Side Effects May Vary

“I hate you,” sobbed Courtney. Her voice sounded almost apologetic, like Miss Porter had forced her hand and for Courtney hating her mom was inevitable. She shrieked, stomping her feet, and crumpled up the flyer she clutched in her little fist before pitching it into the street. Miss Porter threw up her hands and followed her very tiny, very angry daughter inside.

I walked down the driveway to the street, past my mailbox, and picked up the crumpled flyer from the ground. I set my fists on my hips, closed my eyes, and tilted my head to the sky to just breathe.

After I made it back into the house, I took a few minutes to catch my breath again. Finally, I was able to sit up on the living room couch and study the flyer. The paper was wrinkled and dirty, but legible. I flattened it out on the coffee table and read over the advertised information. Below the adoption fee was a grainy photo of a black Pomeranian with patches of hair missing. He was adorable— sad, but still adorable. His name was Goliath and he was four and half pounds. I appreciated the irony.

I called number two on my speed dial, and he answered on the fifth ring. Six rings would have sent me to voice mail.

“Harvey, I need you to come pick me up.”

“I’m at work,” he whispered. I could hear that he was muffling his voice with his hand.

“This is a time-sensitive issue.”

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice rising a little.

“I won’t be if you don’t pick me up in fifteen minutes. I’ll be sitting on the front porch. Pull up as close as you can to the walkway. I’m having a shit day.”

“Al, wake up.”

My eyes opened reluctantly. Harvey’s hand rubbed the top of my back. I sat on the front stoop with my legs drawn into my chest and my cheek planted on my knees. Wiping the drool from my legs, I handed Harvey the flyer.

“What is this?”

“This is me doing something nice for someone without taking any credit for it.” There was always a first time for everything.

“Okay,” he said, a faint smile on his lips.

“I forgot my money in the house. Could you grab it for me?” I wheezed. I hated for anyone to see me like this, and he did a poor job of hiding how much my discomfort pained him. Without a word, he opened the front door.

“It’s in the Folger’s coffee can in my bra drawer.”

“I know,” he called.

“Two hundred should be good.”

“Two hundies comin’ right up.”

Harvey returned and held out a hand to help me up. I relied on him pulling me more than I relied on my own muscles. Every joint in my body begged me not to stand. His hand fell to my lower back as he guided me into the passenger seat of his Geo.

“It’s the shelter on Swanson Avenue,” I said once he was behind the wheel.

I didn’t sleep, but I did rest my eyes the whole way there.

“We’re here,” said Harvey after about ten minutes.

The cold air from the AC in Harvey’s car sent chills up my spine. I watched my reflection in the side-view mirror. My cheekbones stuck out—an improvement from the chemo chipmunk cheeks—and my eyes looked like blue pebbles sunken deep into my skull. My chapped lips stung. I opened Harvey’s glove compartment and dug around until I found his Carmex. The inside of my mouth felt dry, but it wasn’t anything that could be fixed with water. A few weeks ago, my gums had started to bleed and it was uncomfortable. Actually, no, it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was fucking miserable. And gross too. Really gross.

“What’s the game plan, Al?”

“I’ve got cancer. I don’t need a game plan.”

“Okay, so if you try to adopt this dog, like I assume you are, then you do understand you must be at least eighteen years old to actually do that, right?”

“I know.”

“And you have a plan?”

“Yup.”

“Am I, in any way, a part of this plan?”

“You’re the wheels of the plan. You’re my dashing driver, Harvey.” I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He fished around in his pocket for my roll of cash and slapped it down into my open palm. I smiled a thank-you and got out of the car.

As I opened the depressingly heavy metal door to the shelter, Harvey called out to me. “Please make sure they give you some kind of carrier. I really don’t want that thing marking its territory in my backseat.”

I gave him the thumbs-up.

After the door fell shut behind me, I pinched both of my clammy cheeks as a last-ditch effort to give myself some color. The smell hit me, that pungent animal-shelter-bleached-feces smell. Nausea rolled my stomach.

“Hey, Allyster,” I said as I approached the sign-in desk, thankful that it was him working this afternoon. Allyster was a retired veterinarian in his early seventies. Instead of living the good life in Florida, he spent his days here, caring for the animals no one wanted.

“Well, look who it is! The kennels started going crazy a second ago, and now I know why. They”—he hiked his thumb over his shoulder at the kennels—“must have known you were coming.”