Outside of the exam room, I gather the remaining pieces of my sanity. Griffin, my partner in lab-tech crime, comes to the rescue. Our friendship started in 4-H Club when a scrawny kid plopped down next to me while I stared at a pig. “You look depressed,” he said. His tone showed he felt as outcast as I did.
“Some stupid girl at my school made fun of me, again, while I was eating lunch. She said that I felt at home among the cows and pigs because I am fat like one.”
Griffin snickered. “If we are only here because we are like the animals, then this branch will soon fold because all of the animals are gay.”
It took awhile for that to sink in. Griffin’s paused expression told he felt he took a risk in sharing what he had to get off his chest. It made no difference to me. “Great, I hereby dub you my best friend, so I can get your cast offs.”
He smiled and nudged me. “What’s the evil bitch’s name?”
“Laura Muler.”
He was so amused that he actually slapped his leg while laughing. “Seriously? You need to forgive her.”
I didn’t get where he was going with that.
“Lady Parts, her name has mule in it, which is perfect because she is an ass.” With that comment he sealed the deal on obtaining the title of Best Friend for Life. Nearly a dozen years, several cases of black eye liner (He goes through it faster than I do.), and countless tales of men who wronged us later, this now buffed-out, bald, Goth, black Will keeps my lily-white Grace in check.
Griffin cleans my wound as I get a good look in the mirror. My only clean scrubs this morning were ones in an unflattering shade of slate blue, making my skin look grey. My eyes usually gleam while I am at work, yet now they are dim. Worse, my golden locks droop out of my ponytail the way Mom’s used to at the end of a long day when we kids had been “helping” around the house. I look like someone dragged me through spit.
Griffin finishes bandaging my arm and kisses it. “You need a bath!”
“Gee, thanks. I’ve often wondered why I have nothing in my life other than a TV set, a gay bestie, and animals. Now I’m scratching one of those off the list.”
“Yeah, you’re just jealous of how fabulous I am.”
“You’re about as fabulous as a wolf in a cat pen.” Oh, that was a terrible attempt to keep up with him.
Griffin flicks a hand at me. “Ooh, you must be tired, because that comeback stunk!”
The screech of tires coming from outside makes my eyes cringe shut. Instinct sends me racing out the door. About a half a block down the street, a car speeds off. From behind, another driver jumps out and runs toward the side of the road with swift movements that imply urgency. I start dodging through traffic towards what appears to be an injured Shiloh Shepard.
No, not again. This can’t be happening. How can anyone be so cruel as to hit a creature and then drive off without a care? Have people no compassion? I’ve never been a saint but …
My knees go to the ground as I stare down at the poor dog that whimpers a plea for help. Thank God we have been spared the horror of blood. She is curled in the gutter like she is cowering from the cruelness of the world. I don’t blame her in the least. Dirt covers the side of her face that rests in the gutter. How do I help? I know nothing about animals.
Please, God, I can’t handle watching another being die. You have been guiding me for months into doing the right things. Don’t stop now. This dog needs a doctor.
Yes, a doctor. If I can get her to a vet …
I stand to go back to my car for my cell phone and catch sight of a woman in scrubs running toward me. Behind her is a sign reading “Good Samaritan Animal Clinic.”
Thank you!
I need to get the dog out of the street and in to one of those exam rooms.
With a swoop, she is in my arms. “Hold on, girl. Help is on the way.” We head toward the clinic as the blond-haired woman puts her hands out to stop traffic.
Before I can tell him not to move the dog, he is already racing it towards Good Samaritan. “Try not to move her too much. She may have injuries you can't see.” His eyes hit my scrubs, and he nods. “And be calm. Animals pick up on fear.”
The beautiful creature whimpers as the man twists his way through the doors. I call out to Griffin to get Dr. Leopold, to which I get a reply that she is at lunch. Great, I’m on my own. I can barely see the guy around that huge dog. How is he managing to carry it so effortlessly? The thing seems like it’s my size, and that’s kind of saying something.
“The car in front of me suddenly slammed on his brakes, then sped off,” the guy says, sounding defensive. “The jerk must have hit her.”
He sets the dog on the table, and I wrap her in a blanket to ward off shock. “I’ll never understand how people can be so cruel. It was really wonderful of you to stop and help her.”
“Of course. What type of person wouldn’t?” His voice cracks from emotion enough to tell me there is something deeper than the obvious behind his words. The power of it draws my attention away from the patient. I want to say that I am sorry for whatever experience he is recalling, but how he keeps his eyes cast to the ground tells me he’d rather not talk about it. He rattles his head, clearing the memory, and then nods to the dog as she whimpers. “She okay?”
“I’ve no idea.” My soothing voice becomes aimed at her, helping her turn calm. “It’s okay, sweetie. I promise to take really good care of you.” You’re not supposed to scare a dog by looking it in the eyes, yet this one draws mine into her’s. Her eyes droop in a plea that reminds me of Rufus in his cage.
Thankfully, her vitals check out as healthy. “She’s definitely still feeling the scare, but there doesn’t seem to be any immediate danger.” The poor girl. Her teeth are rotting, and her coat is brittle and coarse while her skin is greasy and flaky. She is hurting from more than the accident. I grab the FRID scanner and search for a microchip. I get exactly what I expect. “No ID whatsoever. Have you seen this dog before?”
Finally, I look up to the man. My words may have glided out, but now the blood pumping through my veins is stammering. A rush of adrenaline may have aided him in carrying the dog, but he’s not exactly out of shape. His tight, black T-shirt reveals he’s probably got a gym membership that he actually uses. He is tall with features that are dark; short, nearly onyx, hair, skin that has a permanent tan, and eyes so chocolate-brown that they make me want to dive in and slurp.
Is he Indian? Like American Indian? I’ve no point of reference other than the ones I’ve seen on TV.
Despite the fact that the rest of his skin is smooth and glowing, he has just enough stubble to look like I’ve woken up to him after a wild night of naked party games. And God, those cheek bones! They give him an air of strength that no amount of muscle could.
Doggone it. I’m stooping, and my scrubs are covered in cat fur and dog slobber. I brush at them as if it will help.
Oh, noodles! I never fixed my hair. Why did this guy appear when my one model-worthy feature looks like a rat invaded a bird’s nest? Combing it with my fingers is useless, but I try anyway. God, I feel twelve years old and in the presence of a live issue of Tiger Beat.
“No,” he says.
No to what?
Oh, yeah. I had asked if he had seen the dog before. An embarrassed giggle slips out. Criminy. Now I feel even lamer.
“I live just up the road,” he continues. “This is the first I’ve seen her.”
The dog looks up at the man who hasn’t stopped petting her and whimpers a request to ease her pain. My mind and heart go back to the beautiful creature—the dog, that is. “I need to get her x-rayed. Why don’t you take a seat in the lobby while you wait?”
“But she's not my dog.”
“Really? Because with the way she keeps nuzzling against you, nobody's told her that.” I give him a shy smile. I also fight another giggle. “Congratulations, you’re the proud father of a beautiful girl.”
It’s okay.
The dog is okay. I am okay.<
br />
If I tell myself that enough, I’ll no longer feel the need to head for the nearest bar. Sure, seeing that dog on the side of the road set me back emotionally, but that doesn’t give me the excuse to blow months of sobriety. I tell myself it is all so easy—just decide to quit, let the universe guide you, give up all vices and crutches so it’s a lifestyle change—but every day has challenges of its own. Nearly facing death, again, is topping the list right now.
Thank God that dog didn’t die. Hospitals freak me out—even pet ones. At least I didn’t exactly see Dad die, but last I saw him, he was so close to going that … Man, blood disease is creepy. The thought that it could just hit so hard and without warning …
Granddad’s passing wasn’t much better.
The way my leg bounces reminds me of a drummer in search of a beat. This room smells of antiseptic, and the sand-colored walls feel sterile, as if made of white-painted concrete. The aluminum framing on the windows reminds me of an institution. It can’t be that bad in here. It must be my state of mind. However, the fact that this chair could use a cushion is not making anything easier.
A magazine. That’s what I need.
In the corner sits a table with a few tabloids on it. Something cheesy, like Star, will help. I can’t think about watching things die. Not after seeing Eddie …
I know too many dead people, and trying to avoid thinking about it right now is making me scatterbrained. Seeing that dog reminded me of what happened to Eddie. Someday I need to face those memories, but I can’t trust that I can do it now and not slip. That is what is making me so edgy. It’s not just the memories of Eddie; it’s knowing where that incident led and fearing this one will take me back down that path.
Okay, find something new to ruminate on, like school or work.
The bell over the front door tinkles, and a Benji-like mutt strolls in. Did that girl say I was a proud father? If you save an animal, does that mean it is yours? That dog is huge. Do I even have space for her? Putting me in charge of another life sounds like a horrible idea. Then again, I’ve grown a lot, and having another reason to stay on the right track is never a bad thing.
Since I walked away from drugs, it’s been pretty clear that everything in my life has happened for a reason. Being at the scene of that accident may not have been an exception. If that is the case though, why did that poor dog have to suffer for my attention to be grabbed? Maybe it was so I would feel I owed her. Now I really feel horrible for the poor thing.
The handle on the door to the exam area rattles and then stops, like someone started to open it and got distracted. I hope it’s that woman with good news.
I head out to the lobby, anxious to talk to that guy again and give him the good news, but stop just short of entering it to touch up my hair. Sadly, it does little to improve how disastrous I look. Lame scrubs. They are the most unattractive things in the world, but at least they hide some of my padding. The curves on my personal road that I want this guy to drive his hands up may be glorious, but all the speed bumps that come with them make me crazy.
Oh, who am I kidding? Even I don’t believe what I am telling myself. This is a disaster. Also, the news regarding the dog is pretty odd. I’m not even sure if I should give it to him straight.
The moment I enter the lobby, the man who needs to father my children pops up from his seat. I’m kind of surprised he stayed. Don’t most guys bail when a girl tells them fatherhood is looming?
“Is she okay?” he asks.
His eyes are big and hopeful, yet a twinge of fear coats them. He reminds me of a little boy on Christmas morning that has just seen Santa but fears he wasn’t good enough to rake in the presents. God, that look is just adorable. “She’s fine, sort of. Her leg is slightly fractured, but it looks to be a few days old. Honestly, we don’t think she was hit, at least not today.”
His head tilts with curiosity, and his brows narrow in thought, yet he barely takes a moment to ponder before spitting out, “So it’s like she was tired of hurting and just decided to hang out on the side of the road to see where life would take her?”
What a weird question, but yeah, now that I think of it, it’s kind of like he was supposed to find her. “What are you going to name her?” Now I’m certain that he needs to adopt her. If he says he can’t keep her, I’ll take her, but how can he not?
“Well,” he looks at my nametag, “Liz, maybe—”
“Lizetta.”
“Lizetta? That’s lovely. Why does your tag say Liz?”
“It’s easier at work.” Frankly, I’m not crazy about whacking off part of my name, but I’ve gotten used to it.
“It reminds me of Etta James, the singer. Do you think Etta is a good name for her?”
Who is Etta James? I halt just short of asking to spare looking like a fool. “I think it’s sweet. What is your name?”
Wait. Is he naming her after me? Aw!
“Jensen.”
“Nice to meet you, Jensen.” He’s still a little wide-eyed and racy despite hearing Etta will be fine. I touch a hand to his arm to comfort him. A surge of electricity hits me. Sadly, Jensen seems unaffected. “If you can’t do it, I’ll take her. I promise she won’t wind up in a shelter.” Oh, that was just lame. This dog clearly trusts him, and Jensen not taking her will ruin the plan that’s slowly forming in my head. “However, if you do take her, we’ll cover the follow-up visits.” That statement may cost me dearly when Dr. Leopold finds out.
He scratches his temple.
Come on, Jensen, don’t let us down.
“It's just that, I don't know the first thing about animals. I've never had a pet before.”
Seriously? How could anyone grow up without animals? That would be such a drag.
His whole body pauses, except for his eyes that flick back and forth as if searching for an answer. Though I am holding my breath, I can’t help but fight a smile. He seems to be concerned about doing the right thing. It’s so sweet.
With a swift toss back of his feathery hair, I get a dead look in the eyes. “Yeah, I’d love to take her. I feel something greater than I am is telling me to, so I’ll accept that. It will be good for us both.”
Another weird answer.
My mind flashes back to that appointment Griffin and I had with the psychic about a year ago. On the way home, Griffin told me, “You can’t fight the universe, Shortnin’ Bread. It’s going to take you where it wants you to go, so you might as well work with it.” It took months for me to stop being freaked out after hearing that. Now it’s flashing back into my brain with this man’s words. Oh, that’s just creep—
“Lizetta?”
Huh? Oh, yeah. He is taking the dog. “You take her home and get her settled. In a few hours, I’ll drop off all the supplies you will need. I’ll also give you my cell phone number. If you need anything, all you have to do is call.”
He smiles in agreement, and, oh sweet baby goodness, my heart is trying to race through my veins and out my toes.
Maybe the universe has sent Etta to pave the path to our futures.
Nah. This guy could never see anything in me.
Could he?
A then G, no C. Son of a— Ugh!
Writing music was once as simple as breathing. All I needed to do was go for a walk and start humming. Halfway through I would race home to write it all down. It would just need a little tweaking and whala, brilliance! Now it’s like I’ve forgotten how to progress chords. That song should be working. Maybe my hearing is jacked.
Was it the drugs? Nah, I wrote just fine before I started getting wasted. Didn’t I?
I try it again, and the dog howls. Her pain isn’t just from the injury. My serenade is probably making her ears bleed.
The guitar gets ditched for both of our sakes. I sit and share a blanket with Etta so we can watch the game on TV. “You a hockey fan?” She gives me a blank stare. “Don’t worry. You will be. No one is allowed in this place unless they are hockey fans.” I lean in to whisper, “But if the
y are Kings fans, I am counting on you to nibble off their knee caps.”
Etta gets a good rub behind the ears. Having another responsibility really is a good thing. Shoot, anything to keep me on the straight and narrow is a good thing. It’s only been a couple of hours, and I’m already used to her. I just wish that I knew more about dogs. How much do you feed them? How often do you take them to the vet? Did Etta come potty trained? I need to jump online tonight.
The sound of a car pulling up comes from outside. That must be Lizetta. Shoot, I should have cleaned this place more. She is going to think I can’t take care of myself, let alone Etta. I pop up and head to the kitchen for a towel and start dusting.
My crazy plan is deviously brilliant! Truthfully, I may have stuck Jensen with a dog he isn’t ready for. However, I never would have tried to sway him if I wasn’t certain he could provide for her.
Then again, his little-boy look could deceivingly mean he is an expert serial killer and I am screwed.
I sneak a peek into the rearview mirror. Why don’t I keep a makeup kit in my desk? That changes tomorrow! I want to scrub off my face and start over. At least now my hair is presentable. Thankfully, I had a soft pink blouse and a decent pair of jeans at work, so I am no longer in those hideous, spit, blood, and fur-covered scrubs.
A couple of pinches to my cheeks to bring out a natural glow do nothing. Why do magazines give useless makeup tips and imply everyone can look perfect with a little lip gloss and a smidgen of mascara? Can that possibly work for anyone?
Yeah, it can. It always worked for Laura, my arch nemesis who mocked me for my eating habits. “Fat-etta, eaten’ sloppy burgers with chedda.” What a horrible person.
I smooth my blouse and check to see that the buttons are all fastened and I am covered. As I run my hand over my stomach, the memory of Laura’s taunting amplifies. Who am I kidding? I’m a fool for getting my hopes up.
Gah! This stops now! I swear, once she gets in my head, it’s like I’ve stepped into quicksand.
Something To Dream On Page 3
