Dog Stays in the Picture by Susan; Morse Page B

herding them off to their first night in the dorms.
    â€”Good-bye, parents, the dean trilled, as a thousand precious packages descended (raced) en masse down the aisles onto the floor of the stadium. Your chickens are safe! It’s like stepping off a cliff. Nothing left to do but straggle out the arena’s swinging glass doors and drive back to comfortless hotel rooms. Dumped. Counting the minutes till they doled out one final crumb: a parking-lot good-bye the next morning, out behind the dorms by the trash bins.
    Mornings at home have been lonely since she left. David’s a late sleeper, and, unlike the boys, Eliza believes in starting the day with a good meal. Breakfast was always our special mother-daughter time. Often we were so absorbed in yakking about this, that, and the other, I’d make her a little late for school. I had no idea how much this meant to me till that first fall without her. I’d set the alarm early as usual to make breakfast for the boys, knowing they’d never eat it and the only discourse I could expect would be a couple of grunts when they came galumphing down the stairs and careened out the door.
    While I waited for the privilege of serving cinnamon toast (more likely slinging it at the back of Sam and Ben’s car as it shot down the driveway), I’d light the kettle, pull a dirty “College Mom” mug I’d received at Eliza’s orientation out of the cluttered dishwasher, and rinse it by hand. No other vessel would do those first raw mornings, scraping butter on toast, weeping into my English Breakfast, debating whether or not to pick up the phone if it rang, knowing the odds were it would NOT be Eliza calling but my mother, probably asking how to turn off her radio. (Susie, I want to get it to STOP. I don’t want this thing on; it’s perfectly awful. It’s some NPR program and it’s just dreadful about bisexual HIPPOS or something. Baboons. And the woman said one of them grabbed her. Disgusting.)
    At least Lilly really needs me, even if her constant shadowing has been a bit tiresome. More and more, I’m coming to understand the use of pets as a subconscious substitute for children. I’ll never forget seeing a photo of my friend Francesca holding their new puppy, Emma. Francesca and her husband were discussing the possibility of a third child at the time—she had a strong maternal urge that wasn’t satisfied yet, and her husband wasn’t completely ready. So they got Emma, sort of to tide Francesca over, I’m guessing. This photo of Francesca holding Emma in her arms, practically in breastfeeding position, keeps popping into my head these days. Is Lilly’s attention something I encourage subliminally because I fear losing the children? I think I’m going to have to forget I asked that question.
    I feel a little bad for Joey. He’s definitely out of sorts. I wonder if he’s off his feed because Lilly’s arrival has stirred up his grief at losing Arrow? I can certainly relate—the boys’ preparations do make me think of Eliza. A friend, Tandy, says she’ll never forget running into me in the parking lot of the Super Fresh a few days after Eliza’s freshman drop-off.
    â€”How are you? Tandy asked, expecting the standard Fine, how are you?
    Instead, I fell into Tandy’s arms, pointing to something I’d just spotted on my shopping list—an obsolete entry in Eliza’s loopy script.
    â€”She wanted Nutri-Grain bars!!!
    Eliza’s a college junior now. I’ve had three years to absorb and trust what Tandy assured me of that day: They’re not really gone. They come back.
    David seems to understand this concept instinctively—all the time he’s spent on location, he’s become an old hand at good-byes. He processed Eliza’s departure philosophically, especially compared to me, and, as it turned out, Tandy was right. Eliza does come home, like clockwork.