The Dog Year Read online

  Praise for The Dog Year

  “Reminiscent of the best of Gail Parent and Alison Lurie, The Dog Year is the story of a woman who had everything, lost everything, and now wants to shoplift the rest, including the hope of life after the death of her heart, lost when her husband and child died in a dreadful accident. Ann Garvin’s writing sneaks up on you: It is hilarious, until it’s poignant, until it’s heartbreaking. She leaves no heartstring untugged, no funny bone untapped, and every word she sets down is honest.”

  —Jacquelyn Mitchard, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Deep End of the Ocean

  “With sharp wit and penetrating insight, Ann Garvin offers a tender look at love, loss, friendship, and that curious human epidemic, denial. As touching as it is funny, The Dog Year will take up residence in readers’ (and dog-lovers’) hearts. This is a completely winning novel.”

  —Sally Koslow, author of The Widow Waltz and The Late, Lamented Molly Marx

  “I know of few authors who are funnier or more sympathetic than Ann Garvin, and I know of few heroines more in need of comic relief and sympathy than Dr. Lucy Peterman. This novel will make your stomach hurt with laughter and your heart ache with sadness. The Dog Year is a kind, gentle, honest look at a woman whose life has come apart and a survivor who puts it all back together.”

  —Wiley Cash, New York Times bestselling author of A Land More Kind Than Home and This Dark Road to Mercy

  “Ann Garvin has written another hilarious, insightful, and heartbreaking book. Lucy Peterman is one of Garvin’s signature characters: deeply flawed, nakedly honest, and a whip-smart sarcastic modern woman who finds herself adrift in a world that seems intent on leaving her behind. But Lucy does not give up easily. The Dog Year is a deeply intimate story of tragedy and recovery that readers and book clubs will treasure.”

  —Matt Bondurant, author of The Night Swimmer and The Wettest County in the World

  “Ann Garvin’s funny, heartfelt tale of one woman’s loss, and the grief and staggering around that follows, is proof that if there’s one thing better than a good book and a dog, it’s a good book with a dog. Pure delight.”

  —Karen Karbo, award-winning author of The Stuff of Life and the Kick Ass Women series

  Praise for On Maggie’s Watch

  “Compelling . . . A perfect fit for suburban reading groups.”

  —Booklist

  “On Maggie’s Watch shows how we thrive, how we go on, in a life that’s neither perfect nor fair. [Garvin] writes with humor and compassion so well; just when I’d feel [I was] about to cry, the scene would twist and I’d laugh out loud. She has such a deep understanding for her flawed and trying-to-get-better characters; she obviously loves them, and so do we.”

  —Luanne Rice, New York Times bestselling author of Little Night

  “Fresh, ironic, and psychologically intense. If you’re interested in the best in women’s fiction—this suspenseful, quirky, humorous story of a well-meaning woman’s reverberating effect on her neighbor’s life is certainly that and more.”

  —Jacquelyn Mitchard, New York Times bestselling author of The Deep End of the Ocean

  “Equal parts compelling, entertaining, and poignant—a story that tackles a serious topic and leaves readers questioning the way they judge others.”

  —Holly Kennedy, author of The Penny Tree and The Tin Box

  “What a great book! In turns poignant and funny, On Maggie’s Watch is a delightful and compelling read with unexpected plot twists and many laugh-out-loud moments.”

  —Patricia Wood, author of Lottery

  Books by Ann Garvin

  THE DOG YEAR

  ON MAGGIE’S WATCH

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  Copyright © 2014 by Ann Garvin.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-63463-9

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Garvin, Ann Wertz.

  The dog year / Ann Wertz Garvin.—First Edition, Berkley trade paperback edition.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-425-26925-1 (pbk.)

  1. Women surgeons—Fiction. 2. Grief—Fiction. 3. Drug addiction—Fiction. 4. Dogs—Diseases—Treatment—Fiction. 5. Psychological fiction. I. Title.

  PS3607.A78289D64 2014

  813'.6—dc23

  2013044169

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley trade paperback edition / June 2014

  Cover photo by Cusp/SuperStock.

  Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Version_1

  To my family, in all the ways that family can be defined.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m a reader of acknowledgments. I like to peek into authors’ lives. I like discovering that even the writers who make it look easy needed a hand. I love a good “thank-you,” even if it’s not about me.

  The people who help an author to publication deserve more than a thank-you card with a sprig of lavender printed on the front. They deserve a visit from Oprah, a new car, an organ donation.

  Since nobody really wants my liver, pretty though it is, these acknowledgments will have to suffice. Berkley, my publisher, and Jackie Cantor, my editor, get the kind of tearful thank-you that would embarrass all of us if done in person. To be able to publish with this company and this talented editor is truly this girl’s childhood dream come true. Jill Marr at The Sandra Dijkstra Agency is the most positive, energetic, and lovely woman I’ve never met in person; I thank her every day for taking me on and believing in my writing.

  People who know me know that my head is full of characters but not the rules of grammar. For help I needed Wanda Dye, Amy Reichert, and Tamara Scerpella, three friends who punctuated without judgment or a single eye roll.

  Thank you to my wildly successful writing group (you know who you are), and to anyone who listened to me go on obsessively about whether my main character would do something or not: Linda Wick, Terri Osgood, Carolyn Bach, Elyse Tebon, and so many others. I should probably thank anyone I made eye contact with over the last three years.

  My children are responsible for turning me from a self-absorbed woman to an empathetic human being. Julie and Meghan, I love you and thank you for understanding. My parents, and my brothers, Raymond and Jonathan, deserve every other nod: They modeled love for me every day so that I
could write it down on these pages. To Millie and Peanut, my dogs: How did I live before your devotion?

  And finally, to Brian Osgood: I wrote you into these pages and you appeared. Thank goodness. What are the odds?

  Contents

  Praise for Ann Garvin's Work

  Books by Ann Garvin

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1: It’s Not About the Breast

  Chapter 2: If You’re Happy and You Know It

  Chapter 3: Luscious

  Chapter 4: Thou Shalt Not

  Chapter 5: Beauty Is in the Eye of the Moldy

  Chapter 6: The Pretty, the Ugly, and the Nasty

  Chapter 7: Lose It and Live Again

  Chapter 8: Everybody’s Got a Job to Do

  Chapter 9: Happy Ain’t Just a Town in Texas

  Chapter 10: Smoke and Mirrors

  Chapter 11: Tru Dat

  Chapter 12: You’re Ugly and Your Mother Dresses You Funny

  Chapter 13: The Marshmallow Study

  Chapter 14: A Watch Goose

  Chapter 15: Stop, Drop, and Roll

  Chapter 16: Mr. Blue Sky

  Chapter 17: Dear Baby . . .

  Chapter 18: Risk Management

  Chapter 19: Sleep Sweet

  Chapter 20: A Puppy Is a Big Responsibility

  Chapter 21: No Dog Left Behind

  Chapter 22: Who Said She Wasn’t Good with People?

  Chapter 23: Because Shoplifting Steals from All of Us

  Chapter 24: All the Bad Stuff

  Chapter 25: Regroup

  Chapter 26: Dream Responsibly

  Chapter 27: The Father, the Son, and Aunt Nancy

  Chapter 28: Let Go, Let Dog

  Chapter 29: Misfits, Fertility, and Dogs

  Readers Guide

  1

  It’s Not About the Breast

  In the hospital parking ramp, Lucy snuck a glance at a new mother placing her infant into an elaborate car seat. Her husband stood hovering at her shoulder, his hand gently touching her hip. The woman lingered, gazing at the tiny, beet-faced infant, love fairly oozing from her pores. Lucy waited until the new family drove away, watching the taillights recede all the way out of sight. That particular tableau of the American Dream could have been hers, should have been hers. It would have been hers, she knew, if she’d only stayed conscious and had the right supplies when needed.

  Today she just had to get through the workday. “Get a grip, Peterman,” she said to herself. She shoved open her car door and moved to get out. Instead she dropped her head to the steering wheel. She tried to pull the tough-girl mask over her sorrow and get on with her life. Instead she cried like adults learn to cry: silently and alone.

  Grabbing the rearview mirror after her allotted ten-minute cry, she checked for tattletale mascara under her eyes, wiped her nose with the fast-food napkins she stashed in the glove compartment for this very reason, and got out of her car.

  * * *

  On the fifth floor of Med One Hospital and Clinics in downtown Elmwood, Lucy brushed a piece of lint from her shoulder and tried to anchor a springy curl behind her ear. With almost religious reverence, she placed her palms on the smooth counter and breathed in the disinfected, white, no-question-can’t-be-answered aroma. For Lucy, there were no gray areas here. Sorrow, maybe; loss, certainly. But always in black and white. The doctor is IN. She widened her eyes and said, “God, I love Mondays.”

  Melissa, a brown-haired, plump, hyper-organized nurse who had worked with Lucy since the beginning of her tenure here, pulled her head back.

  “I’ve warned you to keep that kind of thing to yourself around here, Dr. Peterman. Nobody likes Mondays. People like Fridays, Saturdays, but never Mondays.”

  “I love ’em. I get to see you, talk to people in pain, drug them, and cut out their problems. It’s the next best thing to working in a candy store.”

  Melissa frowned and said, “You don’t fool me, Dr. Peterman.” She squinted at her. “You look pale. Are you sleeping?”

  Lucy didn’t answer her. “Where’s my other lab coat? I hate the pockets in this one.”

  “I think you should talk to Menken.” Stanley Menken was a fellow surgeon, a friend, and the clinic director. He was not, however, the kind of guy who understood weakness. Stanley and she were the same in that respect, and Lucy was not about to request a leave of absence. This was a man’s world. Have a baby, take six weeks, and get back to work. Lose your family, go to the funeral, get back on track by heading to the office. Or in her case, the hospital.

  Melissa continued. “Take one day a week off. You came back too early.”

  “Oh,” Lucy went on, “I brought some good coffee and put it in the break room. I cannot drink that crap the med students bring in.”

  Melissa stared at her and put her hand on Lucy’s closed fist. “Dr. Peterman.”

  “If I’m working, I can pretend that nothing happened. This is what I do. I work.”

  Melissa withdrew her hand and watched Lucy slip her lab coat, like armor, onto her shoulders, effectively changing the subject. She nodded in the direction of the patient rooms. “Your student got a head start this morning.”

  Lucy glanced over and saw Blake, her medical student, standing at the foot of a bed with his hands in his pockets and the door wide open. The woman before him clutched the neck of her gown, her legs exposed, her bare white knees pressed together.

  As Lucy approached, she heard the student say, “It looks like you only have a thin layer of skin and subcutaneous tissue available to work with. That’s unfortunate.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “This predisposes to the formation of a capsular contracture.” With a tone of voice that made it sound like he was translating for a child, he went on to explain, “This can produce an unnaturally round breast.” Then as if to lighten the moment he said, “Better than baggy boobs though, right?” Then he winked at his patient.

  Lucy moved into the room fueled by three things: memories of her own failings in the sensitivity department, powerlessness in the face of bad news, and furious anger. She yanked the privacy curtain closed, and as the ball bearings hissed into place, closing out the world, Lucy lost her righteous indignation at the situation and replaced it with empathy for the woman on the bed. She was able only to muster a scowl at the med student. To the woman in the backless, undignified gown, she said, “Hello, Mrs. Hallorman. How are you today?”

  Mrs. Hallorman was a slim brunette with pore-free skin and eyes like large chocolate discs. She dropped her head into her hands, and as her shoulders shook, silent tears soaked her palms. Lucy put her hand on the woman’s shoulder and handed her a tissue, but neither shushed her nor muttered that “things” would be fine. In Lucy’s recent, and very bitter, experience, “things” were not always fine. Only eight months ago, she had lost her husband and her unborn baby in a single afternoon.

  Lucy allowed a moment of silence for the woman’s loss and another for her own. She pursed her lips and breathed through the memory of her husband’s face on their wedding day and then, horribly, right after the car accident that killed him. Lucy caught her student’s eyes over the distraught woman’s head. He looked away and glanced at his watch.

  After forty-five minutes of reassurance and education in that small, curtained cubicle, Lucy and the student stepped into the hall. “You are not to get started without supervision. Do you understand me?”

  “I’m a fourth-year student,” he said. “I’ve done surgery. I came from orthopedics.”

  He and Lucy looked at each other. She saw in his expression an unconcealed overestimation of his experience and an underestimation of hers. When he scratched his forehead, the shine of a manicured fingernail glittered in the fluorescent light. She motioned for him to follo
w her as she pushed her way into a small vacant office near the main desk. The door shushed shut.

  “Here’s a news flash, pal: Reconstructing a woman’s breast after surgery for cancer takes a little sensitivity. We’re not doing celebrity makeovers here. It’s not about swimsuit fittings or new breasts as high school graduation gifts. These women have cancer. Cancer in a very intimate place. A place that helped them to feel beautiful for the proms, sexy on their honeymoons, and more than a little ready for infants. A woman would rather die of heart disease than get breast cancer, because getting breast cancer is like being stabbed in the heart. The very least we can do is use language they comprehend.”

  “I understand,” he said as he glanced over Lucy’s shoulder into the mirror on the opposite wall and fixed a lock of his hair.

  She eyed his lavender shirt and fancy shoes. “Tomorrow,” she said, “you can quit with the fashion show. Women in this clinic just want good medicine, not medicine doled out by someone so concerned with his appearance that he can’t even walk into a cancer unit without using an entire tube of hair gel.”

  He stood at attention as if realizing, like most men, that he’d miscategorized the tall, red-haired woman standing before him.

  Lucy wasn’t finished. “If you’re going on this ride-along with me, listen up. When we meet with the patient, I’ll make the introductions; you put away your smug-ass smile and listen. Afterward, I’ll ask you what you heard.”

  She straightened the collar of her lab coat. The med student tried to look interested.

  “Here are a few things to remember. If I let you speak, never label a woman’s breasts as anything, let alone pendulous, baggy, sloppy, saggy, or slouchy. These are terms for old furniture, not biologic tissue.”

  The medical student stared and shook his head as if saying, Of course not, never again.

  Lucy waved him off. “Medical students think terminology has no emotional meaning. I don’t care who you are, nobody wants a baggy anything, let alone baggy boobs.” The student began to look alert.