three weeks, that’s for what?” I asked.
“That’s how long they can keep him before they’ll put him to sleep. A thousand dogs get euthanized every month in Los Angeles.”
I had a flash of the fluffy dog with a pig’s paws. But that real dog we’d just seen would most likely die. Sitting in the car, I thought of the things I’d read about lab animals and eating meat. We ate meat. Except when Eli was here.
Eli came in that night after all. My mom had pasta waiting, covered with a striped towel. Boop One was breathing again, the bumps down. For the first time in hours, Eli smiled, watching my mother move around the kitchen. Then she stood behind his chair, her hand on his neck. “You’re not using that sunblock I gave you. You’re burned.”
“I was using it. I ran out.”
He left that night carrying a tube of sunblock in the front pocketof his white shirt. “Now, listen,” he said to me. “Here’s the number for the shelter. You should call every day.” He gave me the slip of paper. I liked it that he trusted me with this.
After a week, it seemed I was the only one who remembered. Boop One, who’d thought it was an angeldog before it’d made her allergic, didn’t ask at all. I thought of his face and the dirty tufts of fur. Then, on a Thursday, Boop Two asked, “Did they find the owners yet?” She stood there while I called. They told us he was eating, but no one had come for him. After that, Boop Two called every day; I heard her in their room on the princess phone. One night, she asked my mom for a ride to the pound. We went, the three of us, and when we came to the dog’s cage, he pressed up against the wire, rattling it, and making a noise from inside. “He remembers us,” my sister said.
It was two weeks now. I thought of Eli’s question. Boop Two asked the woman, who had hairy legs, if they took volunteers.
“You have school,” my mom said. “And speech therapy. And piano.”
“And weekends,” said Boop Two.
26 • A Letter Under My Father’s Door
In the car one day I asked my mom what ever happened with Eli’s brother.
“Well, he’s at home,” she said. “He was in the hospital eight weeks, but unfortunately they were only able to reduce the Dalmane a small increment.”
“So what happens now? He’ll keep taking it forever?”
She didn’t answer. We were at a stop sign, and her short nails drummed against the steering wheel. I’d recently noticed that a lot of other moms’ fingernails were different. The girls in my class were beginning to do that, too. I preferred my mom’s hands.
“Will he look for a new job?” I asked.
“I found a placement agency for people with disabilities. I’ve got to remind Eli. I keep thinking we should hire a student to at least get Hugo out for a walk every day.”
That we again. I didn’t think we could afford to be hiring brother-walkers, even student brother-walkers. There were lots of things we couldn’t afford anymore.
She sighed. “I need to keep on Eli about that.”
Later that night, I thought about what it meant that Eli’s brother had been in the hospital all summer to be weaned from a drug they hadn’t been able to get him off of.
I googled Dalmane. It seemed to be a drug for anxiety. So when they made the dosage lower, what—he got convulsions or foamed at the mouth? I finished the sentence three different ways and hit a wall. What she meant but wasn’t saying was that when they didn’t give him the amount he needed, he went suicidal. There’d been nothing like this in my family before that you had to steer around thinking about. I felt it settle in my chest. A tightness. A tender spot. A nest. It made us different. I felt older.
Hector was still obsessed with Eli’s head. He thought it should have a scar.
“Maybe his hair covers it,” I said, though only the top part of his head had hair.
“Does he ever say anything about the operation?” Hector asked.
“Not to me. Maybe he did to her. It’s
“That’s how long they can keep him before they’ll put him to sleep. A thousand dogs get euthanized every month in Los Angeles.”
I had a flash of the fluffy dog with a pig’s paws. But that real dog we’d just seen would most likely die. Sitting in the car, I thought of the things I’d read about lab animals and eating meat. We ate meat. Except when Eli was here.
Eli came in that night after all. My mom had pasta waiting, covered with a striped towel. Boop One was breathing again, the bumps down. For the first time in hours, Eli smiled, watching my mother move around the kitchen. Then she stood behind his chair, her hand on his neck. “You’re not using that sunblock I gave you. You’re burned.”
“I was using it. I ran out.”
He left that night carrying a tube of sunblock in the front pocketof his white shirt. “Now, listen,” he said to me. “Here’s the number for the shelter. You should call every day.” He gave me the slip of paper. I liked it that he trusted me with this.
After a week, it seemed I was the only one who remembered. Boop One, who’d thought it was an angeldog before it’d made her allergic, didn’t ask at all. I thought of his face and the dirty tufts of fur. Then, on a Thursday, Boop Two asked, “Did they find the owners yet?” She stood there while I called. They told us he was eating, but no one had come for him. After that, Boop Two called every day; I heard her in their room on the princess phone. One night, she asked my mom for a ride to the pound. We went, the three of us, and when we came to the dog’s cage, he pressed up against the wire, rattling it, and making a noise from inside. “He remembers us,” my sister said.
It was two weeks now. I thought of Eli’s question. Boop Two asked the woman, who had hairy legs, if they took volunteers.
“You have school,” my mom said. “And speech therapy. And piano.”
“And weekends,” said Boop Two.
26 • A Letter Under My Father’s Door
In the car one day I asked my mom what ever happened with Eli’s brother.
“Well, he’s at home,” she said. “He was in the hospital eight weeks, but unfortunately they were only able to reduce the Dalmane a small increment.”
“So what happens now? He’ll keep taking it forever?”
She didn’t answer. We were at a stop sign, and her short nails drummed against the steering wheel. I’d recently noticed that a lot of other moms’ fingernails were different. The girls in my class were beginning to do that, too. I preferred my mom’s hands.
“Will he look for a new job?” I asked.
“I found a placement agency for people with disabilities. I’ve got to remind Eli. I keep thinking we should hire a student to at least get Hugo out for a walk every day.”
That we again. I didn’t think we could afford to be hiring brother-walkers, even student brother-walkers. There were lots of things we couldn’t afford anymore.
She sighed. “I need to keep on Eli about that.”
Later that night, I thought about what it meant that Eli’s brother had been in the hospital all summer to be weaned from a drug they hadn’t been able to get him off of.
I googled Dalmane. It seemed to be a drug for anxiety. So when they made the dosage lower, what—he got convulsions or foamed at the mouth? I finished the sentence three different ways and hit a wall. What she meant but wasn’t saying was that when they didn’t give him the amount he needed, he went suicidal. There’d been nothing like this in my family before that you had to steer around thinking about. I felt it settle in my chest. A tightness. A tender spot. A nest. It made us different. I felt older.
Hector was still obsessed with Eli’s head. He thought it should have a scar.
“Maybe his hair covers it,” I said, though only the top part of his head had hair.
“Does he ever say anything about the operation?” Hector asked.
“Not to me. Maybe he did to her. It’s
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