Just the three of us, B.D. (Before Dog)

I always envisioned “dog lovers” as those slightly crazy people with dog hair on their sweaters and sweaters on their dogs.  They didn’t have one dog, they had six, and the six they had ruled their house the way prisoners might rule the prison, given the chance.  I didn’t consider myself to be a “dog lover.”  Dogs were nice enough, I supposed, except when they jumped up or got overly friendly in embarrassing ways, but mostly I didn’t pay that much attention to them.   But then I did what a lot of mothers do when they’re getting divorced and feel guilty and are desperate to bring something happy and simple into their kids’ lives when not too much feels happy and simple – I got a puppy.  First rule of dog ownership: the words “simple” and “puppy” do not belong in the same kennel.

Jupiter (whose name came from the dog character in John Cheever’s A Country Husband) came into our lives at a time of change and flux.  What happened on the day we got her is one of the true stories in The Story of Us.  Just as it happens in the book, we all piled in The Bermuda Honda – our frequently cursed and vindictive car – and set out, driving east of the mountains to pick up our puppy.  I was hoping for the kind of big adventure that sets you on a new path as a family.  It would be our beginning.  After that day, I imagined, we would officially be the three of us, my daughter, my son, and me, plus one dog.  We started the day with thrilling expectations and bravery (and great car snacks like Red Vines), and the moment we made it over the mountain pass, two things happened.  The car broke down, utterly and irrevocably, AND it began to snow, hard.

Here comes trouble.

We were picked up by a Wenatchee Water and Power truck, and brought to the house where the breeder lived.  Puppy Jupiter, who could fit inside two cupped palms, looked as unsure of us as we were of her, and who could blame her then.  The breeder was mean-looking and smelled like cigarette smoke.  He intended to make this sweet tiny beagle into a hunting dog if no one claimed her.  We claimed her.  The breeder dropped us off in town, and then we waited in the snow to be rescued by my father, who drove over the mountains to fetch us.  As I said in The Story of Us:

“The last thing you want when you’re trying to be big and brave is to be rescued.  But thank God we are rescued when we need it.  And that day was a whole entire day of rescue.  We thought about Jupiter living outside, the snow, that strange, smoky house, that gruff breeder.  That small baby, a hunting dog.  We thought we rescued her.  But when we finally got home, the three of us plus one more, it felt like something huge had shifted.  We’d created a new family now, moved on from the old one by bringing in a new somebody, who was scampering around our wood floors cracking us up, biting our fingers with sharp little teeth, looking so small beside her huge bowls now set on a placemat on the kitchen floor.  Tell me, who was rescuing who?”

Pals – Nick and Jupiter.

Of course, I fell in love.  Jupiter wiggled and dug her way into our lives.  Our relationship grew.  And I began to notice dogs – short dogs hurrying on short dog legs on their walks, patient dogs tied outside of stores, sad dogs, and joyful ones, each with their own funny little personalities.  The more I noticed, the more I saw.  Here they were, living half in our world and half in theirs, managing the most earnest, good intentions one could find in such a difficult situation.  Stop for a moment and really look.  How can you not appreciate them?  They go along with mostly good cheer at whatever your plan is.  They worry when you worry.  They show joy at life’s simple pleasures (grass, a spot of sun, a bit of cheese).   They put up with your moods and your great ideas to dress them in hats.  Sure, they steal your socks and then take off running, and, sure, they snitch your donut off the counter and take the fluff from your pillows.  But they are comic relief, court jesters, stand-up comedians – they strike a goofy pose, or their head tilts just so at your question, or they wink right then, and you could swear it was all perfectly timed for laughs.   They are so smart, knowing one car’s sound from the next or understanding that a particular jacket means an imminent walk, but they’re their simple selves, too, barking when the doorbell rings on TV or misjudging their slippery toenail slide right into the wall. They navigate a complex life of their instincts merged with our lifestyle, trying to do the job they were meant for in an ill-matched time and place – herding in an apartment, guarding against the U.P.S. man, stalking and pouncing upon their prey, which happens to be some limp, once-stuffed toy.

Jupiter in the house we designed and made. Yes, folks, she is chewing the garden hose.

But they are one thing above all other things, a rare thing, at least my beloved pal Jupiter was:  They are steadfast.   Dogs wait for you.  They watch out for you.  They stand by you, and then lean in. They listen when you need a friend.  They are almost always, always trying to do their best for the people they love.

Jupiter became family.  She was one of us.  She was my daily sidekick, following me into the kitchen when I went into the kitchen, following me outside when I went outside (you get the idea, here), staying beside me during the writing hours.  I began to include dogs as characters in my books.  I think pets make wonderful characters in fiction, and they can be largely overlooked by writers.  Yet, Jupiter was a part of my regular life, so dogs became a regular part of my work.  Jupiter appeared as the male beagle Milo in The Nature of Jade (sorry, girl), and my step-dog, Tucker, made an appearance as Rocket in The Six Rules of Maybe.  A reviewer once wrote that my dog characters were as full and complete as my human characters, and, to me, that was one of the best compliments I’ve ever gotten.

I became a “dog person” after all.  My own sort of dog person.  I did not have six of them, or (too often, anyway) have dog hair on my sweaters or a sweater on my dog.  I didn’t love each and every one with some sort of passion greater than I had for people; I disliked the mean ones and the leg-humpers (let’s face it, they exist, too).  Same as Cricket in The Story of Us, my dog love was more the everyday kind:

Birthday party poster of Jupiter’s favorite things, including garden hoses, see above.

“…the kind where you shout at them to stop doing some annoying thing, and then carry them around on your shoulder, watching how pleased they are to be up high.  You admire their beautiful ears and their noble expression and then get mad when they pretend they can’t hear you when you call them to come in.  And it’s all forgiven; the ways both of you are imperfect.  A devoted relationship, with the regular togetherness of rawhide and stop-and-sniff walks.  One girl and her own one dog.”

When Jupiter died after a hard illness when she was ten, I was bereft.  And I was also blown away at this bond we have with our pets, and at our grief and loss when they are gone.  Her death came at another time of change for our family.  We were restructuring again, moving away from our longtime home as we all grew into new phases of our lives – graduation and college for my kids, remarriage for me.  Her death closed the circle of our time together as a small family of three plus one dog.  I wanted – no, needed – to understand this time of change and loss, or at least to process it.   Writing a book is my way of doing exactly that, and so I began to write The Story of Us and to research the dog-human bond (as well as cool, amazing stuff about dogs in general).  I wanted to understand this unique relationship between two species.  I wanted to say to other people who love their pets – I get this.  I wanted to spend some writing time with the funny, sweet, fascinating creatures that are dogs.

Pals – Sam and Jupiter.

But I also wanted to do something else.  I wanted to acknowledge and give thanks to my Jupiter, who came to us in the very years we needed her, who gave to each of us individually and to our family as a whole, who opened my eyes to the simple goodness of dog love.  I didn’t want to forget.  I wanted to hold her memory here with the anchoring power of words on a page, my pal, my writing buddy, because she mattered.

So, dear Jupiter, my forever heart-thanks to you for your place in both the real story of us and in the fictional one.  And to all the rest of those fine dogs out there – the Max’s and Sophie’s and Buddy’s and Duke’s and Lucky’s – thanks for making our world a whole lot sweeter.  May you all have long walks and roast beef and the least embarrassing sweaters possible.

A good dog.

Far as I knew, there were no airports on Bishop Rock, which was a lucky thing for Dan Jax. For all of us. I loved Dan, and this was one wedding that I . . . Well, I hoped she married the guy, I really did. The other ones were assholes, and she was right to leave them. But you got to wondering. You know, if she could do it. Maybe some people just had trouble with forever.

Outside, Ben beeped the horn of his truck. My brother was always on time. And, change? Whatever. He was fine with it. Jupiter—her, too. She’d see her leash and your car keys in hand, and her little butt would start swiveling in circles of joy. She didn’t know if she was going to Gram’s or to Taco Time, or if she’d land at the vet getting shots, but still there was the hopping around and the yay, yay, yay dog dance. She loved the ride anyway, no matter where she ended up.

But not me. What’s to love about uncertainty? Nothing. It’s scary—a big black hole of possible outcomes. Change requires bravery, and I don’t even like to walk into creepy basements alone. Sometimes I’ve even wished there was a human pause button, where you could choose some point in your life where you could stay always. Here’s the time I’d pick: my sophomore year of high school, when Janssen and I were crazy in love and my stupid brother still lived at home, and we’d all have those breakfasts on Sunday. Janssen would walk down the road and knock on the door, and Mom would be up early, and we’d have bacon and French toast, and Jupiter would sit by the table being her best self for a dropped crust. Sure, maybe things could get better than that, but things could get worse, too. I’d take it because I knew where I was then. I knew where home was. Things were sure.

Obviously I have my own troubles with forever, and what I did to Janssen proved that.

I heard my mother breathing hard, her suitcase bashing and banging into the walls as she brought it down the stairs. I could just see it—my mother, tripping and tumbling, broken leg, broken arm, no wedding. I listened for the crash. Janssen once said I was always listening for the crash.

"Be careful!" I called, but she was already safe. The bag thudded to the floor, and she sighed. She must not have heard me because a second later she was yelling up the stairwell.

"Cricket! Ready?"

Ready? I guess that was the question. Were either of us ready? For the last few weeks our house was a maze of cardboard cartons and mixed emotions. You could barely walk in there, and every stupid thing was a memory. Boxes were stacked up wherever you looked; stacked up and labeled in fat, black pen (or crayon or eyeliner or whatever was closest). kitchen. attic. ben’s stuff. fragile! Clumps of newspaper were strewn around, and so were the odd piles of things no one knew what to do with. A CD that belonged to one of Mom’s friends and needed returning, manuals to varied appliances, mystery keys.

What do you keep hold of? What is meant to go? One thing was clear—I’d had a childhood marked by Disney movies. Cricket, you want to keep your and Ben’s old Lion King game? How about these Princess Jasmine slippers? Cricket, look what I found in the garage. Remember this? Beauty and the Beast magicmirror-
slash-squirt-gun Happy Meal toy. You loved this.

When you were moving, every little object was a decision.That seventh-grade report on the Industrial Revolution—keep or toss? Christmas sweater knit by Great-Grandma Shine? On one hand—obviously I’d never wear it. On the other—she was dead, and putting it in the Goodwill bag made me feel like she’d be looking down, getting her feelings hurt. I couldn’t break hearts in heaven, I just couldn’t. Here on earth was bad enough.

My mother was worse than I was about all that stuff. Of course, she was happy, too. Really happy. Whenever Dan Jax would call or come over with a homemade something (Dan Jax was a great cook), she was giddy. I’d never seen her like that. But then came the sorting and the packing of our old baby clothes, tiny shirts yellowed with spit-up, miniature sweatshirts with trains and bears that she was supposed to be getting rid of, but that she only solemnly folded back up and returned to the box. She did better with our baby toys, but she was still weepy and sullen with each teething ring and stack of plastic doughnuts (largest to smallest, in rainbow colors) that she decided to part with.

"You can be happy and sad, too," I had told her, which was a joke between all of us, because that was a line in Monkey M. Monkey Goes on Vacation, one of her most popular kiddie books. "Monkey M. Monkey was happy to go, but sad, too. He knew he would miss Otto and Willa and the others."

"Do you want this for college?" she had answered, holding up a plastic yellow toy telephone. When I was four, I’d swung that at Ben once and gave him a bloody nose.

"Ha," I’d said. "If I ever need to call home . . ."

Finally she found a solution—she kept a few of the toys and then spread the rest out on the floor and took photos of them. She even crouched for close-ups. My crib-side Busy Box got more poses than I did for my senior pictures. Hopefully she’d order wallet sizes so it could pass some to its friends, the shape sorter and the Fisher-Price garage.

Was that what I should have done with everything that was mine and Janssen’s too? Taken pictures, so that I could leave it all behind, if leaving it behind was what I was going to do? Hundreds of pictures, it would be. Dried flowers and stacks of sweet notes and the scarf he tried to knit me once but which ended up about two inches long. Pictures of pictures, too, I’d have to take. That one of him on Moon Point, where his hair is catching the sun and it’s a curly mess, and he’s grinning like mad, his arms out, as if he’s trying to hug the moment. He’s the cutest, he is. God. That’s a great picture of him.

Mom was down there with her bag, and in the driveway outside Ben leaned on the horn. He was ready a long time ago. He had this enviable ability not to linger over feelings. Get a move on, let’s go. I loved that. Maybe it was a guy thing. I wished I had it.

"Bus is leaving!" Mom yelled.

"Coming!" I yelled back.

"Jupiter!" Mom called.

From the doorway of my room, I could see Jupiter get up from her pillow. She stretched one thin beagle leg out behind her and then the other—oh, the old girl had to get the kinks out lately, before she could get the whole body moving. She clomped down the stairs, front paws and then back end, in a little hop. She’d already had a big day. A bath that morning, where she’d sat, miserable, in the tub with flat, drenched hair, until she was finally out and free to roll around on the carpet, smelling like strawberry shampoo and wet dog. Now she was fluffy as she made her way down. Some dogs—they’re just sweet; you can feel their kindness in their soulful eyes, and that was Jupiter. I snagged her bed and her favorite ragged blankie, too, and Rabbit, that flat stuffed-animal roadkill she loved.

"Don’t forget these," I said to Mom.

"Thanks. Stinky dog bed . . . check. Deflated old Easter bunny."

"This was one of ours?" We used to get a stuffed rabbit every year in our baskets.

"Yours, I think. Didn’t you give it to her?"

I felt a pang of something sad and bittersweet as I looked at that dreary, matted used-to-be fur. Even a stupid smelly dog toy had its stories. Stuffed toy glory days, long gone, but still, Jupiter kept on loving that flat old rabbit. It kind of choked me up. God! That, right there—that was evidence of the mess, the knotted, impossible, stuck mess I was in. Sentimental feelings about something that disgusting . . . I don’t know. That thing
stank.

We hauled the gathered luggage to the porch. Ben hopped out of his truck, headed over to help with the bags. Jupiter had already tangled herself on her leash around the front hedge. Mom shut the front door and then locked it. The door seemed huge all of a sudden. Years and years huge. We’d moved to that house when I was ten years old and Ben was twelve, after our parents got divorced.

"Well," my mom said. Her voice was wavery.

"I know," I said.

"It’s not the last time. We’ll be back. We’ll have to check to see if the movers left anything behind . . . ," Ben said.

"Still," I said. "Let’s hurry."

"Good idea," Mom said. "I hate good-byes."

But we didn’t exactly hurry. Even Ben didn’t. He set down the bags he held. We all stood on that wide, wide lawn in front of our old Victorian house in Nine Mile Falls, my mother’s arm around our waists, mine and Ben’s. Behind that door—no, wait, on that lawn and up that drive and behind that door and everywhere else on that property—there was what felt like a lifetime full of memories. Middle school angst and Christmases, the huge blanket of maple leaves every fall, our creek out back, the sound of it—soft and trickling, or rushing with too much rain as the boulders tumbled underneath. My father with his car idling out front, picking us up for the weekend; Jon Jakes and his rotten kids who lived under our roof for two years; Ben and me—fighting and laughing and more laughing. Ben and me and Mom and Jupiter. Home.

And Janssen, of course. My very own Janssen Tucker. Who right then did not belong either to my past or my future, which was all my stupid doing. I’d put him in some waiting place of in-between, and he’d just made it clear he wasn’t going to stay there much longer. Could you blame him? Me and my Janssen, our clock was ticking. You gotta figure this one out on your own, he told me. You gotta decide. I loved, love, that boy. That’s the first part of this story that you need to know.

"Smell," Mom said.

"What?" Ben said.

"Blackberries ripening. Along the creek. Smells like summer."

"It does," I said.

"Summer was great here," Ben said. "Except for cutting this goddamn lawn."

"How many lawn mowers did this lawn kill?" I asked. The lawn was huge. The first cut of the spring—the grass was ankle high and so thick and hard to mow that it took a couple of days to do the job. I fought the lawn, and the . . . lawn won, Mom would sing, after taking a long drink of water out of the hose.

"Three," Mom said.

"Two Weedwackers," Ben said.

"And what about winter," Mom said.

"Yeah," I said. The wind would blow so hard that tree branches would crack loose, and the power would go out for days.

"Here . . . ," she said. Her voice was soft.

"What?" I asked.

"So much of our story is here."

I didn’t want to cry. I hated to cry. All three of us were the same that way. She kissed the tops of our heads. Ben cleared his throat.

"Look at that crazy dog," Mom said.

We did. She had about four inches of leash left and was now bound tight to the lilac bush. She had given up. Lain down right there and set her chin on her paws. She sighed through her nose.

It was great comic timing. That’s part of what made them so great, right? The mess, the barking, the trouble—one reason you put up with it all was for the relief of ridiculous dogs during big moments. Ben laughed. "Oh, poor you," Mom said to her. "Poor defeated baby."

I went to untangle her leash. Ben picked the bags back up, and Mom put her house key in the pocket of her jeans. All this past and all this future and all this unknowing, and there was only one thing we could do about it. One choice, and so we did it. We got into Ben’s truck to see what would happen next.

Cricket’s future stepsisters make it clear they’re not happy about the marriage. An old friend decides this is the week to declare his love for Cricket. Grandpa chooses to reveal a big secret at a family gathering. Dan’s ex-wife shows up. And even the dogs—Cricket’s old, ill Jupiter and Dan’s young, lively Cruiser—seem to be declaring war.

While Cricket fears that Dan is in danger of becoming ditched husband-to-be number three, she’s also alarmed by her own desires. Because even though her boyfriend looms large in her mind, Ash is right in front of her….

Smiling nervously while thinking “No way I’m going up there.”

STAY, as you probably know, is a book about a girl and her father who run to a remote seaside town in order to escape her obsessive boyfriend. And for my essay for this particular book, I know that some people might expect me to write about obsessive boyfriends, stalking, what to do if you find yourself in this situation, or better yet, how NOT to get there at all. It might even be seen as my writerly duty. But I’ve never liked doing what I’m supposed to do. Ask my Mom and Dad. Or better yet, my poor sister, who got stuck doing the dishes when I managed to find every fake stomach ache or head throb to weasel out of it. Once again, sis, I’m sorry.

So let’s just agree. If you are in any situation that sounds remotely like the one Clara was in, speak up. Tell someone. Look after yourself. Get help, if you need it. You probably need it. It’s a dangerous place to be. Most of all, be safe. Please. Listen to me on this one. Deal? Excellent.

Haven’t I seen those clouds on the STAY cover?

Now, instead, here’s what I really want to talk about: The setting of STAY.

STAY takes place on Bishop Rock, an island I made up, loosely based on a real one: Whidbey Island. Whidbey is a short drive (or ferry ride) from Seattle, where I live. To get there by car, you have to go over Deception Pass, and its looming, frightening, thrilling bridge. After Clara crosses this bridge, she feels a sense of pride: “It had a sort of significance, though I didn’t know what kind. It had to – you didn’t cross the perilous distance over deception without it meaning something.” (Sorry for quoting myself. I hate that. Still, you get the idea.)

My husband and I took a trip back over Deception Pass ourselves to Whidbey last weekend, to revisit the setting of STAY, and to just plain enjoy a great day trip. Although I have walked across that bridge in the past, I didn’t do it this time. I’m telling you, that’s one scary dude. But it’s also dramatic and spooky and magnificent. It struck me again what a perfect setting it was for STAY. Even the clouds that day at first looked just like the book cover.

Happy author at Whidbey lighthouse

Creating setting is one of my favorite parts of writing a book. If you’ve read my other books, too, you’ve probably guessed this. The towns I create reappear in my books, and I love spending time in those places, even in my imagination: Nine Mile Falls, Parrish Island, and Bishop Rock. I especially loved “spending time” in/on Bishop Rock, so much so that I set my next book, THE STORY OF US, there, too. Since it takes a year or more for me to write a book, it helps to enjoy the setting I’m “in.” Writing about Bishop Rock was like being on a mental vacation.

To me, setting is one of the most important elements in a book. When I create setting, I think of it as a character. I believe it should live and breathe as a character would; it should have its own quirks and traits as a character would, too. Its moods should shift and evolve. Every town (or city or beach or anywhere) I’ve lived or visited has had its own pulse and heartbeat and personality. A place, not just its people, has a temperament, too.

Climbing the lighthouse stairs

The Pacific Northwest is character everywhere you look, from its craggy, tumultuous mountains to the mysterious, solitary islands set about in the waters of the Puget Sound, under which whales sing and slumber. See? I’m getting carried away again just thinking about it! I won’t break into a rousing verse of “America” and Purple Mountains Majesty lyrics, I promise! (Which as a kid, I always got wrong anyway: Above thy putrid grain. Very patriotic.) The point is, “setting as character” is easy here. I look around and feel it. I step outside, and there it is, offering itself.

The names around here are character-filled, too. Clara and her father joke about the heavy metaphors in the names of places around the island, but most of the names are the actual ones. Deception Pass is, and so is Possession Point, set at the tip of Whidbey Island. While I wish I could credit my imagination for those, the names-as-metaphor were already right there when I moved my characters to that particular island.

Guard your ankles…

And that’s part of what is so great about setting, particularly, setting here, in the Northwest where I live. It’s all given to you, like the biggest, most beautiful present. Setting as character, moods, temperament, even names… Artistry. It’s all right here already. All I have to do is pay attention. I just need to be a good, appreciative audience. Which is not hard. Which is pure pleasure, actually. That day, we drove over Deception Pass, and out toward Possession Point, and we stopped at the Whidbey lighthouse. We stuck our toes in the freezing water, edged down the same cliffs Clara’s father broke his ankle on. We saw four eagles and a seal, climbed the lighthouse stairs and looked out over the haunted waters of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, where ships went missing long ago.

Beach magic

Maybe I love writing setting so much because I love living setting so much. It’s given and you take it, you take it in, and it changes you. That day, I think I felt a little like Clara did at the end of the book. The ocean and the air and the beach had worked their magic. I felt the past, and I felt the present. And I felt the wind, pushing me forward.