Page 15 of A Lot Like Lavender

She nods her agreement and picks each tool up one by one, then I turn to Emory, who’s not said a word since we stepped into the exam room.

“I’m joining the practice,” I say quietly, approaching her like a cornered cat. “You obviously didn’t know, and I’m sorry for that. Mom sent me over the other night for the house call, but…”

“I slapped you,” Emory whispers but doesn’t sound apologetic at all. Rightfully so.

“I deserved it.”

She nods and crosses her arms again. “So… you’re not a cardiologist.”

“Nah.” I blow out a huff of air and bury the tighteningin my chest. “A cardiologist named Dr. Love? Seemed too on the nose.”

Her lips pinch, eyes blinking fast and looking anywhere but at me.

“I’m sorry, Em, I?—”

“Don’t. Please.” She puts her hand up, voice tight but not as filled with emotion as I would expect from her. The girl I knew once was always quick to shed tears. Happy. Sad. Overwhelmed, with joy or anger—often with James and my antics—it didn’t matter. Emory feels—or felt—everything in big, all-consuming ways. But that’s not the same woman standing before me now. It’s a stark reminder of how much time has passed and the fact that I don’t know this version of Emory at all.

“I don’t need apologies or nicknames or… a friend.” She hesitates, like what she's about to say will pain her greatly. “I just need help… One of my girls—my alpaca—is sick. Dr. Rafferty usually?—”

“I want to help,” I interrupt, immediately going through a mental tally of the various possibilities of what could be affecting the livestock. If I was smart and far less selfish, I would give Emory exactly what she wants, which is Dr. Rafferty. But as Molly peeks up from where her head has been buried in my drawer, examining every possible angle of the tools there, and points her dimpled smile—James’ smile—at me, I can’t help but desperately want to be the one who helps Emory and her daughter now. “Please, Emory. I’m done for the day, and I could follow you out right now for a house call. Let me help you.”

I have all the minutes in the world if it means she’ll let me help her in some way.

She looks at the door, as if my mother will barge through and save her from this abhorrent option at anymoment, then glances at Molly who’s watching us both closely. The perceptive kid winks at me when her mom isn’t looking, giving me all the encouragement I need to stay the course. So I stand a little taller, tucking my hands in my pockets so I don’t seem overeager, though the longer we’re in this silent standoff, the more I want her to say yes.

I failed Emory before. I’ve been failing her. A justifiable lack in judgment with time and zipcodes separating us. But now, with Emory and Molly so close, I could drown in a pool of empty reasonings.

So when Emory sighs and hesitantly nods her agreement, I make a solemn vow that I won’t ever fail her again.

6

PHOTOGRAPH

BOYCE AVENUE & BEA MILLER

EMORY

“So how many of those do you have?” Molly inspects Jordan’s tattooed forearms as he inspects Pamela from head to toe.

I have to admit, I’ve done a bit of inspecting of my own. For science… and the tea my sister will inevitably ask for later. Nothing more.

Intricate patterns of ink trail across the expanse of Jordan’s tanned arms, hidden under the cuff of the denim button down he’s wearing. Flowers, a compass, the wing of a butterfly. I wonder what possessed the clean-cut, quiet med student I once knew to cover himself with so much art. It’s a bit of chaos, where twenty-something-year-old Jordan appreciated structure and order.

It’s funny what ten years can do to a person. How time and life shape each of us so differently, leaving behind glimpses of who we were at ten, fifteen, and twenty but evolving us into completely new beings. It’s survival adaptation. The physiological, sociological, and every day behaviorswe have to change so that we can simply live. Breathe. Exist.

I think about the girl I was ten years ago and know that I’ve been so irrevocably changed, I’d hardly recognize myself if I were to meet her right now in this barn.

So I can’t help but wonder what stories the art on Jordan’s body would tell me about the ten years he’s been missing from my life. Was he as affected by James’ death as I have been while he was off evolving into the man he is now? Where has he been? Why did he leave—though I suspect I know the answer—and why is he back? Then I remember, repeating to myself the mantra I only just told Dinah this afternoon:I don’t care.I can’t. I’ve got a life and a daughter, and a farm to lose, and I already lost Jordan a long time ago.

We’ve been in the barn for a while now, giving me ample time for a near-complete mental breakdown, unbeknownst to my companions. Molly has, therefore, also taken this time to ask an exhaustive list of questions for the anomaly—a man—kneeling in the hay. “Do all motorcycle riders have tattoos, or is that just your thing?”

Jordan closes his eyes, stethoscope pressed against Pam’s shrinking belly, and a wavy lock of dark blonde hair falling just across his forehead, listening intently before he removes the device and wraps it around his neck. “Too many to count, and tattoos and motorcycles aren’t mutually exclusive.”

He winks at her, and Molly mouths,mutually exclusive. I just know she’ll be finding a way to work that phrase into conversation at some point. She whistles long and low, something her Uncle Jacky taught her to do when she’s impressed, before she launches into a rapid fire inquisition now that it seems Jordan has reached a pause in hisexamination, though she doesn’t actually give him time to answer.

“Did they all hurt? Which one hurt the most? I think I want an alpaca tattoo on my cheek. It has to be sparkly, though. Or at least with colors. Or maybe it will be a corsage. My Uncle Jack brings me corsages every week. Do you know what a corsage is? Could I ride your motorcycle sometime?”

Yeah, that’s never gonna happen. Tattoos or motorcycles.