Noodle Helps Gabriel Say Goodbye Page 2

  Then one day, I heard a loud knock on the door.

  “Mr. Fusilli?” a voice said. “Chicago Police. Everything okay in there?”

  “Mr. Fusilli?” another voice said. “It’s Andrea. From North Branch University. Are you in there?”

  I ran to the door and barked. And barked and barked and barked.

  The door opened hard and hit me in the head.

  “Oh, baby,” Andrea said as she rubbed my head. “Are you okay?”

  But I didn’t have time for that. I ran back to Mr. Fusilli’s room. Andrea and the police officer followed me. The police officer looked in the room first. He shrugged his shoulder and spoke into the radio on his shirt.

  Andrea started crying and knelt down to hug me.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Some of the kids at the college were worried about you. They said they hadn’t seen you and Mr. Fusilli for a few days. I wish I noticed sooner.”

  Pretty soon, the apartment was filled with firefighters and paramedics. They let me sniff Mr. Fusilli goodbye before they wheeled him out on a gurney.

  It was sad.

  “Seems he doesn’t have any family. I’ll call animal control,” the police officer said to Andrea. “They’ll take Noodle to the pound. Shame. She’s a sweet dog.”

  Andrea caught her breath and shook her head.

  “No,” she said. “Noodle loves being on campus. She belongs there. If it’s okay, I’ll take her home.”

  The officer handed Andrea my leash and his card.

  “If you change your mind, call me.”

  Andrea thanked the officer and wiped her tears.

  “Well, Noodle,” Andrea said. “Mr. Fusilli told me the story of how you came to live with him and how well you adjusted to your new life. Are you ready for another new life with me and Ann?”

  I hadn’t been ready for a life without Jimmy and I wasn’t ready for life without Mr. Fusilli. But I knew one thing: we can lose people we love but somehow there are always more people to love.

  So I went to live with Andrea and Ann in the big house on the North Branch campus. I loved Andrea and Ann, the walks, and all my students. I settled in to my daily routine of walking through campus and sometimes hanging out with students in the library or entertaining guests when Ann and Andrea held big parties for donors or famous alumni. I was always a big hit.

  One night, a man named Mr. Tuttle showed up at one of these parties. He was the founder of Helper Hounds. Years ago, the Helper Hounds had come to campus to help students after a bomb scare on campus, and Mr. Tuttle was back to guest-lecture in a class.

  Long story short: Andrea told Mr. Tuttle how I loved to sit with students in the library and listen as they told me their problems while on walks. She told him how I had lived with a boy, and then with Mr. Fusilli, and how I came to North Branch University. Mr. Tuttle listened hard and then asked me to do a few tricks.

  I sat. I lay down. I came when he called. I let him lift up my paws and look at my teeth. I really do have good teeth.

  Mr. Tuttle then asked the question that would change my whole life: “Would you like to bring Noodle to Helper Hounds University? See how she does?”

  Andrea tilted her head and looked at me. “Curly Noodle? A Helper Hound?”

  I tilted my head back at both of them and barked.

  “Sounds like she wants to give it a go,” Mr. Tuttle said.

  And so we did. After many weeks of classes and tests and meeting lots of other dogs and people, I got my very own red Helper Hounds badge and vest. I’ve been a world-famous Helper Hound for two years now. We go all around the world helping people with all sorts of things.

  Every day I still miss Jimmy and Mr. Fusilli. But helping people is what I was born to do. Which reminds me: we better get back to Gabriel’s story!

  CHAPTER 5

  Most of the time, when we get a new Helper Hounds case, Andrea and I travel far away. Usually we hop in the car and drive a couple hours. Sometimes we even get on an airplane! But Gabriel lived just a few blocks from campus. So Andrea slipped on my vest, snapped on my leash, and off we walked. We cut through campus, taking the bridge across the river to the street filled with townhouses, apartment buildings, and three-flats just down the way from us.

  As we passed the trees and river, I caught whiffs of the familiar squirrels, skunks, possums, raccoons, and otters. But when I’m wearing my vest, we don’t stop to sniff. I’m on duty. I’m at work. So I was fully focused ahead when I spotted a boy in the middle of the sidewalk ahead of me.

  The boy pointed at me and ran back toward his apartment building.

  “Mama,” he yelled. “La perra esta aqui! La perra esta aqui!”

  A woman in an apron that smelled like beef stew stepped out from the building.

  “Ay,” the woman said. “Que linda.”

  Andrea told me to sit and she stuck out her hand when we reached the walkway in front of Gabriel’s building.

  “I’m Andrea,” she said. “I’m sorry I don’t speak much Spanish.”

  “It’s okay,” the woman said. “I’m Rosita, Gabriel’s abuela. You can call me Abuela, if you want. Everyone else does. Gabriel! Come back outside!”

  “And this,” Andrea said, “is Noodle.”

  “She’s beautiful,” Rosita said. “But I still don’t understand how a dog helps a child understand death?”

  At this, Rosita made the sign of a cross on her body and clenched beads that draped her hands.

  “Good question,” Andrea said. “The Helper Hounds ‘teach’ by being there for comfort. Kids tend to talk more around the dogs than they do people. That’s what we hope for. That’s how Noodle can help.”

  “Gabriel needs to talk, poor boy,” Abuela said. “He was so broken up when my husband died. So sad. And yet, he does not cry. He just gets angry that his grandfather is gone.”

  Rosita quickly wiped a tear and smiled as a woman walked up with Gabriel.

  “Isabel,” Abeula said. “This is Andrea and Noodle.”

  They shook hands.

  “We’re so happy you’re here,” Isabel said. “Do you really live on North Branch’s campus? So close? I went to school there, you know.”

  “You did? Fantastic!” Andrea said. “And yes, we really do live there. My partner’s the university president. We’ve been there eight years now. I’ve had Noodle for four of those years.”

  Isabel knelt down and made kissing sounds in front of my face.

  “I’m so happy you’re here,” she said. I gave her two slurps on the lips since she asked so nicely. “Gabriel, mi amor, say hello to Noodle.”

  Gabriel walked up and stuck out his hand.

  “Not sure she can shake your hand, niño,” his mother said.

  But I knew this drill all too well. I lifted my paw and set it in Gabriel’s hand. He shook it.

  “She’s smart!” Gabriel said.

  “She is,” Andrea said. “Noodle’s also very well trained. And she’s learned what people want—and need—and is happy to help.”

  “My mom wants her to help me not feel mad about my abuelo dying,” Gabriel said. “She’s supposed to help me cry or something.”

  Gabriel rolled his eyes at his mom.

  “You and your sassy mouth,” Abuela said and she swatted the bottom of her apron at Gabriel. The smell of stew wafted toward me. I was mid-drool when Andrea said: “How about you walk Noodle inside for me and we can all talk about how Noodle can help? But I promise: she’s not here to make you cry.”

  “Good,” Gabriel said. “I hate crying.”

  “Me too,” Andrea whispered as she handed Gabriel her leash.

  “But Noodle has lost people too,” Andrea said. “Her first boy was allergic to her. So they had to give her away. Her second boy—a grown-up grandpa—died. You two might have things to talk about.”

  Gabriel shrugged.

  “I guess,” he said. “But do I really get to walk her?” His face lit up.

  “Sure do,” And
rea said. “Lead the way.”

  Gabriel walked me up a sidewalk and through a door. “We’re on the third floor,” Gabriel said. “Wanna race me?”

  “She won’t race while she’s in her vest,” Andrea said. “Hold on.”

  Andrea reached down and unclipped my vest. I shook all my curly noodles out and took off up the stairs as Gabriel skipped two at a time. I’d never been in this building before—but the stairs were just like some of the dorms at school. Each staircase led to a small landing with a window and a quick turn and then another set of stairs. I beat Gabriel up the stairs—but it was close.

  Andrea, Isabel, and Abuela were not even to the first landing, but Andrea’s voice came through loud and clear: “Sit,” she said. “Stay.”

  I sat and stayed.

  “Can I walk her into the apartment?” Gabriel asked.

  “She needs to wait for me and the vest,” Andrea said. “We’ll be there in a sec.”

  While we waited for everyone else, I stuck my nose in the air and took two sniffs.

  “That’s cigar you smell,” Gabriel said. “My abuelo smoked one every night on the fire escape. Abuela hated it. She said it was bad for his health and made the apartment stink. But I liked the smell. I’m glad we can still smell it.”

  Andrea, Isabel, and Abuela reached the top landing.

  “I’m glad we can still smell it too, mi amor,” Abuela said. She gave Gabriel a hug. He shirked away.

  “I can’t smell it without thinking of papi,” Isabel said.

  “Smelling cigar is a better way to remember than visiting dumb old graveyards,” Gabriel said.

  “Ay me madre,” Abuela said. She looked toward the ceiling and crossed herself again.

  Isabel shook her head, turned the door handle, and led us into Gabriel’s apartment.

  CHAPTER 6

  Gabriel and I sat on the braided rug in the sunroom. The adults talked at a table in the dining room.

  “They’re whispering about me,” Gabriel said while he tugged on the rope that dangled from my mouth. “They want me to go back to that cemetery to visit. Abuela says it’s important to remember. But that place was so spooky. I can’t stand to think of Abuelo in that box, all alone in a graveyard. I’m never going back.“

  Then Gabriel turned toward the table in the other room and said louder: “I’m never going back.”

  “Ay,” said Gabriel’s mom. “Now you understand our worry. He got pretty scared at the funeral.”

  “I’m not scared,” Gabriel said.

  Isabel shook her head.

  “He and his abuelo were so close,” she said. “His abuelo picked him up after school every day, they watched baseball together, they fed the ducks in the river… which I know we’re not supposed to.”

  Andrea and Gabriel’s mom laughed. Signs were posted all over campus and along the riverbanks about the dangers of feeding ducks. Everyone ignored them. (I wondered if people would obey them if the sign also instructed people instead to toss their cut-up chunks of bread to a certain curly-noodle of a dog…)

  “So you’re not scared about going to the cemetery,” Andrea asked. “Why don’t you want to go?”

  “I’m mad he’s there,” Gabriel said. “That place is spooky.”

  “So maybe you’re a little bit scared,” Andrea said with a smile.

  Gabriel shrugged.

  “Can I tell you what used to scare me—when I was a girl?” Andrea said. “We can see if they match.”

  Gabriel nodded. He released the rope and sunk his fingers into the curls on my back.

  “My mother died when I was seven—really young,” Andrea said.

  “Que triste,” Abuela said. “How sad.”

  “Yes,” Andrea said. “It was. But I felt really angry too. My dad used to take us to the cemetery so we could ‘talk’ to our mom. But I hated it. I didn’t want to think of her as dead or buried underground. I wanted to think of her as alive—and that she would come back home some day.”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “That’s why I like his cigar smell,” Gabriel said. “I smell it and pretend he just went down to the corner to get a coffee and that he’ll be right back.”

  Gabriel sniffed and leaned his head toward mine.

  “I want Abuelo to come right back,” Gabriel said. “If I go to the cemetery, I remember he won’t be back. That he’s dead. Forever. That makes me mad. The cemetery just proves that I’ll never see him again.”

  “Niño,” Abuela said. “I miss him too. He was my husband for forty years! But remember what Father Nuñez said at mass: we will see your abuelo again someday. It’s what our faith teaches. We visit the cemetery to remember that one day we will all be together again.”

  Gabriel turned his head toward me and rolled his eyes.

  “Who knows if that’s true,” Gabriel said. Abuela crossed herself and kissed the cross around her neck.

  “Besides, I want him here now,” Gabriel said. “Not later.”

  Gabriel took deep breaths and ran his hand down my back. I rested my head on his lap. I could smell the tears behind Gabriel’s eyes. He was close to crying—but Gabriel sniffed and blinked and the tears went away.

  “I still want my mom with me,” Andrea said. “I wish she could be here now. That feeling doesn’t go away. But you know what gets easier?”

  Gabriel shook his head.

  “Going to the cemetery, visiting places you used to go with them, and learning to see ‘signs’ of their presence in your life,” she said.

  “What does that mean?” Gabriel said.

  “It means, that it took a while, but once I accepted that my mom really was dead, that she really was buried in that terrible cemetery, that she wasn’t going to come back, I was able to ‘see’ her in new ways,” Andrea said. “And with that, I started feeling less angry. I was still sad. Just not mad. In fact, I started to like going to the cemetery. I started talking to her there. But I also started talking to her in other places. I kept a journal and I’d write her letters every night. That way, she never seemed too far away. And—are you ready for the weirdest part?”

  Gabriel’s mom and abuela leaned in. Gabriel’s eyes grew wide and he nodded.

  “Okay,” Andrea said. “Once I stopped feeling so mad that she wasn’t with me any more, I began to realize she wasn’t far away after all. My mom made me who I am. She’s part of me! Just like your abuelo made you who you are—and who your mom is, who Abuela is. That means, your abuelo is still part of you and your family.”

  Gabriel tilted his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

  Andrea nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Take Noodle. She’s got hair, not fur. That means she doesn’t shed. Well, not really. But I promise you, when we leave here, you’ll find tiny curly red Noodle-hairs turning up in the weirdest places. It’s mysterious. But she leaves a trace behind. It’s like that with my mom—and with your Abuelo. When someone we love leaves us—if they die or move away—their love lingers. It leaves a trace behind.”

  “Like curly red Noodles,” Gabriel said.

  “Exactly like that,” Andrea said.

  “This all sounds nice,” he said. “But I don’t believe it. I won’t see my abuelo again. Not as a person. Not as a noodle. Not as an anything. He’s gone and I hate it.”

  The tension rose in the room. If I know one thing about people feeling tense, it’s that a good walk always helps. Plus, I had to pee. So I stood up and brought Gabriel my leash.

  Andrea smiled.

  “What would you think about taking Noodle for a little walk?” Andrea said. “I have an idea.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Gabriel and I led the way back to campus. He walked fast so I kicked into a trot. My hair flopped around my vest.

  “Que linda,” Abuela said. “Noodle is a good girl. Reminds me of my Pepe back in México.”

  “Mama,” Isabel said. “You said Pepe was out-of-control.”

  “Well, yes,” Abuela. “He was w
ild, but he was beautiful. I still remember when your abuelo brought Pepe home. Abuelo found him at the rail yards. Your abuelo loved to rescue animals and people.”

  “See?” Andrea said. “That memory is like a ‘noodle’ from your abuelo.”

  Gabriel gripped my leash tighter and bent down to pat my head.

  “Great,” Gabriel said. “I’ll just visit Noodle instead of going to the cemetery.”

  “What if Noodle came with you to the cemetery?” Andrea asked. “She’s used to visiting graves and memorial sites.”

  “Could she do that?” Gabriel asked. We both slowed to a regular walk. I was eager to get my trot back, but it was up to Gabriel. “I mean, if I have to go to the dumb cemetery, I’d rather go with Noodle.”

  “If it’s okay with your mom and abuela,” Andrea said. “Noodle would be happy to go.”

  “Is it?” Gabriel asked. He stopped walking and turned back to his mom.

  “Of course,” Gabriel’s mom said. “Noodle is welcome.”

  “Wonderful,” Andrea said. “But first, Noodle wants to show you something.”

  We crossed through the iron gates that led to campus. I got my trot back as we headed over the bridge and turned on the path that wound along the river.

  “The tree!” Andrea said.

  Dogs understand more words than most people realize. Treat. Walk. Sit. Stay. Vet. Park. Those are some of the most common ones. I know all those—and lots more. But two of my favorites are: The Tree.

  “See this tree?” Andrea said. “It’s no ordinary tree. You might call it a ‘curly red noodle.’”

  “Why?” Gabriel asked.

  “Well,” Andrea said. “The students missed Mr. Fusilli so much, they raised money and planted this tree. To remember him! They were sad he was gone, but wanted a reminder to show everyone how nice he was.

  I squatted next to the tree to give Mr. Fusilli my usual greeting and sniffed to see if that possum had been back.

  Gabriel giggled. “That’s not a nice way to remember someone, Noodle!” he said.

  “But that’s how dogs let other animals know they’ve been around,” Andrea said. “Sometimes I think she does it to let Mr. Fusilli know she remembers him too.”