Page 34 of A Lot Like Lavender

Experiencing the deaths of beloved pets with their owners is always the worst part of veterinary medicine. Similar to the death of any loved one, not only is there the initial pain and lingering heartbreak of their absence, but the logistics of aftercare that can also be overwhelming.

Like, for example, when your patient's owner decides to give their pet a farewell fit for a domesticated camelid queen and allows them to transition from the comfort of a human home, there are some real challenging decisions to be made postmortem. The greatest of which is: How does one remove a one hundred and fifty pound, lifeless alpaca from the room inside said house, where she peacefully passed?

Presently, this involves three grown men dragging the animal through the house on an old sheet. I don’t want to be insensitive, but this activity has a time constraint, given rigor mortis and postmortem smells. Jack and Griffin showed up, with Theo in tow, to help me remove Pam from the house. The task has been just as challenging as I suspected it would be. It was great to reconnect with them both last night after so many years, despite the circumstances, but I didn’t think our first time hanging out together would involve early-morning undertaking.

“How are we gonna get her legs past the doorframe?” Griffin asks, hands on his hips while we take a breather. We’ve managed to move the carcass as far as the guest room door and are now brainstorming ways to get her past it and down the hallway. “Think we can turn her on her back, hold her upright by the legs, and push her butt over the ledge?”

Pamela’s rapidly bloating body releases a gigantic,pungent stream of gas. Theo and Molly giggle somewhere down the hall. Glad someone’s enjoying their morning.

“Never mind,” Griffin says quickly.

“Let’s turn the sheet so we can shove her legs through, then adjust as we go.” Jack bends to pick up a corner of the sheet when Pam farts again. “That wasn’t me.”

Griffin and I laugh like we’re teens as Jack mumbles under his breath. It’s then a solid ten-minute game of alpaca tetris as we work her stiff appendages across the door frame and finally into the hall. And another forty-five minutes of blood, sweat, and tears before we manage to get Pam onto the porch and down the stairs to where a skid steer waits to transport her to her final resting place, a hole behind the barn that I dug with the farm’s excavator a couple of days ago.

Everyone’s out of breath, but miraculously, Griffin remains as chatty as I remember. He places his hands on his hips again and looks towards the barn where I’ve been anxiously watching Emory as she completes her morning chores.

I expected losing Pam would be difficult for Emory, but I’m wondering if my presence here—especially after last night—is only trudging up more unnecessary pain for her. More memories that she’d rather not revisit. After today, I’ll have no excuse for hanging around the farm anymore. I’m worried that Emory won’t have a need to see me. Pam is gone. The other animals have been tested and are negative for the flukes. She doesn’t need me here anymore. I should return to the office and to the practice I’m taking over. I can’t stay, but I can’t fathom leaving her and Molly either.

“So, you’ve got it bad, huh?” Griffin claps his hand on my shoulder,chuckling.

“What?” My stomach lurches into my chest. “No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You do,” my old friend says. “It’s written all over your face, man. And the fact that you’re, ya know… here doing this”—he gestures to the deceased creature at our feet—“when you could literally be anywhere else. You’re obviously invested.”

“I’m her vet.” I don’t say that I’m making up for lost time, or that after only two weeks, I can’t imagine being anywhere else. Or that I’ll never forget the way Emory curled into me this morning like I was someone she could feel at peace with.

Instead, I shake my head and avert my gaze from the woman currently torturing me in a threadbare T-shirt tucked into high-waisted jeans that accentuate all the curves I should not be memorizing. “And I’m her friend.Justher friend.”

The more I say it out loud, the more I’ll believe it.

“Sure. I remember when Caroline wasjustmy friend. I was in denial, too. Almost screwed everything up.” Griffin slips his hands into his pockets and laughs again. “Pro tip: Don’t make out with her then ghost her after. That’s a tough hole to dig yourself out of.”

“Don’t make out with her at all.” Jack’s giant hand suddenly slams onto my other shoulder. For a guy who works with delicate flower arrangements for a living, the version of him glaring at me right now has me seriously considering whether or not I could take him in a fight. He wouldn’t fight me though, right? “But, if anything changes and yourfriendgets hurt…” he says, squeezing so there’s no question of whether or not he plans to wreck me if I step out of line.

Never telling him I woke up in Emory’s bed this morning.

“You’ve got access to an excavator.” I expect to lighten the mood, but he only squeezes my shoulder again, so I’m positive his fingertips will leave bruises behind, before smacking me on the back harder than necessary.

“That’s right, Doc.” Jack brushes his hands off and smiles wide. It’s haunting.

My shirt’s soaked through with exertion, and yet, he’s barely broken a sweat. I feel for the guy Lola brings home one day. He’ll have his work cut out for him.

“If you’re good here, I’m gonna get home to my girls, and I’ll trust you’ll take care of yours.”

Mine. My girls.

The thought puts a pit in my stomach. Because of how good the idea sounds and how disgusting I feel for giving it a moment of credence. They aren’t mine. They never will be.

“They’re not…” I attempt to argue, but it’s no use. Jack stomps away, leaving me to ruminate in betrayal. I played house with James’ wife last night. I held her as she fell asleep and made breakfast for his kid when she woke up. I have to get out of here.

Emory chooses that exact moment to walk across my field of vision, heading to where the kids are playing in the front pasture. She doesn’t seem to notice Griffin or me—my eyes glued to her every step—and on top of everything else, I can’t help worrying that she’s doing too much. That she isn’t grieving properly or eating properly or having time for herself. I’m especially troubled by the fact that yesterday afternoon, in the middle of the PTA parade, I got a notification from the Purple Pastures land listing I’ve had bookmarked for ten years, informing me that twenty of the farm’s acres are now for sale, and Idon’t know how to broach the topic with her. Especially now.

Every instinct in me wants to go to her. Which is why I drop to my haunches instead and begin the process of moving Pam’s body to the grapple of the skid steer, determined to finish this job and, after ensuring everything is good here, return to my actual job. Desperate for, and yet dreading some distance.

“Hey, listen.” Griffin grabs my attention when we’ve finally managed to transport and bury Pamela and made our way back to the front of the house.

I have plans to go back to the grave for some finishing touches later and to make sure everything is settled, but with my brain restless and body weary, all I want right now is a long ride on my bike and a cold shower.