by Kate Davis
I’m so engrossed in my story that I barely notice that it’s getting late. By the time I look up the sky’s darkening and my neck is strained. That’s when I notice Sammy’s still gone.
I must have been so engrossed in my work that I completely forgot about my little fur baby.
A glance at the time tells me they’ve been gone for hours.
My heart lurches.
He was supposed to bring her back within an hour.
I can’t believe my shady neighbor hasn’t returned her yet. I should have followed my gut instinct and never trusted the guy. Obviously, my amazing gut feeling knew from the very first moment that he couldn’t be trusted.
I jump to my feet, stricken with panic, and reach for his driver’s license as I dial 911 on my cell phone. I’m so rattled, I can barely breathe. All I know is that I need help—and fast. A SWAT team. A chopper to search the streets for my beloved dog. Or just someone who knows what to do.
“911. What’s your emergency?” The voice is female and grave, but also full of concern. I can already tell she’ll immediately pick up on my distress. She probably has a little fluff ball of her own and will send a squad car or two right away.
“I’d like to report that my dog’s been stolen.” My voice is choked by unshed tears. I can barely squeeze out the words through the huge lump in my throat.
My poor, poor Sammy. I can only hope my horrible neighbor hasn’t been cruel to her.
“Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t get that. Did you just say your—”
“Sammy, my dog. She’s gone. My neighbor’s stolen her.” I pause. That’s a lie. He didn’t exactly steal her. “Well, he kind of borrowed her. I thought he was doing me a favor. He hasn’t brought her back, and it’s been hours, and—” I take a sharp breath in and out to slow down. Let’s face it. I need to stay calm so the operator will understand right away. We can’t waste time.
“Just to clarify, Sammy was stolen?”
“No, borrowed.”
“Sammy was borrowed?” The operator pauses, hesitating.
“Yes,” I hurry to confirm. “He offered to take her for a walk, but he never returned her.”
“And did you say Sammy is your dog?” For some reason, I think I can pick up a wave of disbelief.
“Yes.”
“Ma’am, are you aware you have called an emergency service number?” The operator’s friendly tone is gone.
“This is an emergency.” I don’t know where she’s heading with this, but I don’t like it one bit. “Sammy’s very dear to me and I should have listened to my gut feeling, but instead I decided to do the Christ-like thing and trust him. I just let him wander off with my dog.”
“The Christ-like thing?” The woman hesitates again. I can almost picture her brain working. When she speaks again, her voice has softened. “Look, ma’am, this number is reserved for human emergencies only. As a fellow Christian, I would like to help you, but I can’t. I’m bound by the law. Do you understand? But what I can do is suggest that you wait for your neighbor to get back home. If your dog is still lost by tomorrow, try to call the animal shelters. If you can’t reach your neighbor, consider reporting a missing person. Either that or call your lawyer to help you track him down. Now, you have a good day and I truly hope you find your dog.”
With that, she’s hung up.
I stare at my cell phone for a whole minute, unable to comprehend what just happened. The police, your supposed friend and helper in need, has just blown me off. I can’t believe it.
Not only that, but she’s also scared me.
Animal shelters? Report a missing person?
Is she assuming something bad might have happened to them both?
My poor pup.
Obviously, I’m not giving up. I’ll find the guy, dead or alive, and I’ll do what needs to be done with or without help.
I gather his license, my keys and cell phone as I mentally prepare a battle plan. First, I’ll ask around the neighborhood and I’ll track him down. Sammy’s plenty of cute with a face that always looks like she’s smiling. Lots of people have petted her since we moved in. They’ll remember seeing her with a stranger.
I’m out the door in no time and have almost crossed the hall when I think I hear barking somewhere nearby. It’s not the incessant kind I’m used to, but it still sounds a bit like Sammy.
I hold my breath to listen and inwardly cringe at my stupidity. Why didn’t it occur to me to knock on my neighbor’s door in the first place? With all the stress and fear clouding my mind, I completely forgot that being neighbors with someone actually involves living next door to each other.
I sprint down the hall and hammer my fist against the door, the sound reverberating from the walls.
My neighbor opens the door after what feels like an eternity. What is it with this guy and his inability to hurry?
“Whoa! Slow down before you break down the door.” His smile is easygoing and honest, as though he’s harboring no guilt at all.
I can’t believe it. He’s been here the whole time I was worried sick.
I take him in, seething, and his smile widens just a little bit, as though he’s laughing about his own joke.
I can’t believe he doesn’t notice how angry I am.
“You—” I poke a finger in his chest to push him aside so I can enter and get my pooch.
“Me? Yes?” His smile doesn’t die down one bit even though, by this time, he surely must have noticed my scowl.
Or the daggers flying from my eyes, aimed directly at him.
“You—” I shake my head, lost for words.
“Yes?” He prompts again, brows raised.
“I want my dog,” I push through gritted teeth and almost elbow him in the ribs as I make my way past him.
“Of course. She’s—”
“Sammy?” I don’t wait for the guy to disclose my dog’s location. I simply stomp through the foyer, opening and closing doors as I go along. At the back of my mind, I notice that his apartment is twice as big as mine. It also comes with a panoramic view of a nearby park rather than the dumpsters I get to see every day. The bathroom has a generously-sized bathtub, at which I gaze longingly for all of two seconds, before I proceed to what I assume is the bedroom.
I throw the door open and find myself frozen to the spot. My pup’s sprawled on Shane’s bed, belly up, and there’s that tiny snoring sound she makes when she’s completely relaxed. She’s not sleeping; she’s just comfortable.
Too comfortable.
So comfortable she doesn’t even react to me standing in the doorway.
“The exercise has worn her out. I think she wasn’t quite used to it,” my neighbor says.
Realizing what he’s implying, I turn sharply and shoot him a warning look. “Of course she’s used to it. She just didn’t get a good night’s sleep, that’s all. She’s not in best form because she’s tired.” The lie flies off my lips easily.
“If you say so.” Shane shoots me a dubious look.
I open my mouth to lie some more, then decide against it. For one, I don’t need to persuade some stranger that my dog’s perfectly taken care of, including her exercising needs. And second, well, I’ve just lied already for which I’ll have to engage in some extra prayer and repentance. In my head I hear my parents’ voice: Repentance is necessary for saving your soul. It’s a gift from above.
I’ve made it a habit to confess my sins while I tell myself that I’m still a work in progress. I know I shouldn’t misuse it just because I feel defensive that some guy has hurt my ego.
“Anyway.” He clears his throat. “I knocked on your door a while ago. When you didn’t answer I assumed you were busy or not at home.” His statement sounds like a question. His eyes locked on me, he pauses. Is he waiting for an answer? Does he want to know where I was or what I was doing?
I’m not going to tell him that I was wearing my headphones. I always do while working.
I scowl and wave my hand. “And then? Let me guess, y
ou simply decided to hide her in here so I wouldn’t know where she was. Do you have any idea what I went through? I thought you had stolen my dog!”
“You thought I had—” He breaks off and just stares at me for a few seconds. And then he throws his head back and laughs. I stare at him, lost for words, unsure what to make of it, but inside I’m slowly beginning to feel ridiculous.
Really, really ridiculous.
“That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.” He shakes his head and breaks into another fit of laughter.
I scowl. Okay, I’ll admit, the possibility was rather far-fetched given that we are neighbors and he would have been bound to come back to his living place at some point or another. However, as any dog owner will tell you, we do worry about our little pets…a lot…maybe to the point of seeming irrational to some individuals.
I get that now, but does he have to be so obnoxious about it?
I fish his driver’s license out of my pocket and hand it back to him.
“Thanks for—” Clearing my throat, I gesture at Sammy and straighten my back, crossing his bedroom to get my dog. I’m faintly aware of the fact that I’m invading a stranger’s privacy, but who cares when my ego’s just taken a major blow and my pride is in tatters? Sammy barely stirs as I squeeze my arms under her now sleeping body and lift her to my chest.
That’s when I notice the flashing screens through the open door to my right.
Obviously, I don’t mean to gawk but there is something about this guy that makes me forget my good manners, which is pretty easy given that he’s just forgotten his. I incline my head to get a better view at the black screens and what looks like writing that moves like on a teleporter.
That’s when it dawns on me.
“Are those chatrooms?” I only realize I’ve spoken out loud as he sprints across the room and slams the door, obstructing my view.
“Anything you need, just knock.” His expression is dead serious, maybe even a little unfriendly. It does sound a bit like he’s kicking me out. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more unwelcome than now.
“Thanks.” I hug Sammy to my chest, which wakes her up. Holding my wiggling dog makes it hard to hurry out the door. Eventually, I’m in the hall.
“Great. See you around,” Shane says and slams the door in my face.
Chapter Six
There is something joyful about visits that interrupt routine. In my case, that joy usually involves Tupperwares full of Mom’s home-cooked meals that last me for a week and save me tons of dollars in money spent on take-out food. Unfortunately, as is my mother’s custom, she always pops up announced and at the most unfortunate of times.
“Where’s the bell, Edward?”
“I think there isn’t one.”
“But there has to be. How else will Samantha know there’s someone at the door?”
The advantage of living in a matchbox apartment is that you often hear people standing outside your door looking for a bell to ring before they actually hear you. That gives you plenty of time to tidy up the most obvious mess, change into something that isn’t baggy and reminds you of PJs, or pretend you’re not home altogether.
I hear my mother’s shrieky voice a moment before Sammy starts barking her high shrieking sound that sort of matches Mom’s speech. For a moment I consider doing what I always do when people drop by unannounced, think hide in your bedroom, back pressed against the door, breath held and all, until they’re finally gone. But I can’t do that. For one, they’re my parents and there’s a really important commandment that specifically tells you to
* * *
Honor Thy Parents
* * *
Which I highly suspect includes not lying to them. In fact, there’s another command about lying in general. And then there’s also the aforementioned Tupperware I’m actually looking forward to. I mean, one can’t live on Starbucks coffee alone, and cooking isn’t quite my forte. Besides, my half-British upbringing makes me partial to shepherd’s pie and homemade shortbread.
I quickly change from my baggy jogging bottoms into a pair of jeans, straighten the pillows on the sofa and then open the door with the brightest smile I can muster. That takes a lot of energy, given that it’s Saturday morning and I only woke up an hour ago. So far, I’ve only managed to drag myself out the door to get my daily coffee, and my caffeine fix hasn’t kicked in yet.
Basically, it’s too early for engaging in any sort of civilized conversations.
What’s with people and waking up at the crack of dawn?
“Mom! Dad! What a surprise!” I sound so cheery, I should probably reconsider my career path and become a motivational speaker.
Or a fitness trainer.
“Samantha, sweetheart!” Mom kisses me on the cheek before pushing a paper bag filled to the brim with Tupperware into my arms and giving me her obligatory once over. “Look at you, all skinny and tired.”
In NYC, that usually counts as a compliment. Coming from Mom, not so much.
“She does look tired,” Dad chimes in.
“And look at those bags under your eyes.” Mom shakes her head and looks dismayed, as though someone just robbed the convenience store down the street and the chances of ever finding the robber are bleak.
“Welcome to my abode. Please come on in,” I say dryly and make room for them to enter.
As soon as they’re inside, Sammy’s yowling has taken new proportions and she’s started jumping up Dad’s leg, begging for attention.
“Look who’s happy to see me.” Dad laughs and proceeds to retrieve from his pocket what looks suspiciously like a snack. “You’re a good girl. Sammy’s such a good girl, yes she is.” He hides it in the palm of his hand as he feeds it to my dog, using the kind of language I don’t condone. I mean, if someone’s allowed to spoil her, then that someone is me.
“Dad, you know I don’t like it when you do that.”
“Look at her, Trish,” Dad says to Mom, like I’m not there, standing right next to him. “All metropolitan and trendsetting. Let the poor dog eat, honey. One of you has to before you’re all skin and bones.”
Ever since I moved to NYC, Dad’s been calling me “metropolitan and trendsetting”. He must have picked up some random terms from one of Mom’s magazines. Obviously, he has no idea what they mean. He just throws them in whenever the opportunity presents itself.
Like now.
“So, this is it,” Mom says. Her gaze sweeps expertly across my tiny apartment, her disapproval showing in her expression. “Do you have another room or is this all?” She stares at the wall as if there might be a hidden door she’s overlooked.
I groan inwardly. I could slap myself for not seeing this coming. I should have asked her about her church’s Sunday bake sale, her new enthusiasm for knitting or whatever it is that she does these days…anything to distract her from me. As long as the conversation isn’t focused on anything related to me, things are bearable.
Now it’s too late.
“I don’t need a big apartment, Mom. I don’t have time to waste on cleaning the whole day.”
“If you think so,” Mom says, unconvinced.
“It is cozy,” Dad says, smiling at me encouragingly.
“Hm.” Mom grimaces. Obviously she doesn’t agree. “Of course, your entire room at home would fit in here. You wouldn’t be starving. And you wouldn’t have to drive through so many streets to get home.”
“What? Mom, that doesn’t make any sense.” I frown. What is she talking about? What streets?
“The streets. There’s so many of them.” She heaves an exasperated sigh. My frown deepens as I try to understand the meaning of her rambling. Is she talking about streets in general? Or specific streets?
“It took us forever to find you,” Mom continues. “We got lost so many times, your father wanted to give up and take us back home. I said, ‘No, Edward, you find her, even if it’s the last thing we do. We need to know where she lives, in case of an emergency’.”
Raisin
g her brows meaningfully, she pauses for effect. I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
“Of course, because in case of an emergency I won’t call 911. I’ll call you and Dad. And then you can roll in with your knitting needles and whack the bad guys over the head.”
Dad’s lips twitch but Mom shoots him one of her venomous looks, wiping any hint of a smile right off his face.
She straightens her back and raises her head defiantly. “Anyway, the streets are horrendous. Long, and far too many of them. And they all look the same.”
Oh.
I stare at her as the proverbial penny drops. “You’re talking about New York in general.”
Laughter bubbles up at the back of my throat and tears shoot to my eyes. This is so ridiculous, I can’t help it.
“What’s so funny?” Mom asks, eyes narrowed.
I wipe a tear from my eyes and shake my head. “Nothing, I just…” I clear my throat. “You know, Mom, cities have streets. It’s the way they’re built. If they didn’t, you wouldn’t call them cities. You’d call them towns, or villages, or the outback.”
“I understand that. But why so many?” she mumbles.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ll have to take that to the mayor. I guess he’ll be able to help with that. He might wipe out a few.”
Mom shoots me a dubious look, as though not even the Mayor of NYC will know the answer to that. I point to the sofa, silently begging them to sit down and shut up for a while, which I know for a fact isn’t going to happen.
“How’s the writing coming along?” Dad asks as I hand out glasses of water. Mom looks at it like I’ve just served her toxic waste, but manages to take a tiny sip, and immediately grimaces before placing the glass on the coffee table.
I sigh again. Sighing has become something of a favorite thing to do whenever I’m in my parents’ presence.
“Fine,” I lie.
“What are you writing about?” Dad continues.
The problem with my parents is that they like to meddle in your affairs a lot. In fact, your affairs immediately become their affairs and so they make it their top priority to make sure they stay informed at all costs. You can tell them the same thing a hundred times and they will still keep asking.