Maximus

I woke up to the scent of fresh gingerbread cookies. As I opened my eyes I remembered the sadness that had consumed me recently and it settled back into my personal space after the relief of no-conscious-thought-slumber. I thought I might have even woken up FROM the cookie smell - the intensity called me from my dream world. I blinked a few times, sending sparks of hope out into the world, believing that, somehow, today would be a better day. I rolled over and looked at the time on my cell phone. 8:23. I sighed. “Too early,” I thought. I put my phone down quickly before the aching pang of social media curiosity drew me in. I lay in bed looking at the ceiling. “Knock knock...” It was the gingerbread fragrance calling me to the kitchen. I sat up slowly and proceeded to the on-suite bathroom in the guest bedroom I was occupying. I played some soothing Michael Buble’ while I showered and finally settled on wearing a black Christmas jumper with a bright white snowman in the center, black jeans and white sneakers. I walked slowly down the stairs towards the kitchen area. My mom was leaning over the stove, preparing all kinds of wonderful Christmas treats, my dad was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. A sight for sore eyes. That he still appreciated the art of ink and paper, extravagant advertising and local information made him a priceless antique in my eyes. He sipped on his hot coffee. My sister, 2 years younger than me, was also sitting at the table. There were laid out newspapers and 3 small jars of paint. She was focusing intently as she put color to a small clay figurine of a fairy. She dipped her paintbrush in a glass of water.

“Morning sleepy head.” She said looking up. She wiped some paint off her hands on her painting apron that was so randomly colored that it was starting to form some kind of order. My mom turned around and my dad looked up.

“Morning fam.” I said moving towards the kettle.

“How did you sleep?” Mom asked hopefully.

“Good thank you. I actually think I woke up from those cookies you’re baking...” I walked over to the oven to have a peak at the glory that was coming to fruition on the inside.

“Mmmm,” she was pleased with herself. “They’ll be ready in about 5 minutes.”

I sat down with a ‘humpf’ more loudly than I realized. I didn’t intent to, but it prodded my dad to ask me how I was feeling. I asked politely to allude the topic when I first came to stay with my parents but, God bless them, they couldn’t quite help themselves.

“I’m better dad. Thank you.”

I made myself a coffee and sat down next to my sister. I watched her as she painted microscopically.

“You know, I read somewhere that the suicide rate has increased by 25% in the last year.” She said as she looked up at me.

“Uhh...” I didn’t quite know how to answer.

“God has a plan for us all.” Was my mom’s (quite predictable) response.

My dad simply continued to read. A wave of anger surged through my body. Enough time had passed where people were beginning to feel less awkward about using the words “suicide” or “death” or “condolences” around me and yet I still felt a rage wash over me. My mom put a large, decorative plate on the kitchen table with an abundance of gingerbread cookies.

“Enjoy,” she said behind a sincere smile.

We all dug in, almost hitting each other’s hands out the way. They were delicious. Crumbs were falling out of my mouth as I chewed the scrumptious treat. I looked at the enormous Christmas Tree in the corner. Although I moaned while putting it up with my family a few days earlier, seeing it now, large and jolly, lighting up the living room, made me feel warm inside. A feeling only Christmas could bring. After my roommate took her own life, I believed nothing again would bring me joy. A dramatic thought, I understand. But a dread that, nevertheless, consumed my heart. I became a ghost of myself quickly and my rapid decline was too concerning for my family. I remember the deciding phone call vividly.

“You have to get out of that apartment.” My mom said sounding deeply concerned.

“I’m fine ma.” I weakly reassured her.

“You are so far away Iris. Look, dad and I have been thinking... it’s the holiday season coming up. Why don’t you fly down here for Christmas? Your sister will be here too. Her boyfriend is working right through December and she wanted to come spend some time with us. What do you say? It’ll just be the four of us again. Like old times.”

It did sound nice to be around family. But I had no strength to wake up in the morning, let alone plan a holiday. I was quiet for a while. So was she. Finally I surrendered, knowing, maybe, it would be good for me.

“Okay, yeah. That sounds good mom. I’ll book a flight and see you next week.”

***

Their couch was unbelievably comfortable. Nothing like the couch I had back home in our...my...apartment. I remembered when Tasha and I first bought the couch. We were vivacious students, excited at the prospect of life before us. It was the same day Tash told me about her long lost love, Maximus. A dashing young fellow with dark hair and hazel eyes who, according to her, kissed her at a roof party under the stars. They shared a Shakespearean tragedy as they danced the night away and indulged in fairytale kisses. She then received an alarming text from her older brother’s girlfriend saying he was passed out drunk after a brawl at a bar. She left suddenly before she could get his number and never saw him again. I remember feeling a deep sorrow for her, for the pain of lost or forgotten love is like no other, this - I knew. We laughed off her tragic love tale as we squeezed our way-too-big-for-our-apartment, kind-of-uncomfortable couch in our living space and watched a Harry Potter marathon, christening our new couch with popcorn and chocolate crumbs. My parents’ couch was large and white. I melted into the seats while we all gathered in the living area.

“So, Iris, your mother and I have been thinking...” My dad began.

“Since you girls have moved out and it’s just the two of us in this big house, we’ve been considering adopting a puppy.”

Immediately my heart fluttered, reminding me it was beating in my chest, and in fact with me all along. I smiled.

“That’s so exciting!”

My sister, who was sitting cross legged by the fireplace with their white and brown cat Nutella, on her lap, clapped her hands.

“Yay! What kind of breed are you looking for?”

“We believe a small dog would suit our lifestyle.” My mom said.

“Jack Russell?” I asked.

“Jack Russell.” My dad said with a smile.

“We were thinking of going today to adopt him. Would you ladies like to join us?”

My sister and I jumped up quickly. Nutella jumped off her lap as if only a minor inconvenience for her settling again on the warm carpet.

“I’m ready. Are you ready?” I said looking at her.

“Let’s go.” She said.

***

The excitement we felt in the car disappeared on arrival. For the ride, we giggled like the young children we once were, imagining the cuteness that lay before us. And just for that moment, I had forgotten that I had given up on joy. As we stepped out, my stomach dropped and a looming feeling of dread came over me. The SPCA, while glistening with a shimmer of hope, is tainted with a feeling of loneliness and abandonment. The building seemed large and empty. My sister and I glanced at each other. Inside, the sounds of the dogs yelping, barking, calling and crying made my stomach turn. I had always been extra sensitive to the injustices of the world, some too overwhelming to face. My dad had spoken to a volunteer who lead us to a section on the far right. In the corner, in a cold cage, were 5 Jack Russel puppies, around 3 months old. I made eye contact with one as I turned the corner. The browns on their whites varied in color. We all walked up the the cage. My sister and I bent down. The same puppy I had seen (and, who had undeniably seen me) came to the openings. He licked my hand and began gnawing on my fingers. Tears welled up instantly. There happens to be something within us that moves us to cry when something is just so damn cute! With tears in my eyes, I looked at my family and said, “It’s him.” Now, anyone who has ever adopted a pet knows the horror of having to choose. The horrendous decision. Who do we leave behind? What happens to the others? How can I walk away without helping them all?

“I want all of them.” My sister said standing up.

“You guys have a massive garden! Just get them all.”

My parents looked at each other.

My dad, ignoring my sister, asked the kind man, “What happened to them?”

“They were found near a trash can in an alleyway last week. The mom was nowhere to be seen. We assume she passed away and the owners refused to look after her puppies and threw them away.”

My sister put her hand over her mouth and shook her head.

I kept quiet and looked at the same puppy, who was sitting upright staring at me.

“We can’t take on the responsibility of looking after them all...” My dad said as he put his hand on my sister’s shoulder. “But, we can take one. Iris, you choose.”

“Him.” I pointed to the puppy. He jumped onto all fours and his tail began wagging so enthusiastically that he was bouncing himself off the ground.

***

The next morning, Christmas Day, proved to be a day I would never forget. We had all woken up with an excitement within us comparable only to a young child riding a unicorn on rainbow clouds listening to nursery rhymes and eating candy. We ran down the stairs in our pajamas and greeted and wished each other good health and long life, encompassed by the blessings of Christmas while we gathered in the kitchen for our morning catch ups. Mom had been up with him most morning. Our puppy was in his new basket, sleeping away his carefree thoughts. My sister and I ran to the basket together, bending over him, oo-ing and aww-ing at the gorgeousness that was in front of us. My dad, in a deep red robe and fluffy red slippers reminded me of Santa. I hugged him while he made our morning espressos. My mom had a white robe on and was sipping on some cinnamon tea. My sister’s dark green, fluffy pajamas said “The Grinch has nothing on me” and she was already under the tree waiting for our gift giving adventure to begin. My pajamas were grey and in white writing it said, “Tis the season”. We made our way to the living room near the tree. My mom and dad sat on the couch and I sat near my sister, where I had a clear view from the massive glass window out into their dazzling garden. It had been snowing and the white frosting, fairy lights and smell of cinnamon made me remember, for the first time in a while, that joy was a tangible experience. The puppy, now awake, full and joining our escapade. Present wrappings flew in the air as we all gasped and hugged at our cherished gifts. The puppy who had been bouncing around with erratic energy was now chewing on my pajama trouser. I looked around the room at my family. They were all hunched over on the couch, looking at a photo album that was gifted to the family from distant friends of “the good old days”. They smiled with tears as they flipped the pages. All of a sudden something caught my attention from the outside. Something bright came from the garden. I stood up and walked closer to the window. The puppy followed me. In the garden, standing in a winter wonderland, a bright light flickered in mid air. I rubbed my eyes, closing and opening them again. It was brighter. At that moment, a sudden rush of emotion swept over me. I saw a vision of Tasha, young Tasha, in a beautiful blue ball-gown dress dancing on a rooftop with a charming young gentleman. I could hear the music. They danced in unison, looking at each other with insatiable eyes. Then, she touched his face and walked away, fading into the vision. The gentlemen smiled.

“Oh, Iris, I think it’s time we name the puppy.” My mom said looking up from the photo album.

I bent down and picked the puppy up with both hands. I brought him to my face. He looked me in the eyes and barked sweetly. I brought my nose to his.

“Maximus.” I said.