Pug Hill - Alison Pace [95]
But how do you know?!
I see two people gathering up their things and walking between the cars toward the front of the train. I have to believe that could be as good a sign as any. I get up quickly and gather my things. I begin wheeling my suitcase to the connecting doors, certain that the wheely suitcase will surely make the death-defying leap between train cars that much harder. I slide open the door and step out into all that open air and fear, and somehow I make it through to the next car. I see that the two people from my car, along with two other people, are standing in the middle of the car, waiting there, as we approach the station. The tight feeling in my stomach loosens up again, and I know I’m in the right place, and that, for now at least, I don’t have to face the fear again.
“Cold Spring Harbor,” the announcement says. I step through the doors, onto the platform, wheeling my suitcase behind me, and scan the parking lot. I see Dad at the wheel of his car, and he sees me, and he smiles. He gives a little wave and drives up to meet me.
“Hi, Dad,” I say as he helps me put my suitcase in the back.
“Hello, sweetness,” he says, and after we get back into the car, after we’ve said our “how are you’s?” and answered them with “Great’s,” Dad turns to me, as he always does, and says, “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” I agree, and as we pull out of the station and head toward Shore Road, he points out to me how many of the sailboats are back in the water.
For everyone who hates Long Island, who makes a face like they’ve just eaten soap when you say you are from there, or going there, for everyone who wonders if Amy Fisher is your neighbor or if it’s true that everyone there really has a horrid accent, there are people who love Long Island and see everything that is good about it. My dad is one of those people. He’s been out here, in Huntington and Cold Spring Harbor, for well over thirty years, and he still loves to drive a little farther, if it’s along a scenic road. He loves it even more so if the train comes in at sunset, so that we can drive home along Route 25A, right along the water all the way to our house. He still tells me, no matter how many times we’ve driven together along this road, to look at the sailboats, to see how pretty they are.
chapter thirty
You Are My Best Friend
Dad and I walk together into the entrance hall of the house. Dad’s taken my bag from the car, and tells me he’s just going to put it up in my room for me, to give me some time to properly say hello to the dogs.
Mom calls out, “Hi, Hope!” from the kitchen and I call back. She stays in the kitchen, and Dad slips upstairs, because it’s easier for everyone this way. It’s easier for everyone because it’s easier for Betsy if she’s given the opportunity to greet people coming into the house without my parents being right there. For some reason, should Betsy be faced with the task of greeting people at the front door in the presence of my parents, she freaks out a little bit, gets a little too hysterical, and being as “conversational” as she is, Betsy’s freaking out can get very high-pitched, very noisy, very, at times, headache-inducing. Betsy, as you know, is a Jack Russell terrier; Mom says such hyperactivity comes with the territory. I’m not so sure.
The dogs clamor around me in the entrance hall. Along with Betsy, there is Annabelle, the French bulldog of whom we have spoken, and though he’s not here yet, because it takes him a little longer to get around these days, there’s also Captain, the corgi.
“You are my best friend,” I say to Betsy, because she’s started gurgling. Betsy barks, indeed she does, but she also does this thing where she starts out gurgling and it’s actually quite charming, some would say adorable. It’s, as my mother would say, seemingly very conversational. The thing is though, right after the gurgling, if you’re not vigilant in the attention that you give to Betsy once she’s started gurgling, she moves pretty quickly to screeching,