At the Seams

Chapter 3: Day 1 - 8:19 am

Chapter 3: Day 1 - 8:19 am

Once again, Mary ascends towards reality, slipping through swampy sleep toward lightness and clarity. She dreads confronting the inhuman imprisonment that has become her body. She hears Jay whine, almost howl, something Mary has never heard Jay do before today, and forgets her trepidation. She starts clawing toward the waking world.

When Mary returns to her devastated body, she employs her one operational body part to inventory the room. Save for the repositioning of the sun, her arm, and her dog, nothing is changed from when Sam

—abandoned her—

left for his run. Jay is on the bed next to her, his head up, his bright eyes staring into her face. While she has been

—away—

sleeping, he must have nudged and nuzzled her hand and arm, carefully positioning himself so her arm would drape easily over his neck. Mary’s nerves have thankfully dulled from the livewires they were when she first woke, so Jay's wiry coat is a comfort, not an abject punishment. The warmth of his body soothes Mary, grounds her, pulls her out of her exhausted mind and into a more concrete world. Jay licks his lips, making that wet little "na-gum" noise as his tongue peeks out from between his teeth then settles back when he swallows. Mary expects a kiss next, and Jay does indeed reach delicately forward and lick her swollen left cheek. He then drops his chin on her breast, eyes on the bedroom door.

What is Jay even doing up here? Mary wonders. He never does anything that might be construed as dependence. He’s so smart, he's prissy. He'll watch a ball sail past his head, then look at her or Sam, shake his head, and saunter off. If another dog in the park dares to greet Jay's backside, he jumps a foot in the air and spins, legs splayed awkwardly, glaring at the nosy little pervert who dares sully his anus. If Mary or Sam calls to him, he will come into the room, but not close enough to touch—unless the voice calling him is distraught.

When Jay hears the slightest pain or fear in Mary’s voice, he rushes to her side—not just in the room, but in her face, nearly up her nose. Two years ago, when her father died, after Mary finished a terrible crying jag, she found herself seated in Nana's yellow antique chaise, with Jay's entire eighty pounds perched bolt upright in her lap. His sleek head and neck dripped snot and tears and boogers, all hers, she reckoned. His eyes like melted chocolate kisses searched her face. His face displayed actual concern, even worry. The expression was so genuine and utterly human that Mary burst out laughing, startling Jay and sending him roughly to the floor. On that day, Mary began to refer to Jay as "Jung."

Mary loses herself in the simple contact she shares with Jay, grateful for her lifelong ability to appreciate little things. With a mental snap, like a rubber band popping back to size, Mary realizes why Jay is on the bed. He is here because he is loyal and he knows when his Mama needs him. Jay knows I'm in here.

Even in her state, where promise is more delicious than bread to the starving, Mary does not build hope on her Dobie's incredible intuition. Even if he may want to, Jay will never communicate on Mary’s behalf. At least he will be present, unconcerned with her disgrace and deterioration, only loving her.

Jay's head lifts again, this time facing the bedroom doorway, and Mary catches movement at the outside of her diminished vision. For a few seconds, nothing, and then Jay whines again, this one abrupt and demanding, like when he wants food.

Another pause. Then, from the shifting gloom by the doorway, a strangled sob and a small smacking sound.

Sam! Mary's heart, which had been marching smoothly along while she enjoyed Jay's singular empathy, now canters madly in her chest. Rescue! At last! screams Mary's desperate heart, before the reason of her head can put a sock in it. Her heart's insistence that Sam will still come through, still be her knight, is too much for Mary to resist, and she is yanked headfirst into hope like a rip tide.