THE COSMO ADOPTION

The fire alarm stabs Noah in the brain, yanking him from a deep sleep, tumbling him out of bed. He clutches the edge of his mattress as the deck of the Corsica Ferry rolls underneath him. He lurches to his feet, loses his balance, and pitches against his cabin door.

The handle is warm. He pulls it open, and a cirrus cloud of smoke obscures the emergency lights. He flips on his cabin light and grabs his pants. Staggering, he shoves his feet through the legs, but the incessant blaring obscures what should come next, shoes or shirt? A panicked steward, a cloth held over his mouth and nose, leans in and shouts, “Feu! Vaisseau abandonné!”

Whatever that means? Noah stoops down and tries not to breathe the caustic smoke. He grabs his life jacket and a sweatshirt and follows after the steward, the deck warm under his bare feet. Around the first corner, the passageway is empty and the steward is gone. Down the next hallway, there is no one.

***

Noah sucks in a deep breath and opens his eyes. It’s 2:00 a.m. He reaches across the bed for Isabella. The covers are warm but the bed is empty. Squinting in the dark, he sees the familiar outline of the armchair tucked under the bedroom window, left open to the cool Oregon night. The chair is piled with clothes he can’t bother to hang in the closet because the nightmare thrives in the shadows. It clings to the same cold panic he felt the night he met Isabella, barely two years ago, like the scent of lemons in her hair when she sat next to him in the lifeboat.

He reaches for the bedside light but hesitates. Isabella is an infrequent sleepwalker, and as rare as her nighttime wanderings are, her sudden scream in a bright light is a jolt of adrenaline he tries to avoid.

The thud on the entry floor is either her soft carry-on, the bag she hastily packed the night before for her yoga retreat, or it’s a burglar.

Now he remembers. Last night they argued because she wouldn’t, or couldn’t, say why she was suddenly leaving. He only wanted details because he believed details would loosen the tension in his chest. Last night he searched for the origin of his discomfort by turning on every light in the upstairs. In the end he found Isabella soaking in the bath surrounded by candles.

He leaned against the vanity and crossed his arms. “How did you get a last-minute ticket?”

Nearly horizontal, she splashed water over her chest. “I went online and got one.”

Of course she did. “But why leave your car in long-term parking? Why not let me drive you?”

She sat up and scrubbed her face with the red washcloth, hiding behind it. “My God, it’s only a few days.”

“It’s six days.”

He wanted to talk it out, otherwise the uncertainty would torture him the whole time she was gone. Maybe she didn’t care about his suspicions, especially if his paranoia nudged her out the door and in the direction that she secretly wanted to go. She’d always been drawn to the new. A new restaurant, new running shoes, a new cable series. Once, he had been new. Now, he was no longer special, and for Isabella, fresh and different was as elemental to her as breathing was to him.

He hears another thump. Maybe he should get Isabella’s Glock from the bedroom safe? Although she taught him to fire it at the range off I-5, he’s still not certain how to load it. He resented how quickly she demonstrated breaking the gun down and reassembling it, making him feel slow. He strains to hear the sink faucet, the clink of a water glass, a flushing toilet. She has a morning flight to Seattle. She claimed the retreat had filled months ago, yet somehow, despite its overwhelming popularity, she got a last-minute cancellation.

It’s probably just her running shoe and not a burglar, but the sound carries the impact of a crashing cymbal. She wouldn’t dare leave without saying goodbye, not after last night.

Just to be sure, he gently knocks on the bathroom door and pushes it open, his ears still ringing from the fire alarm in his dream. The bathroom is empty, but he imagines the smell of burning wires the night they met.

Isabella never answered why she had to go. He scoffed at her rationalization about finding herself. What if she really believed that? He regrets that his response sounded like mocking. If he could take it back, he would.

“What’s to find?” he’d countered at the time. “You’re a public defender. You work at Women’s Space. Half your cases are in trade or pro bono.”

Now he quietly pads down the carpeted stairs. Her red overnight bag is still in the entry, which is a relief. He could have asked her a direct question, something he did every day as a lawyer, but he was afraid of what her answer might be.

He considered himself lucky when she took the seat next to him on the lifeboat, the night they met, because he was no longer on a burning ship. He was on a lifeboat, Isabella was an American, and while he didn’t imagine she cared that he practiced real estate law, especially in the middle of the Mediterranean, a place with no land, their shared English was a temporary relief in a tight space crammed with Europeans.

The scent of her hair was unusually strong because she was in the shower when the muster alarm first sounded. Her hair was wet and stringy when she leaned against him, away from the Pekingese dog on the lap of the woman on her other side.

“I hate dogs,” she’d whispered, her first words to him. “Even little ones. Especially little ones. I got bit when I was six. They’re like rabid squirrels.”

He only half-listened because he was simultaneously estimating how long the ferry would plunge through the dark waters before hitting bottom, taking his laptop, his case notes, and his clothes with it. Still, her deep brown eyes, at a distance of twelve inches, distracted him from the roll of the lifeboat and the rumbling start of its engine.

They pitched and swayed for an hour before they were picked up by the Moby Blu, another nearby ferry. The Italian-speaking purser was confused when they boarded. He assumed they were a couple and temporarily housed them in the same cabin. They protested at first, but the hot shower, dry clothes, and warm food brought by the steward overcame their awkwardness in the small stateroom.

Exhausted but too buzzed to sleep, Isabella confessed she was a sleepwalker. She asked to spoon with him on the bed, in their clothes of course, and with a pillow across her front, just in case she passed out. He agreed, and they carefully assumed the position. She was prone to sleepwalking, she said, especially when stressed, and wouldn’t he agree that abandoning a burning ship in the middle of the night was cause for stress?

When she started to complain, again, about the yapping Pekingese, he interrupted and told her his fourteen-year-old Lab had died just before he left for Europe. She said she was sorry for his loss, but she was bitten by a small dog when she was little, and she still has a scar in a place she could only show him if they were in a relationship.

After a one-minute pause, she confessed that she went target shooting with her father every Sunday. That is, until he passed away suddenly, six months ago. She inherited his Glock 19, hated the NRA, and didn’t want to be judged by Noah or anyone else.

“Because you’re terrified of little dogs?” He asked, his face pressed against the back of her neck.

He switches on the entry hall light. It’s been two years since the ferry, and he can’t get the memory out of his head. The dead bolt is unlocked. He turns to go back upstairs, to get the gun, but he sees Isabella’s orange running shoes are missing. He shakes his head. Sleepwalking has evolved into sleep-jogging? He pulls on his Nikes and grabs a sweatshirt from the hall closet.

He hesitates. He turns on the outside light on the back deck that juts over the rocky hillside, because a year ago, the night before she defended a woman from an ex-husband who repeatedly broke his restraining order, Noah found her in the chaise lounge with the collected works of Rumi open on her lap, in the dark. He carefully guided her back to bed, and the next morning she accused him of making the whole thing up.

When the lump on Isabella’s MRI fortunately turned out to be benign, Noah found her making tea at 2:00 a.m. and eating the last cookie she’d promised for him. He spoke softly before he turned on the light, revealing that she was dressed for work, only one sock was purple, the other green. Her father’s Glock was on the kitchen island, snug in its holster. He slipped the firearm into the tea drawer and guided her back to bed. He purchased a gun safe the next day, thinking she wouldn’t remember a six-digit combination in her sleep.

He glances at her travel bag. She has an endearing habit of placing the bag, unzipped, in the hallway the night before she travels because she believes its presence by the door will remind her of something important that she still needs to pack.

He starts jogging toward town, her most common route. She’s a creature of habit, even in her sleep. A three-quarter moon hangs above the coast range, and the April temperature is mild. He gains speed on the downhill grade of South Shasta before climbing 43rd up to Spring.

One after another he searches the streetlights and finally spots her making the gentle bend on Spring. He catches up with her near the stone bench, where the white crocuses glow in the ambient light. She’s walking, hands on her hips, as if she’d just finished a grueling 5K.

“Pleasant evening,” he says, catching his breath and gently taking her elbow.

“Beautiful.”

She’s wearing a white bra, instead of her maroon jogging gear, and the satin glimmers in the headlights of a fast-moving pickup, forcing them onto the sidewalk. A chocolate Lab leans out the passenger window, his tongue bent in the wind, looking as if a middle of the night drive is not his first choice. An American flag decal is plastered across the entire back window. Noah hopes the driver doesn’t notice Isabella’s attire, but just to be sure, he guides her across the street.

Around the corner of 43rd, the pickup is angled at the curb. The taillights color the pine trees lining the vacant lot. The driver emerges from the shadows, gets back into his truck, and pulls away. In the gathering silence, the crickets start up again.

Noah imagines the driver has stopped to relieve himself, but then he sees the chocolate Lab tied to the base of the light pole, his water dish overturned in the pine straw. Knowing Isabella’s past relationship with dogs, Noah stops her ten paces away.

“Hey, boy.” Noah offers the back of his hand. The dog licks his sweaty skin.

Noah scans up and down 43rd, expecting the driver to change his mind and reclaim his dog. Then he sees the note taped to the pole. Hi! My name is Cosmo. My owner can no longer keep me. Can you take me home for a few nights?

Noah rips the note off the pole and it jams it in his pocket. Cosmo rotates his head, offering his crown for scratching. “After I take Isabella home,” he says, petting him, “I’ll bring you some fresh water.”

When Noah turns around, Isabella is on her knees, beckoning to Cosmo. Cosmo trots over, and she laughs when he starts licking her face.

“What a pretty, pretty boy,” she says, further evidence she must be dreaming because while Cosmo might be handsome, he is anything but pretty. Noah sees no reason to inform Cosmo that Isabella doesn’t like dogs and that this will be the only time he’ll ever be kissed and adored by her.

Back home, when he announces its time for bed, Isabella instinctively undresses, pulls on her nightshirt, and gets under the covers. She’s asleep in no time. He lies on the bed beside her and gently strokes her hair.

“I miss you already,” he says. She doesn’t move. “I don’t know what you’re going through, but I’m sorry it’s hard. If you’re sleepwalking, you must be stressed.” He combs his fingers through her hair, and she still doesn’t move. He wants to say that he hopes she finds her way, even if finding her way means that she’s temporarily away from him, but he can’t.

“I never told you this, but in the beginning,” he whispers, relishing, just a little, that he can speak his truth but a little sad that she won’t hear it, “I was crazy about your one dark blue suit you wore to court. Your straight back, efficient walk, and your killer eyes. I wanted you in that suit, which I never dared say.”

Her eyes twitch beneath her eyelids. Noah kisses her forehead.

He tops off his water bottle in the kitchen. The clock reads 3:11 a.m. He glances at her red carry-on. If she inadvertently packed her Glock in her sleep, she’ll get busted by security. That will cause her to miss her flight and miss her retreat, which in his mind wouldn’t be a terrible outcome. What would be terrible is getting arrested and possibly losing her license to practice law. Her bag is personal, and he’s reluctant to cross that boundary.

He weighs it with his arm. It’s heavier than he imagined, but maybe that’s her journal and not her gun. Never in a million years would he read her journal. He carefully roots around inside, much like the TSA people might do. It’s mostly clothes, an extra pair of shoes, a book, and an unfamiliar hard plastic case. He pulls it out and recognizes her diaphragm. He opens it, and it does in fact contain her diaphragm. He snaps it shut and tosses it across the entry.

He leans against the half wall and slides down until he’s sitting on the slate tile. He pictures her peacefully asleep in their bed, right above where he’s sitting. She let Cosmo kiss her face. She packed her diaphragm for her yoga retreat, and later today he’ll be mediating a condo sale between two antagonistic parties. Why does he put up with these adult children day after day? He retrieves her diaphragm and jams it back inside her carry-on. Was it wedged inside a shoe? He can’t remember. He doesn’t care.

He takes his water bottle and walks down S. Shasta to 43rd. The trees, the bushes, and the lawns are weighed down with a heavy layer of dew. A frog croaks from inside the storm drain. Cosmo is patiently waiting under the light. Noah kneels down and fills his water dish. Cosmo gratefully laps it up, then vigorously shakes his head, splattering Noah with water and drool.

“Here’s the deal,” Noah says, wiping his sleeve across his face. He sits next to Cosmo and rests his hand on his woolly neck. “Let’s give the guy in the pickup another hour to change his mind. I’m not tired, are you? Then I’ll move you to our lower deck. After Isabella leaves, I’ll make us breakfast. I have some chicken sausage you might like. We may have some explaining to do when she comes home, but for now that’s the way I want to play it.”

Digesting the details of Noah’s plan, Cosmo stares at the intersection where his owner’s pickup disappeared. He glances at Noah with his soft brown eyes. His expression seems to say if she comes home.

“Well, there’s that too.”

With a deep sigh, Cosmo rests his head on his paws and closes his eyes.