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LOST & FOUND by Jacqueline Sheehan
On Sale: Now
Paperback
304 pages
ISBN-10: 0061128643
ISBN-13: 978-0061128646
A poignant and unforgettable tale of love, loss, and moving on . . . with the help of one not-so-little dog
Rocky's husband Bob was just forty-two when she discovered him lying cold and lifeless on the bathroom floor . . . and Rocky's world changed forever. Quitting her job, chopping off all her hair, she leaves Massachusetts—reinventing her past and taking a job as Animal Control Warden on Peak's Island, a tiny speck off the coast of Maine and a million miles away from everything she's lost. She leaves her career as a psychologist behind, only to find friendship with a woman whose brain misfires in the most wonderful way and a young girl who is trying to disappear. Rocky, a quirky and fallible character, discovers the healing process to be agonizingly slow.
But then she meets Lloyd.
A large black Labrador retriever, Lloyd enters Rocky's world with a primitive arrow sticking out of his shoulder. And so begins a remarkable friendship between a wounded woman and a wounded, lovable beast. As the unraveling mystery of Lloyd's accident and missing owner leads Rocky to an archery instructor who draws her in even as she finds every reason to mistrust him, she discovers the life-altering revelation that grief can be transformed . . . and joy does exist in unexpected places.
Jacqueline Sheehan, Ph.D., is a fiction writer and essayist. She is a New Englander through and through, but spent twenty years living in the western states of Oregon, California, and New Mexico doing a variety of things, including house painting, freelance photography, newspaper writing, clerking in a health food store, and directing a traveling troupe of high school puppeteers. She is currently the fiction editor for Patchwork Journal, an online journal sponsored by Patchwork Farm, an internationally based writing center. Jacqueline teaches workshops on writing and the combination of yoga and writing.
LOST & FOUND is a good read for canine lovers who want a novel that goes a little deeper than the traditional, fun-filled "I love my dog" type of fare. Jacqueline Sheehan pens this intriguing work of fiction about a young widow, a stray pooch and a second chance for love.
When her 42-year-old veterinarian husband dies unexpectedly, university counselor and psychologist Rocky Pelligrino finds her world turned upside down. Ditching her apartment, her job and her friends --- not to mention cutting her beautiful long hair (a symbolic mourning gesture) --- Rocky signs on as an animal control warden on Peak's Island, located by ferry ride just out of Portland, Maine.
In third-person narration, Sheehan poignantly paints the portrait of a life blindsided by grief. When Rocky finds a large black Labrador retriever wandering and wounded by a homemade arrow through his chest, she dubs him "Lloyd" and takes him in. As he heals, Rocky begins her own journey toward wholeness. Although this is an expected theme, Sheehan doesn't fall into the predictability trap that mars so many promising novels.
In an interesting twist, Rocky decides that she wants to learn archery, the very sport that has hurt the dog she is coming to love. Her archery instructor, Hill Johnson, calls forth the first sexual response Rocky has felt since her husband's death. As the chemistry between Rocky and Hill increases, so does the mystery surrounding Hill. Is it a coincidence that Hill uses arrows that are similar to the one that wounded Lloyd? Does Hill's past, which includes unfaithfulness to his estranged wife, have even darker aspects? And why does Lloyd become upset whenever he comes into close proximity with a stalker-type man who turns out to be his deceased owner's ex-boyfriend? The plot takes an unexpectedly dark and creepy turn, and laudably for Sheehan, the reader remains unsure of the conclusion until the final pages.
One of Sheehan's most interesting characters is Tess, who is about 30 years older than Rocky and "reminded Rocky of the image of a wood sprite, a nymph who blended in easily among a pine needle forest floor or the firm grasses that grew on sand." However, Tess tells her, "I'm no wood nymph. I'm just a retired physical therapist." Tess suffers from synesthesia, a condition in which everything has a color (when Rocky whacks her elbow, for example, Tess sees orange; each letter of the alphabet also has a different color in her mind). This fascinating and little known real-life condition, which is thought to run in families, adds a unique aspect to the novel.
Another poignant theme revolves around Rocky meeting Melissa, a young teen with an eating disorder. Rocky enlists her assistance in caring for Lloyd, and through helping the black Lab heal from his emotional and physical injuries, Melissa discovers healing for herself. Although this may sound like a predictable plot element, Sheehan adds enough interesting moments to make her path to wholeness surprising at times.
Although the story is full of unusual and interesting characters and plot twists, Sheehan struggles somewhat with transitions, which keep the storyline from running smoothly in places. Point-of-view changes seem fairly random --- maybe less would have been more? --- although the author handles the different voices with aplomb.
This tale of loss, grief, the reawakening of love and the power of friendship and community will have wide-ranging appeal. Even those who don't feel a passion for canines will find Sheehan's story of one woman's healing an affecting read.
--- Reviewed by Cindy Crosby. Contact Cindy at phrelanzer@aol.com.
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April 2005
SNAPSHOT INTO ONE WRITER’S SOUL
- Jacqueline Sheehan Speaks about Inspiration, LOST & FOUND -
Q: What inspired you to write LOST & FOUND, which is quite a dramatic departure from your other works?
A: LOST & FOUND is a profound departure from my first book, Truth, a novel about Sojourner Truth, the courageous 19th abolitionist. It took five years to write Truth because of the enormous amount of research that I had to do and in order to present the true essence of her character. Because I admired Sojourner Truth so deeply, I felt like my feet were constantly held to the fire. During this time period, I periodically took breaks from my historical novel to give voice to the wonderfully flawed and irreverent Rocky and the character for my next book was born. In the stories and snippets that I wrote about Rocky, she was always drawn to bow hunting and she was always in love with her husband. At some point I asked the heartless question that authors often ask about their characters, which is, what if Rocky lost the thing that was most important to her? And for Rocky, that was her husband.
Writing Truth required that I dive into another culture, another time. I wanted Rocky to come primarily from my own experiences and from our contemporary world. My world has been driven by psychology; it is a rich and satisfying world that gives me endless insight into the motivation of people and the resilience of the human spirit. Psychology was my training ground for fiction, and likewise, I often urge clients in counseling to use writing as a way to tap into a deeper and wiser side of themselves.
Is this autobiographical? No and yes. This is fictional. Yes, Rocky is a psychologist and so am I. Yes, I was once a lifeguard, but only for one summer and I wasn’t a terribly good one. And yes, I was called on to perform CPR and the victim did not survive. And yes, I have known and loved two of the most extraordinary dogs, both of whom would have stood in front of a racing train to save the ones they loved.
Q: Do your life experiences with loss influence the tragedy in Rocky’s life?
A: Death is a major character in this book and death has been a major character in my life. When I was nine years old, my father died suddenly from a massive heart attack. People did not talk much about the impact of loss back then and I was simply expected to go back to school and continue on as if nothing had happened. He died in mid June and I don’t recall the summer at all except that the sky was constantly gray. In the fall, I started 4th grade with a wonderful teacher, Mrs. Vivien Tarbox. She informed us that we would be studying science and the arts. I selected an unlikely author, Edgar Allan Poe, and spent the year reading everything he ever wrote. He was my maudlin grieving partner; he knew about parental loss and sadness and he and I were sad together. He understood losing someone to the thief of death and he took grief to the farthest, most macabre level in his writing. His mother died when he was two years old and his father before that. He brooded over the mystery of death and I brooded right along with him.
It was not until years later when I was in graduate school studying about grief that I fully understood my year with Poe. As odd as it must have looked for a young child to cozy up to Poe, no one in my family even noticed because everyone was so shattered by my father’s death. But once the year was over, I put my friend Poe aside. He had taken me through a year of grieving.
Readers have said to me that they are startled and horrified at Rocky’s behavior after her husband’s death, particularly when she disposes of his ashes in such a spectacular, yet gruesome manner. Yes, Rocky is a bit over the top, but in dealing with grief there are infinite ways that people choose to make a statement to the dead. Her behavior tells us just how far off center she is blown. I have known people who wear their lover’s ashes in a vial hung around their neck. When my ex-husband was killed in a motorcycle accident while I was writing this book, I knew immediately what I had to do. I took a dear friend to a bar, ordered a shot of Jack Daniels and a cigar. I did not leave the bar until both the cigar and several more shots were consumed. These were potent symbols of my former spouse and I felt connected to him as I rolled the powerful smoke in my mouth and Jack Daniels scorched my throat and belly.
How we negotiate death determines how we live. Billy Collins, the former poet laureate of the United States, often warns students as they enter his poetry classes, “Welcome to the school of death.” Poets so often write about death and loss, and fiction writers are not far behind.
Q: Animals play a large role in this book. did you know that a dog would become a major character?
A: Although I had grown up with dogs and cats, it was not until I was 25 and living in Chicago, working with street kids, that I met my first extraordinary dog. He arrived with my future husband. The dog was a gorgeous golden retriever mix. He never wore a leash or a collar; he heeled so perfectly that people often imagined that he had a leash on. It wasn’t long before I realized that I could walk anywhere in Chicago, at any time of day or night and feel perfectly safe if I had Poncho with me. His full name was Poncho Rafael Jesus Gonzales. He blissfully pranced the sidewalks with a tennis ball in his jaws but if he didn’t like someone, he’d drop the ball and get between the person he had profiled and me. I once wandered into a deserted industrial area of the
city and as we walked under a trestle, a man suddenly appeared out of the shadows and demanded to walk with me. He made the mistake of trying to shoo Poncho away by stomping his feet. Poncho lunged at him, growling and displaying every impressive fang. The man fled and Poncho covered his fangs once again with his golden retriever smile. Something changed for me in that moment. This dog would fight for me and protect me in a way that was immediate and non-negotiable. I had not trained him to do this, nor had I asked or even hinted. He had chosen me and I was his. My heart grew larger that day as dusk set and we emerged from the most desolate stretch of Chicago. He never bit anyone, and I knew he didn’t want to bite anyone, but I also knew that if he had to, he would.
We moved from Chicago to Oregon and Poncho was my constant companion for hiking, running through Douglas fir forests, and camping. My husband accompanied me for most camping adventures, but I felt perfectly secure camping only with Poncho. He taught me about loyalty, forgiveness, and the pure joy of reveling in the moment. There were times, as he and I followed animal trails in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains, when I became more dog and he led and I followed. And there were times when he became more human, learning the human rules of an Easter Egg hunt and following the traditions perfectly, eating the collected eggs only when I said so. I tried to learn his language: a raised eyebrow, a dropped tail, rear end up, a slight turn of the head, a two wag instead of a three wag greeting. And he made every effort to learn my language. He forgave me when I came home cranky and unloving and I forgave him for eating a freshly baked peach pie. We were both contrite, ashamed of our bad behavior. He mended and expanded a part of me. I threw a lot of balls and sticks for him.
The second exceptional dog was a great barrel-chested black lab, named Spud, who belonged to my sister and brother-in-law. He played soccer amazingly well with my three nephews, visited (on his own initiative) a home day care center to the delight of the children, and as he matured, exhibited what I could only call a heroic personality. Spud weighed over 90 pounds and was clearly a powerful animal, yet he never fought with other dogs, instead he calmed them. He once escorted two ferocious Rottweilers from my sister’s yard by simply herding them in the most congenial manner. He looked like a good-humored bouncer guiding the drunks out to the sidewalk. He continually stayed between my sister and any unknown visitor. He also knew how to be careful around our fragile mother in her later years. Our mother regarded him as the ultimate hero after he deflected the above-mentioned Rottweilers when she was out walking an antagonistic ankle biter sort of dog.
In my stories, and in this novel, animals are a presence and a personality. They are a part of the plot. They may be hero, martyr, or rascal, and in the case of the dog that Rocky finds and saves, they often have their own say. It is understandably risky to give a dog a point of view in fiction. It could potentially go so badly. We hear several chapters from the point of view of this dog, and we get a taste of his inner world and the depth of his emotional sensations. Early readers told me that I simply should not, could not do this. But I could no more deny this dog a point of view that I could refuse the invitation to hurl myself along animal trails with my old dog Poncho. The viewpoint was there all along.
But did I imagine that the dog would take such a front and center role? Absolutely not. Much as dogs do in real life, this dog brazenly walked into this novel and persistently revealed his personality until I paid attention.
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Chapter One
Bob had left the waxed food carton on the counter the night before and it now smelled of grease and fish. Rocky picked up the box and a puddle of oil pooled beneath it. Her husband ate deep fried food when salted fat was the only way to soothe the layers of accumulated sadness after a day telling a pet owner, "Your dog has had a good long life and this cancer won't be cured by surgery or chemo. Her kidneys are failing. What would you like me to do?" She knew from looking at the contents of the food container that Bob's day had gone badly yesterday and that his mumbled response to her as he got into bed was a result of self-medication with the worst sort of fast food. "They only change the grease in that place once every week," she warned him.
They had traveled to Ireland one year and the highlight of the trip for Bob had been learning that the Irish had a polite form of a well-worn expletive that was cleverly one letter off. The first time he heard a storekeeper in Sligo say "Oh feck!" Bob perked up. "Feck?" he asked. "Is that something you can say around your mother?"
"'Tis, as long as you don't say it about her, if you get what I mean. But don't you dare say 'fook' around Herself," he explained, pronouncing the expletive with an Irish lilt. Ever since then, Bob said the world was fecked if he was mildly peeved. He mostly said it to his patients, cats and dogs, who came to him. "Why, that's a fecking shame, Simon, but antibiotics will clear that right up." But if he was massively indignant, the world was completely fooked. When he was sad from too many old golden retrievers looking at him with dreamy-eyed forgiveness as he injected them with death, he went to get "fooking fake fried clams at Johnny's Drive-In."
Rocky tossed the white container into the garbage. She was on her way to the university, but remembered her promise to order new socks for them to wear at night as they scuffed about the house. She was annoyed that he had been so insistent and it was only the first week of May. Why couldn't he take time to make the call? And why now? The semester would be over in ten days, then she'd have time for this, not now. She began lining up her points for the argument that she planned to have about Bob assuming that she should call. They would have the argument over dinner.
She picked up the cordless phone and punched in the 800 number for Lands' End, when she heard the thick sound from the upstairs bathroom. She pictured Bob brushing his teeth, peeing a coffee-scented stream into the toilet, shaving his face, but none of those predictable morning rituals accounted for the sound.
"Good morning. This is Priscilla. Let's start with your catalogue number," said the voice on the phone. Rocky hit the off button and climbed the stairs, head cocked to one side, listening for another sound to explain the first one. She held on to the phone in her right hand as she mounted the stairs and went through the doorway into their bedroom.
She called to her husband and the hollowness of the house hit her beneath her ribs. "Bob, are you okay in there? Did you drop something?" She tried to open the bathroom door but something was wedged against it, letting her open it only an inch. There was nothing else in the bathroom other than Bob that could provide such resistance. Had he fainted? She shoved the door open, inching his body back and wondering if she should call 911, or would she look foolish if he'd only gone dizzy for a minute? When the door was open wide enough to stick her head in, she saw his open-eyed stare and punched 911 into the phone. Then she flexed her legs and heaved all her weight against the door and entered the bathroom with such velocity that the latch of the old door caught at her pants, ripping them at her thigh, grabbing at her skin. She dropped to the floor and put two fingers of her left hand on his neck. Rocky had been a lifeguard since high school, through college and grad school. Her old bathing-suited self, ten years younger, dropped down from the white lifeguard chair. Someone answered the phone and Rocky put the phone near Bob's head so that she could shout her replies. "No, he's not breathing. Yes, I know CPR. No, I'm not going to keep listening to you. I'm doing it now; I'm doing the CPR. Just get someone here fast. Please."
She breathed into him, first tilting back his head, closing off his nose, then sealing his lips with hers and blowing air into his mouth, keeping her left eye open to see if his chest rose. She tasted mint toothpaste. There was shaving cream on his neck, the part that Bob hated shaving, so he saved it until last. Her brain stopped working except to think things like, The front door is open because I let the cat out. The ambulance guys can get in, so I won't have to stop breathing for Bob. Her body took over. She pressed the heel of her hand slightly to the left of his breastbone and met with surprising resistance. Bob's chest was suddenly unyielding and without the fluid grace of his big easiness. Rocky had never pressed this hard on him for any reason. Five compressions, another breath, was this right? She looked at her watch, how much time had gone by? She should have run up the stairs instead of walk. How long had he not been breathing? His wonderful brain needed blood. Where the hell was the ambulance? She did not want to be the one compressing his heart and breathing into his lungs, someone more experienced, more medical should be doing this. In all her summers of life guarding she had never really done CPR on a victim, and now she wondered if she ever knew how.
The foregoing is excerpted from Lost & Found by Jacqueline Sheehan. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission from HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022
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