Page 25 of A Lot Like Lavender

“Congrats.” Jordan smiles, falling quickly back into step with Dinah. “I bet Jackson looks great in glasses.”

“Glorious. You have no idea.” She pouts out her lip and shrugs. “No tattoos, though.”

Jordan shrugs, the scattering of tattoos on his biceps and forearms on full display. “There’s still time.”

“I’m gonna get a tattoo one day,” Molly announces, and receives a wink of approval from Jordan.

I, personally, do not like how chummy everyone is getting in this room. In my house. With my ex-friend. Beside my alpaca’s deathbed. So when my alarm for dinner goes off—to the sound of “Yummy” by Justin Bieber—I decide the only thing that will right the wrongs of this day is a craving I’ve had for too long.

So I hastily escape the lovefest happening around Jordan and shout, in my sister’s favorite brand of crazy, “Gotta go. Pammy needs brownies!”

9

OUR WAY

MARK AMBOR

JORDAN

“I really do feel like I should remind you that feeding chocolate to livestock, and most animals for that matter, is generally frowned upon in the veterinary community.”

Emory ignores me, not for the first time, as she hand feeds Pam a small brownie square made especially for her. From what I can gather, this sort of treatment isn’t new for Emory. Though she clearly holds a special place in her heart for the light gray, female alpaca currently covered in a unicorn-patterned blanket I saw on the living room couch a few days ago. For her final days, the animal has been given the best of treatment, although toxic.

“And I feel like I should remind you,” Emory says, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, only for it to fall delicately across her cheek when she leans towards Pamela again—I’m staring so hard at that single lock I barely hear her reprimand—”you aren’t actually Pammy’s veterinarian, so you don’t get a say.”

“But I amaveterinarian. With a degree and experience and a general knowledge of end-of-life care.” I lean against the door frame since Emory hasn’t actually invited me in, and the fact that she’s allowed me this close when a few days ago she wanted nothing to do with me, has given me a small basis to hope that me sticking around might actually work. “And, I’m here to help you,” I gently remind her.

I truly believe we can live symbiotically here in Honey Hill. If Emory will allow me near her, to help on the farm and with the animals—though neither of us will ever acknowledge I’ve done so—it will be my absolute privilege to be in her orbit, to serve her and Molly like I should have been doing all along.

I’ve prayed fervently to find more reasons to be here with them. For more odd jobs around the farm, hoping I might be able to take even the smallest amount of the load she’s clearly been carrying on her own.

But I won’t ever tell her about the way that every time I’ve seen her, I’ve studied her soft, pink lips, the delicate curve of her jaw, that errant lock of my favorite shade of hair, and the perfectly round ear that never seems to hold it in place. Or how I’ve also prayed that, while I’m here, I can stop noticingallthe pieces of her I’m finding more and more impossible to ignore. The way she talks quietly to herself when she thinks no one can hear. The nineties R&B she always seems to have playing as the soundtrack to her day, but doesn’t know any of the lyrics. Her countless alarms. Her dedication to her work. The way her entire countenance changes the moment she’s reunited with Molly each day. The crazy room filled with custom, handmade, animal clothing I walked into yesterday.

I’m entirely impressed by her, and I can’t look away.

Molly’s trick may have merit, but it’s not working for me.

And I certainly can never, under any circumstances, admit that when I found Emory crying with her sister the other afternoon, I wanted so badly to be the one to comfort her. To know exactly what she needed to feel lighter. To hold her.

The memory of the only time I’ve ever done so—the day James died—is enough to remind me to stay firm. I won’t be selfish with her. I won’t add to Emory’s grief. Not when I can do everything in my power to make her life easier and to honor the memory of my best friend like I should have been doing from the beginning.

Mom and Bill have already told me that though they’ve offered to humanely help Pam’s transition with euthanasia, Emory refused, choosing instead to treat Pam as if she is a true part of her family, staying by her side until the end. It isn’t lost on me how close we are to the anniversary of James’ death, and if Emory needs to feel close to Pam to help her cope with that anniversary, then I intend to be here, too. To the bittersweet end.

“Can I simply suggest a different treat?” I ask, taking note of how Pamela has refused the brownies altogether, and now can’t hold her head up without strain. She’s close. If Emory will let me, I think I might give Pam a round of fluids in a saline bag and maybe a light sedative to ease her discomfort. “Maybe she’d like carrots, apples, or shredded beets?”

Emory gags, disgusted at the prospect. “Ugh, you go eat beets. My girl’s getting brownies.” She rubs Pam’s snout. “Come on, girl. Just a bite. Just one bite, Pammy. Please.”

Pam acquiesces. But who can blame her. I’d do anything this woman asks.

“She’s dying, Jordan,” Emory says, smiling sadly at the animal she adores. “I think we can afford to let her have some happiness beforehand.”

“And chocolate is how we do that?”

She nods and whispers, “Brownies is our battle cry,” then a bit louder, “It may be terrible for her, but I just know it’s what she needs.”

And isn’t that the truth about most things that we want in this life?

“Okay, Red,” I say quietly, backing out of the room before she has the chance to glare at me for using her nickname. A habit I can’t seem to break. But just as quickly one of Emory’s dozen daily alarms goes off, startling her and Pam as she jumps from her spot, rushing from the room and past me in a panic.