Missing Veronica

When it comes to Veronica, every goodbye is the same. My packed suitcases sit in my mom’s Volvo and the front door is left ajar. Harsh morning light streams into the foyer as I bend to pick her up. Her wide brown eyes blink at me, questioning. Most days when I try to hold her, she runs away as soon I reach down. Today, however, she remains still and allows me to squeeze her against my chest.

“Goodbye Veronica,” I say, burying my face in her fur. “I love you. I love you.”

I hand her to my sister Madison, who hugs me one last time. She’s not a morning person, but when I leave for college she gets up early just for me. She yawns, wipes sleep from her eyes and waves groggily as I step outside. I climb into the front seat of mom’s car and we back out of the driveway. Veronica appears in the laundry room window. She’s only just tall enough to see outside, so she looks like a floating head behind foggy glass. As we back out of the driveway, she watches us, and I never stop watching her. I wonder if she feels any sense of finality. Does she think I’m coming back? Or have I left her enough times that my presence is now abnormal?

I wish I could tell her that I’m not leaving because I want to. I wish she knew that if I could, I’d pack a small suitcase just for her. She’d sit beside me on the plane and we’d go through orientation week together. She’d have a dorm room right next to mine, and we’d watch The Bachelor in the common room on Friday nights.

My mom once told me that shortly after I first left for college, Veronica waited outside my bedroom. Oftentimes before that, she had approached the door, scratched at the white-painted wood, and left a few moments later, assuming I’d be more sociable in an hour or so. But after about a week of this, she’d had enough. She would stay until I came out. There had to be an explanation as to why I’d become a hermit. Maybe I had entered a deep slumber after a demanding week at school. Maybe I had started a days-long movie. Whatever the reason, it wouldn’t last forever. Eventually, I’d emerge.

When my Mom noticed my dog’s persistence and opened the door, Veronica promptly trotted inside to investigate. She looked under and behind my bed, beneath my desk, and in my closet. She jumped onto my bed and plopped down with a huff. At that moment, she realized that I was not in the house. I was not anywhere—I had traveled somewhere far outside her world, which only stretched to about the end of Manor Creek Drive. 

And at that moment, I was missing her. I know this because there was never a minute, never a second when I wasn’t missing Veronica. 

***

“Do you want to see a picture of my dog?” I ask whenever I meet a new person. 

By “picture” I mean multiple photos that encapsulate her smallness, her cuteness, her silliness and her sassiness. I always tell myself that I will only show one picture, that I’ll only talk about Veronica for a short while, but I never keep that promise. 

“Her name is Veronica Rose Nelson,” I say. “This is a photo of her in a bag.” 

“Aw,” the person says. Reactions range from genuine enthusiasm to thinly veiled boredom. 

“And this is a photo of her on our couch. Doesn’t she look so regal?” 

When I showed this photo to my host mom in Argentina, she said,

“Es una reina.” 

She is a queen. 

I’d posed in Buenos Aires cafes. I had images of waterfalls vast enough to swallow hundreds of tourists at once. Yet when I scrolled through my camera roll at the end of each day, I always settled on pictures of Veronica. 

Usually I get carried away and show a few more. Sometimes I pull up the one of Veronica perched on a chair in front of my computer, as if attending online school. Or the one of her in a Christmas sweater, snowflakes falling, almost glowing, around her. But in the end, without fail, I bring out the killer. The photograph that always brings its viewers to their knees: 

“AWW!” my friend Emerald said when I showed this to her at a capella rehearsal. We were sitting on the lawn outside of the freshman dorms. It had rained earlier that day, and the water on the grass seeped into our pants. The sun had set hours ago, so we used our cell phones’ flashlights to illuminate our sheet music. 

“Her eyes are so big!” 

“I know,” I nodded smugly. 

She took the phone from my hand and brought it closer to her face. I could tell she’d like to reach into the screen and pull Veronica out. But that would be impossible. I knew because I’d tried it. In these photographs Veronica remained frozen and intangible. 

***

The last time I returned home, I’d been traveling for more than a day. I pushed my mask further up my face and hurried through the dimly lit concourse. My parents were relieved I’d even made it back—the airports in Argentina and surrounding countries had been closing rapidly, and many of my newfound friends had gotten stranded in Peru. 

I retrieved my luggage and exited the building. I dragged my suitcases up the stairs and towards the morning light. My dad’s car stopped in front of me.

“Welcome home,” he said.

I smiled wanly before climbing in. 

When we pulled into the driveway, I opened the car door with gloved hands. I made sure to keep my arms by my side—I could not risk touching anything in the house. My dad let me in through the back and when I entered the kitchen, Mom and Madison were standing behind the granite island. Veronica struggled confusedly as my mother held her. She probably wondered why she could not greet me, but knew my mom wouldn’t restrain her out of malice. 

My family and I had a brief conversation. They once again told me they were sorry I couldn’t stay in Argentina. I was sorry too. They then instructed me to go to my room, put the clothes I was wearing in a bag and take a shower. We left the luggage in the garage, where it would stay for about three days. I did as my parents asked before letting myself drift off. For two weeks I would not leave my room unless to go to the bathroom or take walks outside. 

About two hours after I had begun the quarantine, Veronica scratched at my door. I did not move. She scratched again. I rolled over in my bed and opened my laptop. Moments later I heard my mom scoop her up and say,

“Sorry, baby, you can’t go in there.”

Sometime during my confinement, Madison ordered a pizza and brought it to my room. I ate with the door open, six feet away from her, while she sat in the hallway. Veronica bounded up the stairs (probably because she smelled food) and started towards me. I backed away and Madison caught her. Veronica kept running as Madison held her, her legs moving in mid-air. Once again, Mom took her away and murmured reassuring words.

“Not yet, Vivi. Not yet.” 

It took Veronica about a week to figure out that for some reason, she could not go near me. She stopped trying to dart into my room and jump on my bed. She stopped scratching at my door and following me on walks. And when I passed her on the way to the bathroom or to go outside, she just looked at me from the living room couch, as if asking where I was going and why she could not come. 

I got into the habit of taking long naps to stave off boredom. When awake I paced about, read books and watched television. When my mom mentioned how well I was holding up, I said,

“You underestimate my laziness.”

During one of my daily naps, someone knocked on my door. When I opened it, Dad pulled me into a hug. 

“You’re negative,” he said. “You don’t have it.” 

Mom and Madison hugged me then and after they pulled away, Mom placed Veronica in my arms. 

“I love you, I love you,” I said. I knew I shouldn’t smother her, but I didn’t want to let her go. She didn’t struggle, but she didn’t nuzzle against me either. Her eyes flitted about the room, and when I put her down, she simply walked away. 

***

During one of my 8:45 Zoom Linguistics classes, the professor suggested that we show each other our pets. 

I padded downstairs, grabbed Veronica, and brought her to my room. I put her in front of the camera and she blinked vacantly at my classmates. When they were done cooing over her, I sat her down and she promptly left the room. 

At 5:00, in the middle of my Spanish Translation class, I heard her running back and forth across the living and dining rooms, barking furiously at passersby.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to come back here?” she seemed to say. She said this every day, at exactly 5:00 PM, when the neighbors walked their dogs and took family strolls on the sidewalk. 

“Veronica, stop all that barking!” Mom yelled from the room over. 

I couldn’t hear everything she said from upstairs, but I imagined she was muttering something about getting curtains. Veronica’s frustration towards other dogs was so intense that she had almost completely scratched the paint off of the window pains. 

Or maybe it was excitement. No one knew her feelings. But we did know that she anticipated this moment. Every day, she waited in front of the dining room window, as if daring the dogs to pass by our house again.

It had been two weeks since my quarantine had ended, and Veronica had not once visited my room. I had brought her up, but whenever I showed her affection, she showed me apathy. When I told my mother this, she said that maybe I should give Veronica time. I should continue to show her how much I love her, and eventually, she’d realize she no longer had to keep her distance. 

So that’s what I did. I made sure to give her plenty of treats. I let her hang out on our deck whenever she asked, and let her back inside as soon as she approached the door. 

I took her on long walks until she tired out. She could not verbally tell me what she wanted, but I tried to think of it all. Still, she seemed cold. 

“It could be in your head, Morgan,” Mom said. “But she might be a little mad at you for shutting her out all that time.” 

I nodded dejectedly and went upstairs. I threw myself on my bed, turned on my portable speaker and listened to music. I read my book for a while, paced about my room for a while. 

Then I thought, what if I just hung out with her? 

What if we existed in the same space, and we didn’t demand anything of each other? What if I let myself just be with her, and didn’t ask her to love me or to miss me? 

I picked up my portable speaker and my book and made my way to the living room. Veronica was sitting on the couch, staring at the window, waiting for 5:00. 

I settled down next to her, the music swelling around us. I read my book and petted her absently, happy just being next to her. 

I looked up when I felt her paw on my leg. 

She climbed gingerly on my lap and rested her head on my calf. She relaxed into me, and I was content.