Tiny Notes on Gentle Fortitude

3 September, 2020

It is Grace’s first day at Woodworth Veterinary Clinic. She is not going to college similar to most other seniors, and she did not wear a t-shirt with a university logo on decision day. She wore what she always wears and she wasn’t sad about it because she was still going to get away. Far, far away.

She is nineteen and she has found a quiet bedroom to rent in an overrun building. There’s no light in the ceiling and no furniture waiting, and especially no furniture of her own; but it is a wonderful room in that it is not her room back home. She has her hand-me-down car from her oldest cousin and she has blocked her parents numbers from reaching her phone.

The office building is small and private, but it is warm inside and there are three cats that wander freely. The manager shows Grace around and around; she doesn’t remember any names, except for Nancy’s, who stands in the kitchen. She is plugging a slow cooker into the outlet above the counter. There is brown juice and pieces of food sloshing around inside.

“Hello! I’m Nancy, it’s nice to meet you.” She pauses and looks down at what she’s doing. “I don’t have a refrigerator at home so I brought this roast beef to share with everyone, before it goes bad. Do you like roast beef?”

“I’m Grace, I’m a vegetarian.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.”

Everyone ate some of Nancy’s roast beef; everyone told her how delicious it was.

“Is your refrigerator broken?”, Grace asks, while she watches Nancy navigate the scheduling system.

“No, I just don’t have one. Never did.”

Grace goes home thinking about Nancy’s roast beef; she tries to imagine what it would be like to live without a fridge for the next fifty years of her life. She wonders how difficult it is to carry your roast beef into work. Did she have to set it down to open the car door? Did it spill out the sides onto her seat?

17 October, 2020

Grace and Nancy always sit next to each other at the reception desk. There is a third receptionist, too, but each day said receptionist abides by the unspoken rule.

Nancy started drawing on Grace’s fruit whenever Grace was away from the desk. Now they draw each other pictures in Nancy’s thin, black notebook. She forgets lots of things because she had a massive stroke last

summer. It makes her sad, but she laughs about it because she laughs about everything instead of letting it carry on. If she writes down the things she needs to do, she is less likely to forget, less likely to make mistakes and lose her job. And she is especially less likely to know that she has yet again, forgotten. That she is still, always, slipping a bit further away from everyone else.

Today, Grace draws Nancy a banana with legs, arms, and a menacing face; it carries a scythe and thrown over its shoulder are the peels of bananas past, dragging behind like a chain. Nancy tells a story about an appointment she scheduled recently:

“Someone’s husband called to make an appointment for their cat because it had a small, pink lump on it’s belly. Dr. Clark didn’t see anything and she asked the guy to point to the spot. I get the chart handed to me up front and I’m putting the charges in and all it says is “nipple confusion, no charge”. Turns out the guy didn’t know his male cat was supposed to have nipples. What?! Hello, sir, do you have nipples? Unbelievable.”

“We should charge him for being dumb”, one of the techs scoffs.

“I think it’s a husband thing - they never know what’s going on, with anything. It’s worse when the wife notices the problem and then the husband brings the animal to the appointment. They look at you like your asking them to recite their wedding vows from memory. Like, honey have you lived with this pet a single day in your life?”

“I want to know how he went so long before noticing them, let alone the single one he did manage to find. Maybe it’s more prominent than the others.”

Grace laughs and interrupts:

“Someone should write a book about nipple varieties and title it Nipple Confusion and then it should be required reading for sex-ed. And there should be a version for pet owners, with a subtitle! Something like, “if you think it’s weird, it’s probably not”.

Nancy pauses to think for a minute.

“I’m so glad I didn’t get married.”

5 January, 2021

Grace has a panic attack and does not come to work. Nancy calls and calls, but the morning goes by without an answer. Finally, she arrives in the evening.

“You made the right choice.”

Grace thinks about her family. She imagines her driveway, her front door, the tension lingering on the other side; it never went away. Even when no one else was home, it spilled from the crevices in the corner of each room and wept from the drafts near the ceiling. Every clatter and thud was filled with the anticipation of someone coming home.

Now Grace thinks of Nancy. The older lady at work who called her six times today and brings cooked meats to work. The one who laughed so hard she peed her pants a little and had to sit on a dog towel the rest of the day, and then made sure everyone knew about it so they could laugh with her.

“I know.”

Grace finds the black book in Nancy’s purse while she makes dinner in the group kitchen downstairs. She writes thank you, and draws a picture of a client handing Nancy a poop sample in a coffee cup.

29 January, 2021

“Hello do you take wildlife?”, a woman is panting into the phone, spewing her question in one quick breath.

“Unfortunately, no, but I can give you the name of a hospital that does! Are you a client of ours?”, Grace asks.

“Well, no, but I’m in your parking lot because my friend brings her dogs here and she told me that you treat wildlife.”

“Unfortunately we do not treat anything but cats and dogs on a regular basis.”

“Okay well I came from the beach and I have a goose in my car so can you just take it?”

“Is something wrong with the goose?”

“Well, I walk my dog at the beach everyday and today this goose didn’t fly away from us so I caught it and trapped it in my car and brought it here.”

“I don’t understand, is it injured?”

“Well, I just told you, it didn’t fly away from me when we were walking. I think I know what a goose that can’t fly looks like.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but we don’t have anyone here equipped to treat a goose.”

“Well what am I supposed to do now? There’s a goose in my car!”

“You could take it back to the beach and open your door, maybe it will run away?”

“Fine. Give me the phone number for the wildlife hospital.”

“Okay, it’s 97-“

“I really can’t believe this. I have a wild goose in my car and you guys really can’t help me with it?! You know what, I’m just going to start driving - can you please call them for me and let them know I’m coming?”

Grace briefly considers the woman’s demands; more than anything, she does not want to talk to her anymore, so she agrees, hangs up the phone, and leaves a message with the other hospital:

“A woman with an injured goose wants you to know she’s on her way”!

Twenty-five minutes later, the phone rings again and the woman’s name sits stubbornly on caller I.D. Nancy, who knows almost every client to visit the practice, asks aloud if anyone knows who’s calling.

“It’s for you Nan, about a goose”, Grace tells her, winking. Nancy snorts. At this point, each call to the office is a challenge in that everyone waits to see if it will surprise Nancy, someone who has heard and seen it all.

She picks up the phone and listens for a minute, then promptly hangs up and begins walking in the direction of the bathroom.

“I don’t think personal problems are in my job description”.

13 February, 2021

Grace arrives at work to find the notebook tucked in its usual spot behind the pen jar. A note from Nancy reads:

“Colonoscopy was crystal clear! See you tomorrow.”

Grace smirks and writes:

“Someone brought in their dog’s vomit for the Dr. today, had to kindly tell them puke is not useful for the sake of future visits”.

1 March, 2021

Nancy does not show up to work this time. Grace calls once or twice and assumes she overslept.

2 March, 2021

Nancy does not come to work again. Two officers enter the office around mid-day. Grace hears parts of what they say, but she already knows. They send police with a message, but Grace feels that most of the time the police are the message.

Nancy passed away in her sleep the night before. They think she may have gone into cardiac arrest, likely as a complication of her stroke the previous summer.

Grace does not speak to the officers and does not ask about Nancy’s body or her pet bird Merlin and who will look after it. She does not ask about the funeral. She walks out the back door, gets in her car, and she drives to Nancy’s house to find no one there, not even Merlin. That night, she sleeps in Nancy’s bed.

5 March, 2021

Grace stays at Nancy’s house for a few more days. She does her dishes, walks around her house, and she looks at all of the things that fit perfectly into the home Grace had imagined for her. A man had contacted her the day before, and when he introduced himself on Nancy’s behalf, she panicked and hung up the phone.

She had worked up the nerve to call him back after about 3 hours, and she made plans to meet him in a couple days, before the funeral. She needs to collect something Nancy left behind, just for her. Grace desperately hopes that it is not the bird.

7 March, 2021

Grace receives a letter from the man, which she opens in her car, just outside the church where Nancy’s funeral will soon be held:

Grace,

Once, we had two dogs named “Donut” at the hospital, at the same time. One was scheduled to be neutered, and one was cremated. I wasn’t paying attention, and “Donut” isn’t an incredibly common name, so when a man came inside and said he was “here to pick up Donut”, I brought him Donut’s ashes in a box. He looked at me, confused for a moment, and said “the neuter went that badly?”. That was probably the best reaction I could have gotten, given the context; he was a great sport and we laughed and laughed.

I hope you miss me, a lot, because you should, but I also hope you are a good sport. You gave me everything I’ve ever needed in a friend. Thank you for filling me with purpose and love.

There is about $20,000 of my life insurance policy left over for you, after you pay for all the shit I didn’t while I was around (sorry about that). And please don’t keep Merlin, you wouldn’t like him very much.

Yours,

Nan

P.S. You will always make the right choice.

After some time, Grace sets the letter aside and pulls the little black book from her bag to read one more time. Their stories and silly notes and absurd drawings feel like home. Later, she leaves the book with Nancy, to keep with her, always.