Things I Want to Say

by Cyndi Myers

  She threw the truck into gear and we shot out onto the highway. The pup yelped and dug his claws into my thighs as it struggled to hang on. “Alice, what are we going to do with it?” I pressed back against the seat, trying to avoid touching the dirty, smelly beast.

  “I thought maybe you could keep it,” she said. “Didn’t you say you didn’t have any pets?”

  “I don’t want any pets!”

  “Oh, but you’ll love having a dog. They’re wonderful.”

  “Then why don’t you take him?” I didn’t see any need to add that she was the one who’d stopped and picked up the pup.

  “The apartment I rented in Ojai doesn’t allow pets. And you’ve got that nice, empty condo that would be perfect.”

  “I don’t want a dog,” I said again.

  About that time I made the mistake of looking at our little hitchhiker again. In the midst of all that mud and matted hair, a pair of butterscotch brown eyes stared up at me, filled with limpid longing. I sensed a tug of recognition in those eyes, the pull of knowing that I’d felt what that dog was feeling now. It had been a while, but at one time that mixture of hope and fear had been as familiar to me as my own reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  “We’d better go ahead and find someplace to stop for the night,” Alice said. “We need to get her cleaned up and get some food into her.”

  “Her? You know it’s a girl?” Frankly, I had a hard time identifying the creature in my lap as a dog.

  “I checked. She’s part cocker spaniel, I think. Maybe with a little poodle thrown in.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t smoke another joint while I was in the restroom?” I asked. “Maybe that would explain these hallucinations you’re having that this beast could be in any way related to a recognizable breed.”

  “You’ll see when we get her cleaned up. You’re going to fall in love with her.”

  No, I wasn’t. As far as I was concerned, love was a voluntary emotion, one I had no intention of volunteering for a stray dog.

  Alice named the dog Cocoa, because of the color of her fur. Why did I care what name she gave the dog? Despite her assumptions otherwise, I wasn’t going to keep the pup.

  After a stop for puppy food and supplies, we checked into a Super 8 outside of Burlington, Colorado, and Alice used most of a bottle of balsam conditioning shampoo to wash the mud and stench out of the pup.

  When she was done, I studied the results. “Are you sure you didn’t pick up an overgrown rat?” I asked, eyeing the thin, shivering figure huddled in the motel room sink.

  “You’ll hurt her feelings!” She cupped her hands over the animal’s drooping, dripping ears. “You wait and see. She’s going to be beautiful.”

  She shut the door to the bathroom in my face. I lay down on the floor and began doing sit-ups. I was up to sixty-three when the door opened and Alice emerged carrying a honey-brown ball of fluff, a pink bow at her throat.

  “Here we are,” Alice announced. “Isn’t she precious?” She deposited the animal in my lap. I stared in wonder at what looked more like a child’s stuffed toy than a real dog. Two solemn eyes stared back up at me. All the resolve I’d been marshaling for the last hour dissolved and I burst into tears.

  “Ellen, what is it? What’s wrong?” Alice knelt beside me, one arm around my shoulder, the other cradling the dog. “Please tell me so I can help.”

  I shook my head, feeling ridiculous for the umpteenth time that day. “She’s so beautiful,” I sobbed. “How c-could someone e-ever throw away something so s-s-sweet.”

  “Oh, honey, I know.” Alice hugged me tighter. “There are some real bastards in this world, aren’t there?”

  We sniffed and sobbed together for a few minutes, until a high-pitched yip from Cocoa reminded us that she’d been neglected enough, thank you very much.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon into the evening watching Cocoa devour most of a can of gourmet puppy food, then playing endless games of fetch with a soft ball Alice had bought along with the food.

  When Cocoa finally curled up next to Alice on her bed, I was as exhausted as the pup looked. I fell asleep almost immediately, praying for a less eventful day to come.

  “Ellen. Ellen honey, wake up.”

  I heard sobbing, then realized the awful, wrenching cries were coming from my own constricted throat. I struggled to break free of the paralyzing stupor of sleep, my throat sore from crying, my eyes burning with tears.

  “It’s okay, Ellen. I’m right here. You’re okay.” Alice’s voice was soothing, her arms around me reassuring. Maternal. I managed to sit up, still gulping back sobs, shaken by an awful sadness whose cause I couldn’t name.

  Alice switched on the light between our beds and I blinked in the sudden brightness. Cocoa sat between us at the end of the bed, her eyes wide and frightened.

  “It’s okay, Cocoa,” I said, leaning over to scratch behind her ears. “I was just being silly.”

  “I don’t think there was anything silly about it,” Alice said. She pulled the dog into her lap and smoothed her hand down its back. “It sounded like a horrible nightmare. Do you want to talk about it?”

  At her words the mental door I’d slammed shut opened and the memory of the dream rushed in. I swallowed hard against a fresh wave of tears and shook my head.

  “It might help,” Alice said gently. “You know anything you tell me will never go any further.”

  I stared at Cocoa, her soft fur haloed by the lamplight. My stomach churned with an old fear. Would telling Alice make me less afraid? “I don’t know if I can tell you,” I whispered. “I’ve never told anyone.”

  Her hand squeezed mine and held on. “Then maybe it’s time you did.”

  10

  Some memories are like heirlooms, tucked carefully away and taken out to be admired only on special occasions. Others are hidden in dark corners, never to be considered, like bloody clothes locked in a trunk in some distant corner of the attic.

  And then one day, perhaps while moving, you find the trunk and the clothes and the awfulness of a particular moment overwhelms you. You want to stuff everything back into the trunk and never look at it again.

  But maybe Alice was right. Maybe the thing to do was to air out the clothes and throw them away.

  “I dreamed I was a little girl again,” I said. “I was about eleven, I guess. Brian Garrity’s dog had puppies.”

  “I remember the Garritys’ dog,” Alice said. “A golden retriever, right?”

  I nodded. “The neighbor’s mutt dug under the fence and mated with her, so the puppies were mutts. Brian said I could have one. I was so excited—I wanted one so badly.” A new wave of tears overflowed. I didn’t bother to wipe them away.

  “Your dad…” Alice’s voice trailed away. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Was he mad when you brought the dog home?”

  I nodded. “But I promised to look after it. To make sure it didn’t give him any trouble.”

  Her hand squeezed tighter. “What happened?”

  “I named her Goldie. We had her three days.”

  I squeezed my arms across my chest, rocking back and forth against the pain. Alice waited, her hand stroking Cocoa’s soft fur over and over again. The pup closed her eyes and went to sleep.

  I took another deep breath, determined to get through this. “On the fourth day, she peed in his house slippers. I begged him not to be mad at her. I promised to use my allowance to buy him a new pair of slippers, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  The words came in a rush now, awful and so real, like the dream I had just had. I was eleven again, on my knees before my father, my face buried in the soft fur of the pup’s neck.

  My father loomed over us, his face all hard lines and gray shadows. He tore the dog from me and dragged us both into the backyard. I could hear Frannie yelling, was dimly aware of my mother standing in the doorway, holding Frannie back.

  I screamed and crawled toward my father and the dog. He never once looked at me. The
gun went off and I choked on my sobs, blacking out and falling on my face in the dirt.

  It was Frannie who brought me to, Frannie who took me inside and washed my face, who gave me half of one of mother’s tranquilizers and sat by my bed, holding my hand until I fell asleep.

  Later, Frannie showed me the grave she had dug, in a secluded corner of our side yard where our parents never went. She’d planted flowers all around it, and told me she’d said a prayer, so she was sure Goldie was in heaven.

  Then, eyes burning with a passion I’d never seen in her before, she told me she was just as sure that one day our father would go to hell for what he’d done.

  Even now it bothered me how much comfort I’d found in those words.

  “I knew your father wasn’t a nice man,” Alice said after I’d told her everything, “but I never knew how awful he was. It’s a wonder you survived to be so normal.”

  I would have laughed if I had had any emotion left in me. “How normal is it when you’re afraid to get too attached to anything?” I said. “Frannie and I learned to hide our affection for anything. It didn’t matter if it was a toy or a dress or a person. He’d find a way to take them from us. When Frannie was seventeen, Walt Peebles invited her to the senior prom. She saved the money she made working at Weisman’s and bought the most beautiful dress to wear. Then she hid it under her mattress so Father wouldn’t find it.”

  “And did he find it?”

  I nodded. “Then he stood over her and made her cut it up with a pair of sewing scissors. She was devastated.” The Frannie in those days had been a different girl, dark and despairing. “She told Walt she couldn’t go with him to the prom, but she didn’t tell him why. I think he guessed some of it, though. He showed up the night of the prom with a new dress he bought for her, and insisted on taking her.” I smiled at the memory. “I thought it was the most romantic thing a man had ever done.”

  “He was a nice boy, and I think he grew up to be a good man. Too bad Frannie didn’t stay to see how it would have all turned out.”

  “It was probably better that we left.”

  “I guess I can understand wanting to get away from the bad memories.” Alice glanced at me. “I always had a feeling something wasn’t quite right at your house. I was half-afraid of your father myself. Not that he ever said two words to me—there was just something about him.”

  “Yes, there was something about him.” A kind of menace scarcely hidden by a calm exterior.

  “Did he…did he beat you? Or anything else?”

  I shook my head. “He never laid a hand on us. He didn’t have to.” I sighed. “Awful as a beating would have been, I think I could have gotten over that easier than the other punishments.” I plucked at the bedspread, determined now that I had started to empty everything out. “If one of us spilled milk, we had to scrub the whole house on our hands and knees. Or if he didn’t like something we said, or the way we looked at him, he’d lock us in the tool shed overnight.” I shivered, remembering. “It was so cold out there sometimes, and there wasn’t a thing to wrap up in. Frannie sneaked some blankets out there once and hid them, but he found them and burned them.”

  “What did your mother do while all this was going on?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.” Mother never said a word in our defense. When my father flew into one of his rages, she’d retreat to the bedroom, often locking the door behind her. I suspected she drank. I had memories of whole weeks when she never got out of bed. “Her way of coping was to pretend we didn’t exist. Sometimes I blamed her even more than I blamed my father. A mother should be there for her children, you know?”

  Alice’s quickly indrawn breath made a short, sharp sound. She gripped my wrist and squeezed. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have done something.”

  “You were my friend. That was something. I could spend the night at your house and pretend my life was like anybody else’s.”

  “You’re okay now, right?” She studied my face as if searching for some sign of craziness.

  I nodded. “I guess. I mean, it’s part of who I am. I think it’s probably why I struggled with overeating for so many years.”

  “It was because of what happened when you were a child?”

  I nodded. “Being fat was a way of insulating myself from that kind of hurt again. It gave me an excuse not to get close to people.”

  “And now that you aren’t fat anymore?”

  I took another deep breath. “It’s scary sometimes. I feel vulnerable. But I’m doing okay so far.” I rubbed Cocoa behind the ears. “This trip is a good start.”

  Alice stifled a yawn. “Sorry.” She squinted at the clock, which showed 2:33 a.m. “I haven’t been up at this hour since my wild partying days.”

  “I should have known you were a party girl.”

  She gave me a sleepy grin. “I guess I still am, when the mood strikes.” She stretched her arms over her head and arched her back. “But I need my beauty sleep.”

  “You can go back to bed. I’m fine now.” I slid under the covers, careful not to disturb the dog. “Thanks for listening.”

  “Hey, anytime.” She switched off the lamp and crawled into her own bed. “Sweet dreams,” she murmured.

  “You, too.” All my dreams should be sweet ones, I thought. I’d had enough nightmares to last a lifetime.

  I woke early the next morning with Cocoa curled against my stomach, her soft, warm body like a poultice on the hurt place in my heart. I stroked her silken fur and she yawned and turned belly up, revealing pink, freckled skin.

  Alice was still sleeping, so I slipped into sweats, clipped the leash we’d bought yesterday on Cocoa’s new collar and took her out for a walk.

  The sky was the color of pewter, streaked with salmon. In the cool stillness even the drab motel parking lot seemed fresh and serene. A few early risers were packing their cars to leave.

  I had an overwhelming urge to talk to Frannie. It was early in California, barely 6:00 a.m., but Frannie was an early riser, and surely she wouldn’t mind if I woke her.

  While Cocoa entertained herself sniffing around the Dumpster, I pulled out my cell phone and punched in Frannie’s number.

  She answered on the third ring, not sounding at all tired. “Hey,” I said. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No, I’m up. Where are you?”

  “Burlington, Colorado,” I said.

  “What’s that like?”

  “Not much to see,” I answered. “We’ll be in the mountains later today. I should be able to find some great postcards for you there.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve been traveling all this time and you’re only to Colorado.”

  “We’re taking our time,” I said. “Making a vacation of it.” I hurried to block any more lectures about how I needed to be in California. “Guess what I got?”

  “Nothing contagious, I hope,” she said drily.

  “No, silly. I got a dog.”

  Silence on the other end of the line. I guessed she was shocked. “You don’t even like dogs,” she said after a while.

  “I never said I didn’t like dogs. I just never wanted one before.”

  “You won’t have anything to do with my dogs.”

  I rolled my eyes. Frannie’s standard poodles, Midge and Pidge, were devoted to her and her alone. “Your dogs don’t want anything to do with me,” I said.

  “They would if you’d give them a chance.”

  Another old argument not worth repeating. “Don’t you want to hear about my new dog?”

  “What kind is it?”

  “It’s a cocker spaniel–poodle mix.” I had no idea if this was true or not, but until someone proved different, I’d take Alice’s word for it. “We named her Cocoa.”

  “We?”

  “Well, Alice named her. We found her on the side of the road. Someone had abandoned her. Can you believe that?”

  “I can’t believe you collected some stray off the side of the road. She probably has fleas and
no telling what else.”

  “She does not have fleas. We gave her a bath and as soon as we get home I’ll take her to the vet for her shots.” I took a deep breath, trying to calm down. “She’s beautiful. I know you’ll love her.”

  “I still can’t believe you, of all people, would get a dog.”

  “I’ve always loved dogs,” I said. “I was just afraid to let myself fall for another one, after what happened with Goldie.”

  More silence on the line.

  “You remember Goldie, don’t you?” I prompted.

  “I don’t want to talk about that. Ever.” Her voice was hard. Cold. “Maybe we should talk about some of the things that happened when we were little,” I said gently. “The bad things. It might help.”

  “You can’t change the past. I see no point in revisiting it.”

  “But sometimes you can change how you look at the past, or how you let it affect you,” I argued. “Last night I told Alice about Goldie. Just telling her the story made it not hurt as much. It drove home the fact that what happened wasn’t my fault.” I swallowed fresh tears at the memory. Before last night, I don’t think I’d ever let myself believe—really believe—that the bad things my father had done hadn’t been at least partly my fault.

  “You had no business talking to Alice about that!” Frannie’s rage took me by surprise.

  “I had a dream…about Goldie,” I stammered. “Alice woke up and asked me what was wrong. That’s all.”

  “What else have you told her?” Frannie demanded.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing important.” I’d told her quite a lot actually about our father. I’d told her about Frannie’s prom dress, which I knew would upset my sister even more if she found out.

  “We agreed a long time ago that we wouldn’t talk about certain things…to anyone.”

  “You told me I couldn’t talk to anyone and I agreed.” Even when I’d seen a therapist for my problems with food, I’d never told her everything about my father and the things he’d done. “But I don’t think that’s best anymore. I think there are things I need to talk about.” How much better off would I be now if I hadn’t kept silent all these years?