how he envisioned becoming a grandfather (assuming he’d ever envisioned that), though legally he’s sort of not one yet.

I expected this answer to amplify my frustration with the whole thing, foreseen or not. After all, the possibility that I’ll have to tell Dori just became a probability. Legal concerns – something I thought I’d moved past two months ago when I got my licence back – are about to complicate the hell out of my life. And most bizarre of all – I have a sudden, unwelcome sense of obligation towards Brooke.