ࡱ> ]`\y Hbjbj .v{{@66@&\\\\\KKK$xRKKKKK\\}}}K\\}K}}}\DnҾ6}0&}S*}}KK}KKKKK}KKK&KKKKKKKKKKKKK6 V: The Healing By Jessica Salfia There had to be an animal in the garden. Cooper was growling and running frantically back and forth along the short metal varmint fence Mark had put up in an attempt to deter the rabbits that plagued our yard. Every few feet, the dog would stop and bite and paw at the fence, pulling and tugging at the wire for a moment before resuming his frenzied running. I dropped the bundle of ropey mint I had just pulled up by the roots, stood up, grabbed a hoe in case it was a snake, and walked out to the vegetable garden enjoying the mingling smells of mint, tarragon, and thyme that wafted up from my dirty jeans with every step. When Cooper saw me coming, he stopped running around the garden, and instead began running between me and the garden fence, barking and jumping around excitedly. I stepped carefully over the short fence and into my lettuce and beans. At first I saw nothing. I walked up and down the row twice, waiting for something to scurry out of my way. The third trip down the row, I took my hoe and carefully skimmed back the tops of the lettuce, brushing the bushy bunches back away from the base of the plants. Right in the middle of the row, tucked into the dirt between the roots of two bunches of lettuce, I found the nest. I swatted down and pushed the lettuce back to get a better view. There were at least 3 baby bunnies that I could see maybe one or two more that I couldnt. They werent very old, maybe a few days, and they looked more like full grown field mice than rabbits. After a moment of watching them squirm and squeak, I decided to leave them alone. There was more than enough garden to go around, and mama rabbits only come to their nests twice a day. My lettuce was safe for now. When I stepped out of the garden, Cooper gave me a very doggy look that said he couldnt believe I would leave pests in my veggies where even he was not permitted, and resumed silently pacing the length of the fence. I patted his head sympathetically, walked back to the house, and finished purging the excess mint from my herb garden. When Mark got home I was covered in dirt, mint leaves, and sweat, but happy that my gardens were in order. Youll never guess whats in our lettuce--a bunny nest. What? Whatd you do with em? What do mean whatd I do with em? I left them. Wont they eat our lettuce? Not yet. Theyre tiny. They wont hurt anything til their grown. We can have someone trap them when the time comes. Mark smiled indulgently. Feeling too maternal to run Peter Rabbit out of your garden, Mrs. MacGregor? I patted my still nearly indiscernible bump and grinned. Yes, actually. That was exactly the case. That night we went to bed still giggling over the bunnies in our garden, and talking about baby names. A few hours after falling asleep, I woke up with a scream. Pain rolled down my lower back and through my bowels. I grabbed my stomach. Mark jerked awake, and threw back the blankets. We both stared in horror at the bright blood that was soaking through my sleep shorts and pooling onto our sheets. At first all I could think was that it was the exact same color as the brilliant scarlet roses that had just bloomed in the front yard. I put my index finger in the blood and rubbed it against my thumb wondering at how my fingertips looked just like the rosebuds. Later, at the ER an ultrasound revealed that the tiny flickering heart we had seen just a few weeks ago was no longer beating. Numbly, we listened to the doctor explain that the bleeding and pain would be severe for another day or so, and then it would taper off. They sent me home with a prescription for vicodin, several sympathetic looks and a pamphlet explaining how normal miscarriage is. I stayed in bed for the rest of the week. Mark brought me sympathy flowers, cards, and baskets filled with candles, lotion, and candy. I wouldnt look at any of it. Your baby died, so have some body cream. Seriously? I lay on my side and stared, dry-eyed at the drab, brown walls of our bedroom, popping vicodin and chasing them with an occasional beer or glass of wine. I kept trying to cry, but no tears would come. It was like all my feelings had poured out of me with blood that I couldnt seem to wash out of our sheets. Weeks passed and Mark had to go back to work. I could tell he was afraid to leave me at home alone. I would catch him sometimes watching me with a terrified look on his face. I wouldnt leave the house or talk to anyone. I just didnt want to. It hurt too much to see the world still going on like nothing had happened. The 20th day after the miscarriage, I was lying in bed, trying to figure out where the emptiness inside me ended, when Coopers frenzied barking and growling outside pulled me out of my contemplation. I rolled over and tried to block him out, but I knew that bark meant animal in the yard, and then I remembered the bunnies. I sat up slowly and walked to our bedroom window overlooking the back yard. Cooper had jumped the short metal fence and was in the garden. I could see something small and furry hanging from his mouth. For the first time in almost a month, I ran outside. Coop! Drop it! With a guilty look Cooper dropped the floppy gray mess. I hurried out to where I remembered the bunny nest being, but it was scattered and destroyed. Mama bunny lay near the nest, her neck broken, her pink tongue lolling out of her mouth. The remains of a baby bunny lay nearby. I began searching the garden row by row, but my garden after three weeks of neglect was an overgrown jungle of weeds and unchecked tomato vines. After an hour my search produced 2 live baby bunnies. One looked fineshaky and scared, but whole, the other had a bloody, torn ear. Holding the small warm bodies close to me made me feelsomething. I wanted to save them. I had to save them. I gathered them in my shirt, took them in the house, and tucked them into a box with a soft blanket. They huddled together occasionally making small sounds of distress. I called the Humane Society first. Uh, hi. I found these baby bunnies and Put them back. The mother will come for them. Um, my dog killed the mother and destroyed her nest. Ive got the babies in a box. Can you all take them? Sorry, we cant deal with wildlife. Call DNR. Click. Um hello, I have some baby bunnies here Put them back. The mother will come back tonight. I would but my dog killed the mother and Im sorry we dont really deal with this sort of thing. Call the humane society. Theyll find you someone. Click. Hello, I just called a while ago. Im the lady with the bunnies? DNR cant take them. They said you might know someone? Just a minute. Hey, Sal! Whats the name of that the lady in Virginia? You know, the crazy one that used to have that wildlife rescue? Yeah, some woman has baby bunnies. No, she cant put them back. Yeah, thanks, Sal. ϳԹ 20 miles south of Inwood, theres a lady named Mary Stevers. She used to run a wildlife rescue, but she closed it and retired several years ago. But if you call her and explain the situation, she might take the bunnies for you. I called the number the humane society gave me. After about 20 rings a sharp voice cracked across the phone line, Mary Stevers. Hello, Ms. Stevers? My name is Jen Wagner and I found some baby bunnies Goddam cats! Always dragging rabbits out of their nests. Put them back. The mother will come back for them. Is that all? Ms. Stevers, Im afraid my dog killed the mother. And destroyed the nest. Theres two babies if you can just Goddam dogs! Who would want a dog anyway? Slobbering, stupid beasts if you ask me. Jesus Christ, people and their pets. Be here tomorrow by 9:00 AM. Dont be late and dont play your car radio. Click. That night an Internet search for baby bunnies and Mary Stevers Virginia wildlife refuge provided me with enough information to keep my bunnies alive all night and directions to Ms. Stevers closed facility. A surprised Mark found me when he got home, out of bed and in the kitchen, painstakingly feeding the bunnies sugar water out of a medicine dropper. That night, I didnt need to drink to help me fall asleep. Of course, the next morning I got lost. After 3 weeks of being a shut in, the outside world seemed too big, too bright, too loud. At some point I passed the road I needed to take so I pulled over, quickly checked on the bunnies to make sure they were ok, and called Ms. Stevers. Her irritated voice growled, Hello? Ms. Stevers, its Jen Wagner again. Im sorry, I missed the turn. Im a bit lost, and I may be a little late. Christ, girl! Werent you listening when I gave you directions? Ms. Stevers, you never gave me directions. I looked them up online. Goddamn Internet! Ruining the world. Turn between the lilac bushes! Click. Fifteen minutes later I saw two lilac bushes on my left and a steep driveway leading up between them. As my car climbed the impossibly vertical driveway I wondered how Ms. Stevers managed the incline in winter months, my car tilting upward at an impossible angle. I passed a creaking, weathered sign that read, Shenandoah Wildlife Rehabilitation Center, QUIET PLEASE! and I silenced the car radio. At the top of the hill was a stubby little building that seemed to grow out of the side of the mountain like a mushroom. The wrap around porch was surrounded by a wall of butterfly and rhododendron bushes. Every window and door was open and there were yellow curtains blowing out the windows in the breeze. It was both inviting and forbidding. I grabbed my box of bunnies and got out of the car. Hello? Ms. Stevers? I heard the shuffle, shuffle, thunk of a person walking with a cane before I saw her. She appeared out of the dimness of the house like a creature coming out of a cave. She was tiny, but tough looking and wiry. Her face was all angles and crags, and her hair sprang out from her head in every direction, giving her the look of a baby birdbut not a silly bird, a noble bird, a bird of prey. She was wearing sensible khaki shorts and a denim button down top and looked as though she was in her mid-80s. Dammit, girl. Quiet down! Cant you read the signs? I have a hawk with a broken wing that wont eat if hears too many people sounds. Voices, radios, and the like, and hell be off food for a week. She hobbled out onto the porch followed by the biggest, fattest raccoon I had ever seen. He was missing his front, left paw, and his muzzle was gray with age. He kept tangling himself in Stevers legs like a housecat. Irving! Goddamn it. Get back inside! Stevers snapped. The coon blinked his rheumy eyes at her and limped back to the doorway where he flopped down with a sigh. Stevers turned her bird-like gaze on me and growled, Found it, did ya? Well, girl? The bunnies? I handed over the box, and watched, fascinated as she carefully inspected both bunnies muttering the whole time about the irresponsibility of society. She had to ask me twice before I realized that her muttering had turned into a question. And what were you doing? she snarled (for the second time). Pardon me? You! she squawked like an angry blue jay. What were you doing when your brute killed their mother? People and their pets, bah! Do you know domestic cats and dogs kill more wild birds and animals than anything else? Goddam beasts! Well, I dont know if these babies will live or not. No respect. Society has no respect for the wild animals anymore. My center is closed because people dont care enough to fund us. Im too old to keep it running and nobody cares about that either. You and your dog made these babies orphans, and now Im going to have to watch them die. But at least you get to clear your conscience, eh? Suburban do-gooder. People have no idea what it takes to keep a place like this running. How much money its going to take to save these babies. And Ive got a wounded hawk, 3 baby squirrels, and a family of possums in addition to this lot. I stared openmouthed for a moment, and tried to interject. Ms. Stevers, I want to save these babies. I brought them here so you could You brought them to me to clear your conscience. Well, its done. Now, go. Go on back to your suburb. No one understands the loss the wild creatures are facing. Housing developments, roads, businesses. We are killing them and no one cares. To my surprise, Stevers eyes filled with tears. Not you or anybody. Go. Mary Stevers whirled around as quickly as she could, and hobbled back to her door carrying the bunnies. Ms. Stevers, wait, Im sorry. I really wanted to save these bunnies. I had too. Suddenly, the dam inside me broke, and a rush of feeling filled up all the emptiness I had been carrying around for the past few weeks. Fat tears started leaking down my cheeks. Ms. Stevers, II just lost my baby. My baby died. It just died. It was the first time I had said it aloud and now, the tears that wouldnt come for three weeks poured out of me. Im so sorry. Im so, so sorry. I wanted to save my baby. So, I had to save these bunnies. I thought you could help them. I called everyone to help, but no one could My rambling trailed off because Mary Stevers had put down the bunnies, and turned around. She was looking at me like she was seeing me for the first time. She shuffled back to the edge of the porch until she was in arms reach of me. By now my tears had evolved into full blown hysterical sobs. I started to blubber another apology, when tiny, angry, bird-like Mary Stevers put both arms around me. We sank down on the porch steps, and I cried a river of salt into Mary Stevers lap, while she crooned and rocked me gently back and forth, her sharp voice, now gentle. Loss recognizes loss, child. Let it out. Cry it out girl. I felt something warm and furry on my lap and realized Irving had curled up in it, purring like a cat. We stayed that way until my sobs subsided to sniffles and with a hot flush of embarrassment I realized that I was wrapped in the arms of the crazy wilderness lady, lying on the front porch of a run-down, out of business wildlife rehab center. I wiped my face and pulled away. Ms. Stevers, Im so sorry about that. I dont know whats wrong with me. To my surprise Mary Stevers own face was wet with tears. She handed me a crumpled and discolored handkerchief, and patted my cheek like a mother comforting a child who had fallen and skinned her knee. Nothing wrong with you, girl. Lifes a hard thing. Theres a terrible give and take in nature, and while we often wonder and marvel at the give we tend to forget how terrible the take can be. I could never have children of my own. Maybe thats why I opened this place, so I could leave behind something good in the world. And it was, child, a good place. It healed something in me, saving all these animals over the last 40 years. And youll heal, too. Just find yourself something that youre good at, that you love, something that makes the world a better place, and that broken thing inside yourself, will mend itself. It might take some time, but itll mend. Now, said Mary Stevers brusquely, leave your address and Ill send you an update on the bunnies in a few weeks. Dont get your hopes up. I can probably only save the biggest one. I stood, dislodging poor, purring Irving from my lap as gently as I could and helped Stevers to her feet. She patted my arm, took my address, and without a backward glance melted into the darkness of her doorway with the box of bunnies. Irving pushed his furry, gray head against my leg for one last pat, and limped into the house after her. I got in my car and left feeling like I imagined Mary Stevers rehabbed animals felta bit wary, but stronger than when I arrived. A few weeks later I received an envelope from the Shenandoah Wildlife Rehabilitation Center. There was no letter. Just a few pictures: Irving and a possum eating apples out of the same bowl, a beautiful young hawk on a fence post stretching two very healthy looking wings, some baby squirrels playing on what looked like a kitchen table. Taped to the last picture was a torn and yellowed scrap of notebook paper on which was written, One bunny made it. Doing well. M.S. 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