Chapter 3 - Max Kept Watching the Road
The house was in foreclosure proceedings, but ownership had not yet transferred.
I read that sentence five times.
Then I called someone who understood real estate better than I did.
Her name was Nora Bennett, and we'd known each other since college.
"What exactly are you asking me?" she said.
"I don't know yet."
"That's reassuring."
"Can a house in this situation be saved?"
"Sometimes."
"How?"
"Depends."
I explained what I knew.
There was a long silence.
"Elodie."
"What?"
"Why are you asking?"
I looked down at Max.
"Because of a dog."
Another silence.
Then Nora said, "Of course it is."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
I told her everything.
Mr. Laurent.
Claire.
The assisted-care facility.
Max waiting outside.
The shelter.
When I finished, Nora exhaled.
"You're thinking about buying his house."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't need to."
I stared at my savings balance.
"Is it possible?"
"Possible isn't the same as smart."
"I asked possible."
"Potentially."
My heart began beating faster.
"But don't do anything," she added. "Not one dollar. We need to know who holds the debt, whether there are liens, what stage the process is in, whether Laurent has any remaining equity, and whether he even wants this."
That last part stopped me.
Of course.
I was making plans around a man I hadn't spoken to since he left.
"I need to call him."
"Yes."
Cedar Grove connected me that afternoon.
"Mr. Laurent?"
"Elodie?"
The relief in his voice nearly broke me.
"How are you?"
"Oh, you know. Living the glamorous life."
There was the humor.
But it sounded thinner now.
"How's Max?"
I froze.
This was the moment.
I could lie.
I couldn't.
"He's with me."
Silence.
"What?"
"I didn't take him."
"Elodie."
"I tried."
"You promised."
"I know."
He sounded upset.
Then his voice cracked.
"Why?"
I looked toward the porch.
Max was sleeping near the door.
"Because he kept waiting for you."
Mr. Laurent said nothing.
"Every car, every person walking past. He thinks you're coming back."
Still nothing.
"Mr. Laurent?"
I heard him breathing.
Then a small sound.
He was crying.
"Is he eating?"
"A little."
"His medicine?"
"Twice a day."
"His left hip gets stiff when it's cold."
"I noticed."
"Put a warm towel over it."
"I will."
"And don't let him jump from the car."
"I won't."
"Tell him..."
His voice failed.
I waited.
"Tell him I'm sorry."
My eyes filled.
"You can tell him yourself."
Silence.
"What do you mean?"
"I found something."
I explained that the house had not yet transferred.
His response was immediate.
"No."
"You don't even know what I'm proposing."
"I know you."
"Then you know I'm going to make you listen."
"Elodie, no."
"What if there were a way to stabilize the house?"
"There isn't."
"What if there is?"
"I can't pay you back."
"I didn't ask you to."
"That's exactly why the answer is no."
His pride was alive.
Good.
That meant part of him was still fighting.
"Then help me find another solution."
"There isn't one."
"What about a different care arrangement?"
"Too expensive."
"What about home support?"
Silence.
That interested me.
"Did anyone evaluate you for home-based assistance?"
"Elodie—"
"Did they?"
"A social worker mentioned something."
"What happened?"
"I couldn't afford what wasn't covered."
I grabbed a pen.
"What exactly do you need help with?"
He sounded irritated now.
"Why?"
"Because I'm annoying."
That got the smallest laugh.
"Medication management. Some mobility help. Transportation."
"Anything else?"
"Someone checking that I haven't fallen over and died."
"Very funny."
"I thought so."
I wrote everything down.
"Don't do anything foolish," he said.
"Define foolish."
"Anything involving your money."
Too late.
After we hung up, I spent the rest of the afternoon making calls.
My job at the clinic had taught me one useful truth: systems are confusing partly because exhausted people stop asking questions.
So I asked.
Again.
And again.
I spoke with aging-services programs.
Transportation services.
Home-care coordinators.
A nonprofit supporting seniors facing housing instability.
A legal-aid office.
Most calls led nowhere.
A few led somewhere.
By six o'clock, my kitchen table was covered in notes.
Max lay underneath it.
Then my phone rang.
Nora.
"I pulled what I could."
"And?"
"It's messy."
My heart sank.
"There are arrears and fees. But the amount required to resolve the immediate housing problem is lower than the property's market value."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning there may be options."
I sat straighter.
"What options?"
"One is purchasing the property through an agreed transaction before the process goes further, assuming everyone cooperates."
"And Laurent?"
"If there's equity after valid debts and costs, it remains his."
I looked across the street.
"What if I bought it?"
"Then you'd own the house."
"And he could live there?"
"If you chose to rent it to him, yes."
My mind accelerated.
"What if the rent were low?"
"You're the owner."
"What if home-care support covered what Cedar Grove is providing?"
"That's outside my expertise."
"But theoretically?"
"Theoretically."
I stood and paced.
Nora interrupted.
"Elodie."
"What?"
"Do not romanticize this."
"I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
I stopped.
"This could consume most of your savings. A house has taxes, repairs, insurance. You're talking about becoming a landlord to a vulnerable elderly neighbor while coordinating care because his dog looked sad."
"When you say it like that, it sounds insane."
"It is insane."
I looked at Max.
He had awakened.
His cloudy brown eyes watched me.
"But?"
Nora sighed.
"But sometimes insane ideas can be structured responsibly."
I smiled.
"That's all I needed."
"No. You need an attorney."
"Fine."
"And an inspection."
"Fine."
"And Laurent's informed agreement."
"Fine."
"And boundaries."
"You're ruining my inspirational moment."
"Good."
The next morning, Max did something new.
He stopped eating completely.
Not even chicken worked.
I called his veterinarian.
They fit us in.
The vet examined him.
"Physically, I don't see an acute crisis."
"Then why won't he eat?"
"Stress can affect older dogs strongly."
"Because Laurent's gone?"
"Very possibly."
She looked at Max.
"At his age, sudden separation from a bonded owner can be profound."
I swallowed.
"Can it kill him?"
She didn't dramatize.
"Loss of appetite, inactivity, and stress can worsen existing problems. We want him eating."
She prescribed supportive measures and told me what to watch.
On the drive home, Max lay across the back seat.
At a red light, I looked at him in the mirror.
"I know."
His eyes remained closed.
"I'm working on it."
When we reached Hawthorne Street, something happened.
Max stood.
We were still three houses away.
He knew.
His nose lifted.
Then he began whining.
I parked.
He climbed carefully out.
Instead of going to my house, Max pulled toward number 112.
I followed.
He climbed Mr. Laurent's porch steps.
Then sat in front of the locked door.
My heart cracked.
"Max."
He sniffed beneath the door.
Then scratched once.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
He looked at me.
There are moments when we assign human emotions to animals because we need language for what we're witnessing.
But I don't need to exaggerate what happened.
Max simply lay down.
He put his head between his paws.
And refused to leave.
I sat beside him.
For nearly an hour.
Then my phone rang.
It was the senior-housing nonprofit I'd contacted.
"Ms. Elodie?"
"Yes."
"We reviewed the information you provided."
I stood.
"And?"
"There may be a home-support program Mr. Laurent qualifies for."
My heart jumped.
"But there's a complication."
Of course there was.
"What complication?"
"His current placement has already been authorized, and changing it requires reassessment. Also, housing must be considered stable before discharge."
I looked at number 112.
"What counts as stable?"
"Documented legal occupancy and a safe home environment."
I stared at the locked door.
The house existed.
Max existed.
Mr. Laurent existed.
The only thing missing was a legal bridge connecting them again.
"How quickly can you reassess him?"
"If he's willing, we can start."
"He'll be willing."
"You're certain?"
I looked at Max.
"No."
Then I smiled.
"But I'll convince him."
I ended the call.
A second notification appeared.
Nora had sent me a document.
At the top were preliminary figures.
At the bottom was the estimated amount I would need to contribute if I wanted to make my ridiculous idea real.
I stared at the number.
It was almost everything I had saved.
Five years.
Thousands of lunches packed instead of purchased.
Overtime shifts.
Canceled trips.
Plans postponed.
All sitting there as digits on a screen.
Max rested against the locked door.
I opened my banking app.
May you like
And for the first time, the question wasn't whether I could afford to help Mr. Laurent.
The question was whether I could live with myself if I didn't.
