Starting From Here

by Lisa Jenn Bigelow

  On my way in I grabbed the mail and sorted out the bills from the junk. I didn’t bother opening the Christmas cards in their red and green envelopes. I knew they’d say “Merry Xmas, Bob and Colby!” and “All best for the new year, Bob and Colby!” as if Mom never existed. I left them in a tidy stack on the table for Dad. He wasn’t due to arrive home until Christmas Eve, and I wasn’t convinced he’d make it.

  I nuked a frozen ham and cheese pocket, trying not to imagine the thick, steaming slice of lasagna I could have had at Fazoli’s. I pictured Rachel and Michael cozied up at the restaurant, feeding each other forkfuls of rigatoni, surrounded by friends—my friends—and felt sick.

  I gobbled my food as I ran a feather duster over the coffee table, the TV, the bookshelves crammed with Dad’s travel books, the garage sale paintings of desert sunsets and misty mountain lakes. I dragged out the Dirt Devil and used the brush attachment to suck up all the crumbs from the couch. I washed the dishes and set them in the rack to dry, gave the toilet a halfhearted scrub, and took a look around.

  The place looked decent, but it didn’t look the slightest bit Christmassy.

  So I tuned the radio to a station that played Christmas music 24/7. I unearthed our little artificial tree from Dad’s closet and set it on the coffee table. I scattered some old tinsel across the branches and hooked on some shiny balls and the crusty, misshapen clay ornaments I’d made in preschool. They used to embarrass me, but Mom would never let me throw them out. I wasn’t about to go against her wishes now. We used to have an angel for the top of the tree, but I couldn’t find it. In its place I put a mini rubber chicken that Van had once given me as a gag gift.

  Finally, I unpacked the pair of porcelain turtledoves. They’d been one of my parents’ wedding gifts—from Dad’s parents, of course; Mom’s had been in denial. I carefully wiped the dust from the doves and hung them in the very center of the tree, facing the couch.

  Mom and I used to string popcorn and cranberries for garlands, which we’d hang outside for the birds when Christmas was over. We’d cut paper snowflakes for the windows. She always roasted a turkey and made five different kinds of cookies. My favorites were peanut butter with a Hershey’s Kiss pressed into the center.

  Nowadays Dad and I ordered a ready-to-eat dinner from Meijer: turkey breast with all the trimmings, green beans, and pecan pie. It was good food, but you know how people say Christmas doesn’t come in a box? That goes double for the microwave.

  When there wasn’t anything more I could do to summon the Christmas spirit, I collapsed on the couch to wait for Van’s call. As John Denver crooned me to sleep, singing of peace on Earth and goodwill toward men, the rain slowly turned to snow.

  My phone jolted me awake. Van.

  “What’s orange and sounds like a parrot?”

  I groaned. “Can we cut to the chase?”

  “A carrot! Isn’t that great? Mr. P. told it at Fazoli’s.”

  “Knee slapping.”

  “Well, somebody’s wearing their crabby pants. Come on, Col, we’ve got two weeks’ vacation. Time to quit moping and get out of the house.”

  “But I’ve almost perfected my technique.”

  “Don’t make me break out the Bing Crosby. ‘You’ve got to ac-cent-uate the positive—’”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll get out of the house,” I said. “What’s your grand plan? I’ll tell you now, I’m not driving you to the mall. It’ll be a mob scene.”

  “Actually”—Van’s voice took on a guilty tone—“I was hoping you’d help me collect cans.”

  “Wow, you sure do know how to entertain a lady.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. But I haven’t done my Christmas shopping yet, and I could really use the cash.”

  For all the Teddy-sitting Van did, he didn’t make a cent. He supplemented his allowance with the deposits on pop and beer cans he found along Harrington Road—which, given the amount of litter people tossed out their car windows, wasn’t too shabby an enterprise. Sometimes he roped me into helping.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “It’s not as if I have anything better to do.”

  “And we could go back to my place after,” Van said. “I’ve got stuff for making brownies. Well, except for eggs. Eggs aren’t that important, are they?” he asked hopefully.

  I shuffled to the fridge and peered inside. “I can bring eggs.” One good thing about working at a grocery store: no excuse for a bare fridge.

  “Fantastic. In that case, meet you halfway?”

  I pulled on my sneakers and winter coat and hat, all of which had started out as my favorite color, baby pink, but were well on their way to pussy willow gray. I slipped two eggs into one pocket and my toothbrush into the other, in case I ended up spending the night at Van’s. I grabbed a big, black garbage bag from under the kitchen sink.

  Outside, specks of snow skittered by. The sun, after barely showing its face all day, sagged in the sky. Car exhaust hung in the damp air. I trudged down the drive, past the rows of trailers and the chipped and battered Trail’s End sign, run into so many times by drunk drivers that no one bothered to count anymore.

  On the shoulder of Harrington Road, broken glass and gravel crunched under my feet. Van and I called this stretch “Roadkill Road” because we always had to sidestep at least one dead cat, possum, raccoon, or squirrel—sometimes even a deer. The speeding cars sent wind whipping through my hair and sprayed pebbles against my shins. Whenever I spied a metallic glint, I stooped to investigate and, if I was lucky, added a squashed can to my bag. After I met up with Van, we’d comb the weeds more thoroughly.

  I saw Van coming up on the far side of the road, a garbage bag of his own swinging by his ankles. When we were directly opposite each other, he looked both ways and slouched across the street. “Pickings are slim,” he said. “Think Danielle will mind if I do her shopping at the dollar store? Their perfume can’t be any worse than the stuff she usually wears.” He looked past me and blinked. “Hey, who’s your stalker?”

  “Ha, ha,” I said, not in the mood for another corny joke.

  “No, seriously, check it out.”

  I turned. At first I thought the flash of white among the weeds was just an old newspaper tumbling toward us, or maybe a plastic bag. But as it came nearer, I saw it was a dog: a big, white dog with black, folded ears and a black patch over one eye. He paused among the dead thistles and broken beer bottles and wadded-up trash, staring at us. As we stared back, his tail began to swish.

  “For a stalker, he’s pretty darn cute,” Van said.

  “It’s not a Trail’s End dog,” I said. “Do you recognize it from down your way?”

  “Nope. Doesn’t look like he’s got a collar, either.”

  “People are so dumb. Who lets their dog run loose on Harrington Road? One wrong move and he’s toast.”

  “I bet he’s a stray,” Van said. “Look how skinny he is. I’d take him home and feed him if it weren’t for Precious.”

  “I’d take him home and feed him if Dad didn’t hate dogs.”

  “Oh, come on. Your dad doesn’t hate dogs.”

  “Okay, but he’s never let me have one, has he?” Dad always said we didn’t have the time, money, or space for a pet. Worse, he was right.

  I squatted and snapped my fingers. “Here, boy! Away from the road! You idiot.”

  The dog didn’t move.

  “Wow, you could be the next Dog Whisperer,” Van said.

  “Shut up.” I felt in my pockets, hoping a stick of beef jerky or a package of cheese crackers had magically appeared. Just the eggs. “Got any snacks?” I asked Van.

  “Nope. We’ll just have to turn on the charm.”

  “Well, help me out here, Prince Charming.”

  Van crouched beside me. We slapped our thighs and whistled and called to the dog in the most cutesyootsy voices we could muster. He only watched us with polite interest until, at last, he picked his way forward through the brush.
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br />   “That’s right!” I held out my hands for him to inspect. His cold nose whiffled across my fingers, whiskers tickling my palms. The sniffing turned to licking, and I laughed. “He sure is friendly.”

  Van scratched him behind the ears. “He sure stinks.”

  “He’s a hobo. What do you expect?” I dug my fingernails into the dog’s barrel chest and scratched away. His black-spotted fur was caked with dirt and, for all I knew, fleas, but he enjoyed it. He sank to his hindquarters, one foot thumping against the hard ground.

  I imagined coming home to his wagging tail instead of to a stale, empty trailer. Curling up on the couch with him, watching TV or reading. Taking him for long walks by the lake. Driving around in Scarlett, his boxy head hanging out the window, tongue lolling. Sharing a pillow with him on shivery nights when the only sound was my own breathing, the neighbors’ TVs, and the cars on Harrington Road.

  After he’d had a bath, of course. “I wish I could take him home,” I told Van. “I kind of love him already.”

  “Maybe we could take him to your place, just for a couple of hours. It would get him off the street for a while.”

  “And then what?”

  “Um. We call the police? Maybe someone’s reported him missing.”

  “We don’t have a leash.”

  “He seems to like us. I bet he’d follow if we started walking.”

  It was worth a try, but as we stood, the dog scrambled back.

  “Okay, so he’s a little jumpy,” Van said with a laugh.

  “Hey, boy! Over here. This way.” I clapped my hands, but the dog hung back. “It’s getting dark. He’s going to get creamed if he stays out here.”

  “Keep walking,” Van said. “That’s what I do when it’s time to leave the playground and Teddy won’t come. I walk a little ways, and in no time he’s screaming my name and running to catch up.”

  We started slowly toward Trail’s End. I kept a lookout over my shoulder, but the dog still didn’t follow. He grew smaller and smaller, a pale blotch in the growing gloom.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I said. “We were his best friends a minute ago.”

  “Dunno. Maybe he’s been hurt. You know, like, gunshy. Except without the gun. Hopefully.”

  The idea that anyone would raise a hand against this sweet, friendly dog infuriated me. “We can’t leave him now. I’m going back.”

  “Are you sure that’s—” Van began, but I was already running. If I could just grab the dog by the scruff of the neck, soon we’d be home, and I’d open up a can of corned beef hash for him. It would probably be the best dinner he’d had in days, maybe longer.

  Too late I realized my mistake. The dog shied away again, off the shoulder and into the road, oblivious of the cars. I screamed, “No! Get back here, you stupid dog!”

  But he didn’t, not in time. There was a sickening whack, and the dog was lying on the ground at my feet.

  THERE WAS NO screech of tires. The car that hit him barely slowed down, speeding off into the falling snow before I even thought to look at its license plate. Nobody else stopped, either.

  I fell on my knees, sobbing, gravel and broken glass digging through my jeans. The dog’s chest heaved as he struggled to get up, but I could see he wouldn’t be running anywhere. His right hind leg was a wreck. Bones splintered through the skin. Blood seeped into the ground around him.

  “Van, what do we do?”

  “Give me your keys.” Van grabbed them and sprinted in the direction of Trail’s End.

  I stroked the dog’s head but drew back when he growled. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “Hang in there. We’ll get you help. You’ll be fine.” His eyes were wide and panicked. He didn’t believe it any more than I did.

  I knew I had to put pressure on the wound with a clean cloth. But his leg was such a mess, I didn’t know where to start. I slipped off one of my shoes, then my sock. Ignoring the dog’s growling, I knotted my sock around his bad leg.

  “Shh,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  I was just retying my shoe when tires crunched on the shoulder. Van pulled past us, facing the wrong way. Cars swerved, horns blaring. An almost-dead dog and two teenagers were easy to ignore; Scarlett was not. Van leapt out, leaving the motor running and the headlights glowing through the gloom. He carried my plaid star-watching blanket. I hadn’t used it since my last night with Rachel.

  Van spread the blanket on the ground. Wiping my nose and eyes with the back of my hand, I helped slide the dog awkwardly onto the blanket. He yelped and jerked. “Easy, boy,” Van said, pressing him to the ground. “You’re half roadkill already.”

  Van lowered Scarlett’s tailgate, and we lifted the blanket like a hammock. It took all my strength to keep my end up, but we did it. The dog lay motionless in the back of the truck, too weak to struggle anymore.

  “You drive,” I told Van.

  If these were the dog’s final moments, I didn’t want him to spend them alone. I’d gotten him into this mess; I wasn’t about to abandon him now. I scrambled up beside him. Van slammed the tailgate, hopped into the cab, and threw Scarlett into gear. Her tires screeched as Van did a U-ey and made for the animal hospital up Harrington Road.

  I blocked out the chill wind and bumpy road and snow settling on my shoulders, putting all my concentration into a prayer to Baby Jesus or Allah or whatever god or goddess would stop and listen: Please don’t take him. I remembered sitting at Mom’s bedside as she slept through her last few days, swearing to myself she’d get better, even though the doctors said it was just a matter of time. Prayer hadn’t worked then. Why should it now?

  The dog whined feebly as if to say, I’m still here.

  We squealed into the clinic parking lot, nearly empty of cars. Barking dogs greeted us from somewhere beyond the two-story, white clapboard building. The driver door squeaked open, then slammed shut. Van’s pale face peeked over the side. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. And he—he’s holding on.”

  “Hang tight. I’ll get help.”

  “It won’t be long now, buddy,” I whispered into the dog’s crumpled black ear.

  A minute later I heard quick footsteps crunching across the gravel and voices: Van’s, high and worried, and a woman’s, so calm and cheerful that I wondered if I was hearing her right. Then Van lowered the tailgate, and there was a face to go with her voice. She was a middle-aged, auburn-haired woman in a white lab coat. “Let’s see about getting this fella inside,” she said.

  A second woman with braided black hair stepped into view. She wore blue scrubs and carried a stretcher under her arm. I ducked out of the way as the two women climbed into Scarlett’s bed. They murmured between them. “Shallow breathing … accelerated heart rate … dilated pupils … pale gums …”

  On the count of three they slid their hands under the dog’s hips and shoulders and pulled him onto the stretcher. The woman in blue folded my blanket into a thick pad and slid it under the dog’s hindquarters. The two climbed briskly down, the stretcher between them. Van held open the clinic’s door, and we followed them through the empty waiting room and down the hall to a room at the end.

  The room was painted a soft, ferny green. Van and I hovered as the women laid the dog on the stainless steel table, his butt still propped up by my now-filthy blanket.

  “I’m Dr. Robyn Voorhees, by the way,” said the white-coated woman as she examined the dog. “And this is Cindy Elwin, my technician.” The other woman smiled briefly. “And who’s this?” She nodded at the dog.

  My heart skipped. What would she say if she knew the truth? Work on a stray? Not worth my time. Call the pound. I don’t want him bleeding all over my pretty office.

  “We don’t—” Van began, but I stepped on his foot and glared him into silence.

  “Mo,” I said. “My dog’s name is Mo. And I’m Colby Bingham.”

  “Donovan McIneany,” Van said, wincing, “but call me Van.”


  “Well, Colby and Van,” Dr. Voorhees said, stepping away from the table, “the good news is that Mo is going to pull through.”

  I pride myself on not being a squealer, but I squealed at that moment and burst into tears. Van hugged me and rubbed my back.

  Dr. Voorhees continued. “Mo’s showing signs of shock, which is why we’ve raised his bottom—to get blood flowing to his head. But his vitals have already grown stronger in the time he’s been here.” She smiled at our blank stares. “That’s a very good thing.”

  Van cleared his throat. “So, the bad news?”

  “Well, obviously, Mo has been seriously injured. Just how seriously, I won’t know until we’ve done X-rays. I’ve very concerned about that hind leg. It’s not hemorrhaging, thanks to the tourniquet you made. But it’s in bad shape. I wouldn’t be surprised to find some fractured ribs, too, but it’s that back leg—

  “Listen, why don’t you two wash up and fill out Mo’s paperwork while Cindy and I finish our examination? I already sent my receptionist home for the day, so I’ll get the forms for you.”

  Cindy stayed with Mo while Van and I followed Dr. Voorhees. “The bathroom’s here,” she said, flipping the light switch in a small, rose-colored room that looked like it belonged in somebody’s house, not an animal hospital. There was even a frilly curtain around an old claw-foot tub. “I’ll leave the paperwork in the reception area. Answer the questions as best you can. By the way, do you want to call your parents?”

  “My dad’s working,” I said quickly. I couldn’t let Dad blow Mo’s cover.

  Dr. Voorhees frowned. “Can’t he be bothered in an emergency?”

  “No. He’s out of state and won’t be home till Christmas Eve.” I clenched my jaw. “Anyway, I’m sixteen. Almost seventeen. And Mo’s mine. I make all decisions for him.”

  “But maybe your mother?”

  “She’s busy, too,” I said. “Being dead.” Best conversation stopper ever.

  Sure enough, she gave up. “I’m sorry. I’ll just leave the forms.”