Gizelle's Bucket List Page 9

  Of course, there was a lot of action. One Jack Russell terrier was hell-bent on digging through the gravel as though he just knew that he’d buried his treasure trove of Milk-Bones somewhere in this park and couldn’t figure out where. Rabbit, a sneaky beagle mix liked to steal articles of clothing—other dogs’ sweaters and humans’ scarves—and was delighted when the owner picked up on this game and chased him around the park. One Lab begged his dad to throw the tennis ball then, without fail, refused to give the ball back. There was a Boston terrier mix who loved eating his own number two (and other dogs’ number twos). Nearly every owner in the park ran at him trying to stop the pup from succeeding, but that crap-eating terrier won every single time.

  Gizelle never did those inherently doglike things. She never barked unnecessarily, howled into the night, or chewed the remote. She didn’t hump her squirrel stuffed animal or go to town on anyone’s leg (thank god). I never even saw her drink toilet water. (Though I may have turned a blind eye to the slobber on the seat on a few times.) She enjoyed sitting in a warm bathtub like a human. She yawned like a human, letting out a long, satisfied Chewbacca moan. And except for one incident with a stinky block of blue cheese Rebecca and I once left on the low coffee table, Gizelle never helped herself to snacks that weren’t hers. In fact, I had become so accustomed to having a non-dog dog, that I once brought my coffee and bacon-egg-and-cheese bagel into the crowded Tompkins Square Dog Run on a busy Saturday morning, assuming I’d pleasantly sit on the bench with a book and enjoy it. This was a blonde moment, obviously.

  The Tompkins Square Dog Run was a place for every breed imaginable, and there seemed to be every type of human imaginable, too. An elderly woman with a dinosaur stitched to her shirt had a brown shaggy mutt named Cookie. She had lived in this neighborhood for forty-five years, forgot me every time she saw me, but loved to retell the same stories about the grittiness of the East Village thirty years ago, before the yuppies had moved in. She told me she hated how all those young people moved to the East Village and pretended Manhattan was their home when they’d only lived there a year. I told her those people were the worst. Another man pulled his sweet pit bull with bad back legs in a red wagon to the park, just so the pup wouldn’t miss out on the fresh air and fun. There was a gray Great Dane who was taller than Gizelle. He wore a John Deere collar and his owner wore a cowboy hat.

  * * *

  But the best day in the dog run, without a doubt, came toward the end of October. I woke up before my alarm (shocker) and shook Gizelle. She cranked one eye open and left the other squished into the pillow. I jumped out of bed, which was often the only way to get Gizelle out of bed. She climbed off the mattress, first scooting her front paws off the ledge, leaving the back half of her still resting while she paused for a moment to look at me, ruefully trying to figure out exactly why we were getting up at all.

  Rebecca was in the living room at the record player, turning up one of the only albums we owned: Stevie Wonder’s “For Once in My Life,” which we deemed Gizelle’s favorite song. I opened the windows, letting in the fall breeze as we climbed onto our fire escape to sip our morning coffee. It was the 23rd Annual Tompkins Square Halloween Dog Parade, the largest dog costume parade on the planet. And the contestants were already arriving.

  We stood on the fire escape that looked over the park and pointed out our favorites. Gizelle propped her chin on the window.

  “I got a cast of Star Wars,” Rebecca announced. “Leia, Chewy-Yorkie, Luke, a Stormtrooper-mutt, and, ah, a Yoda pug. That’s gonna be a tough one to beat, G.”

  I took a deep breath. “Oh, I see, a—wait—is that a Pomeranian? With a pumpkin on its head coming out of a Starbucks cup? Is that a pumpkin spiced Pomeranian? Shit. We’re screwed.”

  “God, I don’t know, but that’s Sharknado,” Rebecca laughed. “No, sorry, it’s Sharknadog.” A curly black-and-white dog with a black tornado made of felt and toy plastic sharks wrapped around him. I gazed over the park, spotting two poodles dressed as Jack and Rose, thinking how Gizelle would have made a wonderful Titanic.

  Rebecca went inside to mix Bloody Marys in the kitchen. “Cooking with Lauren and Rebecca,” we joked, stirring fresh tomato juice with long sticks of celery and tossing in olives and Itso Hot Sauce. Then I began shredding a big white T-shirt (from Gap, of course), cutting holes in an effort to make it look like Gizelle had torn it to shreds herself. Then I tried to convince her to chew up some baseballs, but she wasn’t going for it. She looked at them, tilting her head, unsure of what they were. So, with a little scissor and knife work, the baseballs took on a genuine chewed-by-slobbery-beast look. Perfect.

  We were going as the crew from The Sandlot, the movie about a kids’ baseball team in the ’60s, complete with a mastiff known as The Beast rumored to have eaten children for trespassing on its turf. Rebecca and I threw on flannels and baseball hats. We colored name tags that said “Ham” and “Scotty Smalls” and set off into the park.

  Tompkins Square was madness. The entire cast of Cinderella walked by. A cocker spaniel was wearing a blonde wig and a blue dress inside of a pumpkin carriage being pulled by a Lab dressed as a horse draped in sashes. The owners were dressed as prince and princess. I stepped to the side of Gizelle, shielding her view of the Cinderella foursome—no need to amp up any pre-runway jitters. Also, no need to remind Gizelle that they don’t make princess carriages in her size. “You’re the prettiest one here,” I confirmed confidently, patting her on the head. There were Ghostbusters, dinosaurs, Beanie Babies, and even a Pope Francis. Gizelle was doing an excellent job remaining calm about the competition, so much so that she lay right down on the gravel.

  A green Astroturf path served as a runway in the middle of the Tompkins Square Dog Run, and three judges sat at a table next to it. Some of the owners had prepared songs to sing as their dog strutted; some acted out skits. I squeezed Rebecca’s hand. Shit. We didn’t have a skit. Were we ready? We moved with the line, waiting for our turn, until finally we were next. I wrapped Gizelle’s leash around my wrist. We climbed to the stage, a little wooden runway built in the middle of the dog run. Gizelle sat at my feet. This was it.

  “And next,” the announcer boomed.

  The whole crowd was still. (Well, semi-still—only so much to be expected from festive New Yorkers and their canine companions).

  “The moment this English mastiff has been preparing for her entire life . . .” I took a breath.

  “Taking the stage . . . we have Gizelle as The Beast from The Sandlot!”

  I looked down at Gizelle.

  “Okay. Walk.”

  I gave her leash a little wiggle and she strutted her muscular body down the runway, showing off her curves, a little smile this way, slight turn of the head. She performed the perfect open-mouth pant to entice the crowds; she worked up some slobber from her jowls, really getting into character. Strut, strut, strut, turn, show a little Beast! You are mean. Fierce! Roar!

  We reached the end of the Astroturf, and the crowds roared for Gizelle.

  “Again! Let her walk again!” they yelled. We got off the stage and I bent down to my girl, rubbed her ears, and kissed the spot in between her eyes above her nose. “You did it, girl! You’re such a model! Most beautiful Beast ever!” For a moment I thought of my mom, who used to always tell us we were the standouts in our dance recitals even if we’d been stuck in the back row.

  It’s possible Gizelle hadn’t really strutted that day; there’s a chance she sat for a second in the middle of the runway and I had to kind of pull her. But she was the best one to me. She was even named number sixty-seven on Buzzfeed’s list of The 70 Best Costumes At New York City’s Most Important Dog Costume Competition! Talk about achievements! Was this the same dog that used to hide under the table from balloons? The dog that had run away from floating plastic bags? My beast had come a long way.

  Later, after losing to some admittedly impressive chef Chihuahuas sitting next to big lobster pots, one of the announcers stoppe
d me. “You guys totally should have won. Gizelle knows how to work a runway.” I smiled, then I looked around the park. Looking out at all the different types of people and their different types of dogs on a beautiful fall day in Tompkins Square, I had a warm feeling inside of me. It was a feeling similar to the one I’d had when I’d first gotten Gizelle. A feeling of being attached, a feeling of being home.

  * * *

  Things with Conner had even been going well. Gizelle and I spent many fall evenings enjoying the walk to First Avenue to stay at his apartment, which was much nicer than ours. It had reliable climate control, food in the fridge, Apple TV, and a boy to cuddle with. He always made Gizelle a bed on the floor, and he usually had some sort of leftovers for me to eat. Then I’d dig through his organized closet, careful not to mess up anything (but usually failing) until I found my favorite T-shirt of his. I’d fall asleep wrapped in his arms and everything seemed okay.

  But sometimes I’d jerk awake, and then I wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. I’d stare at the ceiling, look over at Gizelle snoring, look over at Conner snoring, listen to the faint sounds of traffic on First Avenue. I’d close my eyes hoping sleep would come. Nothing. Then after forty minutes or so I’d give up, creep out of bed, slip on my shoes, clip on Gizelle’s leash, and walk back to my apartment at 4 a.m., thankful I had Cujo to keep me safe on the late walk home on Seventh Street. Then I’d get to my own bed, where I would snuggle with Gizelle and wonder why I’d left in the first place.

  Soon December rolled around, and I didn’t want to leave New York, but Conner agreed to baby-sit Gizelle when I went home to Tennessee for Christmas. So I kissed the two of them good-bye and took a bus from Grand Central Station to LaGuardia Airport. Dad picked me up at the airport in Nashville. We drove to Mom’s apartment near Vanderbilt to meet up with Tripp, Jenna, and Erisy, who were just in from California. Usually, Mom’s house at Christmas would look like the North Pole, but as I walked in the front door and looked around, there were no Christmas decorations. There was no Christmas tree.

  Tripp, Jenna, and Erisy sat on the living room floor surrounded by a pile of crafts—felt, pipe cleaners, jingle bells, bows, red sweaters, and flannels. They were making outfits for a holiday party the following night. Bing Crosby was crooning from Tripp’s iPhone, and The Muppet Christmas Carol was playing on the TV in front of them. Erisy jumped up and presented me with a beautiful plaid Christmas flannel she’d crafted. It matched the one she had made for herself and could have put Martha Stewart to shame. “Oh my god, this is so perfect—I love it!” I beamed as we hugged. (How is she so damn good at everything?) Dad carried my suitcase to the upstairs guest bedroom. I took off my coat and Erisy and I scurried into the bathroom by the kitchen to try our shirts on. Tripp and Jenna followed shortly after and all of us piled in the tiny bathroom to look at the Christmas creations. Just as I was asking Tripp if we should wear our sweaters to this old Nashville dive bar called the Villagers Tavern to play darts, we heard it.

  A horrible scream followed by a heavy thud of a body dropping to the ground. We raced out of the bathroom and up the stairs to find Mom on the floor, with Dad bent on the ground holding her head up in his hand. “Call 9-1-1!” Dad shouted. Mom’s whole body was stiff, her hands locked into claws and she was convulsing. We stood for a second, trying to fathom what was happening.

  “Get HELP!” Dad yelled louder. “GET HELP FAST!” I had never seen my Dad so afraid. We jumped into action. Tripp ran to his phone to call 911. Jenna ran to get a pillow to support my Mom’s head. I rushed out the door to a dark, quiet street in Hillsboro Village. The cold hit my face and my toes as I stood barefoot in my Christmas flannel. Heeeeeellp! I screamed, hearing the desperation in my own voice, not even knowing whom I was calling to. Erisy ran out after me, her scream far more high-pitched and angry, tears falling down her face. “She looks like she’s dying! Is she dying? Is she dying?” Erisy cried. Before I could respond, she held her fists to her face and belted, “HEEEEELLLLP!” Her scream was worse than my Mom’s. “HELP!” she cried again, as a few neighbors stepped out of their houses. I grabbed her hand, trying to pull her to me. Then we heard the siren.

  By the time the paramedics arrived, Mom’s convulsions had slowed down. She was semiconscious, breathing, but still on the floor, unable to speak. I stood on the stairs and watched the paramedics lift her from the ground and buckle her into an upright stretcher. Her head swayed off to the side, squishing her cheek against her shoulder. I rushed to grab shoes for her to have at the hospital and found the closet stuffed full of Target bags filled with glittery Christmas decorations, tags still attached. The mom I knew she wanted to be stuck right there in the closet.

  I sat in the front seat of the ambulance and rode to the hospital. I don’t know why it was me in the front seat, but somehow as the oldest daughter, I always ended up being there. The rest of my family followed in a car behind us. The driver asked me if Mom had a drug problem.

  Yes.

  Does she know it?

  No.

  Does she have a drinkin’ problem, too?

  Yeah.

  Does she know she has a drinkin’ problem?

  I shook my head.

  The holidays are hard on us all, he said. Then he told me he once loved an addict, too.

  Mom stayed three nights in the hospital. On Christmas Eve, we drove to her apartment to say good-bye. We would stay in Tennessee for Christmas, but she was leaving for rehab again, this time in Florida. But I didn’t care. I promised myself I didn’t care even as I spent an entire day on the phone trying to locate the right rehab. I hugged Mom good-bye. Not tight. I didn’t want to hold onto her anymore.

  9

  The Limp

  A few weeks later I was back in New York City. Winter had its grip on the East Village—ice, snow, slush, heavy wind. There was no more back patio of Rio, and it was too cold to bathe Gizelle in the Tompkins Square Dog Run with the hose like I did in the early fall. So I bathed her in my bathtub, where she appeared to be so calm and serene that I sometimes considered lighting candles for her and opening a Vogue. Of course, when she got out of the tub and shook herself dry in the bathroom, splattering me and everything else with wet dog hair, the serenity quickly disappeared. But Gizelle liked the bath so much that occasionally she’d crawl in there to sleep when I wasn’t home.

  Once I was sitting in a bath, Gizelle was hanging out in the bathroom, drinking the bathwater as usual, until she put one paw up on the ledge. She wouldn’t, would she? I thought, patting her head as her fur clung to my wet hand. She put a second paw up. Nah, no way. And then before I even had time to stop her, she dropped her front paws in the tub and heaved her backside over in an attempt to be smooth and graceful but cannonball splashed the water all over the tile. Well, this is new, Gizelle, I thought, tucking my legs to my chest as the water calmed and she sat panting happily, as though we did this together all the time. Gizelle sat, delighted with the chance to once again show off her mastiff superpower: making-things-that-don’t-fit, fit. And also her other dog superpower: the I’m always here for you, girl one.

  Back in New York, I had physically escaped my mom’s problems again, but this time the problem did not escape me. When I closed my eyes at night, I saw my mom being strapped into a stretcher, her lifeless head bobbing off to the side. I saw the color sucked out of her face, the blue under her eyes. I realized that I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d seen her and been 100 percent sure she was sober. In my dark bedroom of the East Village, I realized all my memories of my mom were clouded with uncertainty. Had she been there the day she’d taken me to buy Gizelle? What about when she’d visited me in New York City? In my bed at night, I searched my memories for my mother’s voice, her soft, high, lilting voice, not the one that sounded slurred and dazed. And I searched for her smile. But I couldn’t find the memories anywhere. But when I thought about the Christmas decorations I’d seen in her closet, I held on to the fact that that was the mother she was and w
anted to be.

  But my mom was deep in denial. That was why I hadn’t known what to tell the ambulance driver when he asked me if she knew she had problems. Sometimes it was easier to believe she was fine than accept the truth that she wasn’t. Sometimes I had conversations on the phone with her when she was totally drunk just because I missed her and wanted to talk to her, and I couldn’t ever decide what was worse: to have her in my life with her addiction or not have her in my life at all. But I didn’t want to live in denial anymore. Denial was holding my mother hostage. So I attempted to move on and cut my mother out of my life.

  Dad suggested I get more involved in Al-Anon, a support program for friends and families of problem drinkers. I’d been a few times before. Dad had brought us to Alateen when we were younger. Although I didn’t always have the best track record for attending Al-Anon, I tried to make time, and whenever I went, I was always happy I had. Even if I didn’t talk, it was comforting to sit for an hour in a room of people who understood how I felt. It was comforting to know how many people were struggling with addiction, too. I wasn’t the only one. But I still didn’t know how to work my own 12-step recovery program. I’m still working on that part.

  As winter turned to spring and I tried to stop worrying about Mom, I became more attached to Conner. I was thrilled when he sent me emails like, “I’m going to Philly in a few weeks for meetings. Do you and Gizelle want to come? I hope so, because I put Gizelle on the hotel reservation.” Then he picked us up in a rental car, the backseat lined in beach towels to contain Gizelle’s dog fur, and we drove to Philly where Gizelle ate dog treats shaped like the Liberty Bell. He is so practical! I thought. Liberty Bell, Philly, Conner, Gizelle . . . this is all making sense.