Old Orchard

Annabelle

Why is he here, standing in front of me? In front of my family and me, he expresses his sincere apologies. The first and last time I saw him was when I visited my Grandmother in Maine. I wish I could say I made a good impression on him, but I am sure from the massive breakdown he saw me having, that was not the impression I left. We were out of milk at the cottage, and I volunteered to pick some up from the local Market in town. I was rounding the corner with the gallon of milk in my hand, ready to head to the counter, when I received a phone call from my best friend Craig from back home.

"Hey Craig," I said after pushing the answer button and started skimming the magazines at the front of the store. The other side was silent, and I could hear him breathing. "Craig, what's going on?" I asked this time.

"Shooter..." He said. The tone in his voice gave away something was wrong. Shooter was Craig's golden lab and was the closest thing I had ever had to a pet. When Craig's parents were out of town, my parents would let my sister and I babysit him. When we watched him, he always slept in my room. My mother would come into my room the following day, letting me know what she thought of the dog fur left behind. Even when Craig wasn't home or was at practice, I would go over and play catch with Shooter. I was the one who had taught him how to sit and stay and, most important, how to play catch. It was easier to play with him after he learned how to drop the ball at our feet instead of chasing him all over the yard. He wasn't just Craig's dog. He was our dog. "He was. He was hit by a car," Craig finished. I went numb, not knowing what to say and wishing I could be back home to comfort my best friend.

"Craig... I am so sorry," I said, trying to hold back the tears that were forming.

"I wanted to wait till you were back to tell you. But I didn't know who to talk to. Or who would understand." Craig said, sounding apologetic. I knew then that he felt guilty for calling his friend for comfort. I also had a suspicion that his family left Craig, the only child, alone at home to deal with this.

"Craig, I am glad you told me" I meant this even though I knew the rest of the night would go in slow motion with me being torn between leaving Maine and wanting to go home immediately to comfort him. I had no clue how long I had been standing in the middle of the front. I had just gone on a run before coming to get the milk, throwing my hair up in a high bun before I left the cottage. So, I was standing in the middle of the aisle with my hair spewed about, crying, and holding on to a gallon of milk for dear life. This would have been the perfect picture for the front of a card saying, "Sorry you went crazy!" if they made cards for that type of occasion.

"I got this," I heard someone say over my sniffling as the weight of milk was lifted from my hands. The guy who said this takes the milk up to the counter and starts ringing it up. I assumed he had wanted to get the crazy girl out without any problems. Following him up, I started fumbling, trying to pull cash out from my back pocket. He hands the milk back to me before I can find any money, and he says it is on him once again.

"Shooter," I said, grabbing the milk from him as if that was a reasonable explanation for my emotions. The counter guy, whose name tag says Luke looked at me and waited for me to talk again. "I... He was my friend's dog." I said, wiping a few tears away that had slid down my face.

"I am sorry to hear that," Luke said while looking at me without judgment in his eyes. His concerned eyes caused me to cry some more. It was like when you are already crying, and someone hugs you or pats you on the back; instead of helping you, it makes you cry more. It is always the worst when someone comes up to you and tells you that it is okay. Because most of the time, it is not okay. I retreated out of the Market, mumbling thanks on my way, not wanting Luke to see me cry some more that day.

Close to a year later, the guy who purchased my milk for me, Luke, was standing in front of me as I wiped tears away from my eyes again. This time it was over a beloved grandmother's death instead of a pet.

Three days prior, my parents called my twin sister and me into the living room, glancing at Carla; I knew something was incredibly wrong. It was comforting to know I was not alone in worrying. Dad tells us to take a seat while swallowing; he looks to my mom for help. There was an issue if my poise father was at a loss for words. Stepping toward us, mom opens her mouth to speak, and I am in disbelief when her words form in my mind "Your grandmother died." My mind instantly runs wild trying to remember if Grams recently told us of any health concerns. I thought she was in great shape for her age, and she was rarely sick. This made it hard to acknowledge that my Grams died from a heart attack. Being in disbelief, I had not shed a single tear while we packed for the flight; this all changed as we arrived at her cottage, and I had to fight to control the sobs that escaped me.

If Luke remembered that I was the crazy girl from last summer, he did not indicate it. He started shaking my parent's hands and then moved down to Carla. This was the first visitation that I had been to. My other grandparents had died when we were too young to remember anything that came after it.

It was hard to recall everyone's names that were walking through the line. And when I saw Luke walking straight toward us, I could remember his name instantly. As on cue as he got to me and as his concerned eyes make contact with mine, the waterworks start up again. He lingers in front of me a little longer than the rest of my family, and I let out a sniffle and say "thanks" as he passes on by.

The next day at the funeral, my Grandmother's best friend Greta stops and tells us news we were once again not expecting to hear. "I hate to bring this up right now, but your mother had adopted a dog a few months back. They are holding him at the local humane society. You do not have to decide now, but please let me know if you want to take him home or leave him," she says.

I step forward as quickly as I can before my parents can respond to Greta, "we will take him." It was the less we could do instead of abandoning him, and it was astonishing when my parents did not object to this. I am sure they knew they would not have won this battle if they had said something. Plus, this dog would be the last thing I had of my Grandma's.

It was weird now, close to a year later, being back in my Grandma Jane's cottage; without her. I can see the anguish in Carla's eyes, and I wonder if mine shows the same amount of hurt in them. She knows I am not ready, just like she is not prepared to say goodbye. Old Orchard had become our second home during the summer months. A home that had French doors that looked out over the ocean. French doors that I now do not know when I would be able to look out them again. Probably never...

If the waves would quit crashing on the beach one after another, I could concentrate. I could try to pull myself away. I can still hear them perfectly, even though my sister had shut and locked all the windows over an hour ago or a few minutes ago. It is hard to tell. Time always seems to stand still when in Maine. During the emotional storms, my sister is the calm one through to the very end, even though this trip is very different from all of our first-time memories and summer vacation we have had here over the years.

"Annabelle, we have to go," Carla tells me verbally this time, nudging me and bringing me back to the present. I know she is right, but it takes me a few minutes to pull my eyes away from the ocean and retrieve my bag from our summer bedroom that we had shared each summer since we were ten. Carla and I were going to graduate in a few months; as I step out of the bedroom - bag in hand I watch as my sister crumples and throws away my Grandmother's plane ticket that had lain untouched on the kitchen counter. I wanted to object to her doing this, but what was the point. The month before, we lined up the dates with my Grams to stay for four weeks this summer instead of three. My stomach tenses knowing last summer had been our last summer in Maine.

 My Grams left too soon, and we did not get a proper goodbye with her.