Kay and Leo were half a block from the Wallingford supermarket, Kay’s backpack full of newly purchased food, when Leo stopped, looked up at Kay, and then glanced back over his shoulder. Cued by her service dog, Kay shifted into a different mode of awareness, a different interface with the world around her.
“Kay!”
Someone was calling her name. Leo pivoted at her side as she turned, sunshine picking out the white hairs that yin-yanged among the black curls of his fur, gleaming off his red service-dog vest, and casting shadows beneath his expressive eyebrows. A woman approaching the store from the parking lot across the street called out her name again. At first, Kay wasn’t sure she was the intended target. There could be another Kay in the vicinity, or she could be misunderstanding the syllable. But she stopped and waited just in case.
“Hello, Leo,” the woman said as she reached talking distance.
Well, that settled it. She was talking to them. But who was she? Some faceblind people, Kay knew, had a knack for recognizing voices. For her, alas, the voice ranked as only one clue among many. An especially distinctive voice could be an identifier on its own, but not all that many were distinctive enough. Most often, it was the voice in combination with the size, shape, characteristic movement, and location that allowed her to recognize a person. Standard-issue people—average size, average shape—were the hardest; they were almost impossible to guess when encountered away from where she expected to see them. And when they spoke, as this one did, in the standard polite-and-friendly tones common to both retail and a broad range of casual acquaintance, the task of identification became impossible. She had learned to wait for the emergence of additional clues, and that’s what she did now, after saying “Hello.”
“Isn’t it terrible about Mrs. Nakamura and poor Lily?”
The first name rang only a faint bell in Kay’s mind, but her reaction to the second was instant. “Lily the Samoyed?”
“Yes, and Mrs. Nakamura. I noticed you chatting while you waited for Leo’s check-up the other day and wondered if you’d met before.”
Okay, this woman must be the veterinary clinic receptionist, having taken off the jacket all clinic staff wore and removed herself from immobility behind the counter. “No,” Kay said. “What is terrible?” She couldn’t parse the receptionist’s attitude. Rather than exuding a sense of grief, she felt to Kay only a bit more high-strung than usual, a bit excited. Many people use words like “terrible,” she had learned, to describe almost anything. I had a terrible sandwich for lunch yesterday, or Those pants look terrible on her.
“You haven’t heard? I thought…I mean, it was on the news.”
The woman’s aura of excitement, tinged with what felt to Kay almost like pleasure, left her unprepared for what came next.
“They were hit by a car! Not far from the clinic, in fact. Less than a mile north, I think. Such a terrible shame. Mrs. Nakamura has some broken bones, and, at her age, of course, it’s bound to take a long time for her to heal. But poor Lily! Such a nice dog. She died right there at the scene. Never had a chance.”
Kay stood frozen as the words sank in, not aware even of Leo pressing his body against her leg. Only when the receptionist reached out a hand as if to touch her (adroitly intercepted by Leo’s stepping between them) did Kay start to register the fact that the words continued.
“…Really,” the woman said, “I am so sorry. I had no idea. I mean….” She looked around at the parking lot, the passers-by, the Real Change newspaper vendor. “Would you like to sit down? Is there someone I could call?”
What she said made no sense to Kay until she put together the words with the sensation of tears dimming her eyes and pouring down her face. Crying upset people, and she tried not to do it in public. Pulling a handkerchief out of her pocket and mopping up as best she could (the tears refused to stop, but at least she could blow her nose), she worked at selecting words that would allow her the fastest escape. “No. Thank you. I’m fine.” That should do, but she found she had a question, too. “Do you know where Mrs. Nakamura is?”
“She’s at Group Health on Capitol Hill. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Kay had managed to minimize the tears now. “Yes. Thank you. I’m fine. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Leo,” she heard from behind as they walked to the corner and waited for the light. They had stopped by the store on their way home from work at the University, and the route home was so familiar she didn’t need to think about where she was walking. Once they were off the arterial, the tears returned in force. That lovely dog. Dead. Killed by a car. Halfway home, she dropped to her knees and buried her face in Leo’s fur. Her mind had room for nothing but Lily; every synapse filled to aching with the quality of lost Lily-ness. For such a short time she had experienced the joy of knowing Lily was present in the world, and now the joy all turned to pain. Lily might as well have become part of her own skin that now was ripped away. The shock was overwhelming. As she wept, Leo murmured low in his throat, telling her…. She knew what he meant to tell her. Words were not required.
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