I see her on the street. She is a hospice nurse. I know this because she is standing directly beside her company SUV, which is covered in vinyl logos, parked outside an older house.
She is mid-40s, wearing scrubs. And crying. Face-in-her-hands crying.
There are other people standing on the porch of the home behind her, they are crying, too. Everyone is sad.
It is a gray day. I am walking my dog. Well, actually, my dog walks me. Marigold (blind coonhound) pulls at the leash like a team of draft oxen. If I were riding a skateboard right now, we would already be in Northern Quebec.
I should leave this young nurse alone. I know this. When people cry, they really just want to be left alone. But I have too much of my mother in me to let anyone cry without sufficiently annoying them.
My dog and I stop walking. I ask if she is all right.
I know what her answer will be, of course. Everyone answers this question in the most politely dishonest way possible. “Of course I’m alright,” most people would say. “I’m good,” people will say. It’s what society teaches us to say. Put on a brave face, lie through your teeth, and fake it till you shake it.
But she doesn’t do that. I suppose this woman has seen enough bereavement in her career to feel the need to apply proverbial lipstick to the proverbial pig.
She blows her nose loudly and speaks. “No, I’m not okay.” Then she laughs.
I don’t know what else to say, so I just sort of stand there. Feeling stupid. Wondering what kind of cuisine they eat in Kuujjuaq, Quebec.
“Sometimes it just gets to you,” she explains.
Marigold is attracted to the woman’s voice. So Marigold drags me to the woman. Marigold has no manners.
The woman stoops and begins to stroke Marigold’s smooth, black, seal-like coat.
More people are arriving at this house. Cars park at the curb. They are leaping out of vehicles and fast-walking to the porch. They are all hugging and blowing their noses.
“What’s wrong with your dog’s eyes?” the nurse asks.
Marigold is missing one eye, and her other eye is dead—the result of her previous owner’s ill temper.
“She’s blind,” I say.
“Oh, no.”
Blind dogs see with their noses. So Marigold begins feeling the woman’s face with her nose, tracing the outlines of her cheeks, feeling the contours of her neck, occasionally sneezing directly in the woman’s face. This makes the woman laugh.
Soon, the woman buries her whole face into the folds of Marigold’s coat. She takes in a deep breath, and suddenly I cease to exist. It’s just her and the dog.
“You have kids?” she finally says.
“No. You?”
“Two.”
She stands. “I’m going to go home and hug them.”
I nod. “That sounds like a good idea.”
“Life is short,” she says. “Make sure you hug everyone who is special to you, as often as you can.”
“I will.”
And anyway, now I’m in Northern Quebec.