Rachel Goddard 01 - The Heat of the Moon

kitchen, emptying the dishwasher and deep into a discussion that had probably been going on for an hour. They seemed not to notice me when I walked through the back door, or when I opened the fridge and took out a bottle of spring water. Pouring water into a glass, I listened to them talk about the delicate maneuvers required to communicate with borderline autistic children. Apparently Michelle had some hope of getting through to a girl at the institution where she worked part-time.
    Mother had never taken this kind of interest in my work. Why should she? Healing sick cats and dogs wasn’t exactly her thing. What I couldn’t get used to was Mother treating Michelle like a colleague.
    “You’re home late, Rachel,” Mother said.
    I turned. “Mmm.”
    She removed the last serving bowl from the dishwasher and closed the door. “Have you had dinner?”
    “Yes, I have.”
    She placed the serving bowl in a cabinet. “You know, I can’t help wondering about you and Dr. Campbell.”
    I paused with my glass halfway to my mouth. “Wondering?”
    “I admit I’m a little concerned.”
    I glanced at Michelle. She was watching me with bright-eyed interest. “Concerned about what, Mother?” I said.
    A faint shrug of one shoulder. “He’s your employer. A relationship with him would put you in a vulnerable position.” 
    “I can take care of myself.”
    “Then there is a relationship.”
    Damn. I sighed.
    “Why don’t you invite him over for dinner? I’d love to meet him.”
    Meet him. Inspect him. Grill him mercilessly in that soothing therapist’s voice. Find him lacking, in the end, not good enough for her daughter.
    I gulped from my glass to give myself a second to think.
    “Yeah,” Michelle said. She rinsed her hands under running water and tore off a sheet of paper toweling to dry them. “I’m dying to get a look at this guy.”
    “That’s rushing things a little,” I said.
    “Well, whenever you’re ready,” Mother said. “But I hope it’ll be soon.”
    I watched her move around the room, pick up a hand towel and hang it on the rack behind the sink, push the salt and pepper shakers into perfect alignment on the counter next to the stove.
    Then I looked more closely at her slightly slumped shoulders, a lapse of her perfect posture, and the hint of dark circles under her eyes. Sharp concern drove out all other thoughts. “Mother, do you feel all right?”
    “Oh, I’m just a little tired,” she said with a quick dismissive smile. “I seem to be getting into a pattern of insomnia.”
    Something was bothering her. She hadn’t been the same, really, since the night she told me I’d destroyed my father’s pictures. Michelle’s words came back to me: It tears her apart, having it all dredged up.
    Mother swayed on her feet and fumbled at the edge of the counter, trying to grab hold. Two steps and I was at her side, an arm around her waist.
    “Mother? Mother, what is it?” She was deathly pale. I gripped her wrist, feeling for her pulse.
    “Oh, don’t, Rachel.” She twisted her arm free. “Don’t make a fuss. I just—” She seemed to run out of breath, and for a second she sagged against me.
    Michelle, ashen-faced, was at her other side. “Come sit down.”
    “I think I’d just like to go up to bed.” Mother seemed to be regaining strength now, and drew away from me.
    “You shouldn’t be climbing the stairs,” I said. “Sit down and I’ll call your doctor.”
    “It was just a passing dizzy spell. All I need is a good night’s sleep.”
    “Let me help you,” Michelle said. She slid an arm around Mother’s waist, a hand under her elbow. I trailed them down the hall and watched them mount the stairs with their heads together, murmuring. I stood at the bottom of the steps, forgotten, unwanted, unneeded.
    My throat constricted. I wheeled around and returned to the kitchen, where I yanked open a drawer and grabbed a flashlight.
    The full moon drenched the back lawn in light, and I didn’t have to switch on the flashlight until I passed under the trees and through the wall of shrubbery to the cages.
    My only patient at the moment was a little opossum with an infected foot. When I trained the beam on him, he froze for a second, then scurried on three legs into his box shelter. He’d been eating the cat kibble and fruit I’d left for him when I’d stopped by the house on my lunch hour. The bit of pear with an antibiotic pill imbedded in it was gone. After two days of not