The Wrong Side of Twenty-Five

by Dionne Abouelela

  “Okay. Maybe I was in love once, but I didn’t hold on. I gave him everything, and he gave me a tough round of antibiotics and a fear of relationships. You can’t blame me…at least I don’t think you can. I suppose I should have known better. I was eager to please someone, eager to think I could prove Mom wrong and get a man to stay. She laughed when she found the prescription. She laughed when he never called again instead of comforting me as I cried. And I still stayed…

  “What do you think? Do you think I was wrong? I think that’s what they call self-sabotage, or maybe ignorance, or maybe just willful naivety.” I paused, sitting and pulling my legs to my chest. The desert sun was strong, and I could feel my cheeks becoming uncomfortably warm. “But I suppose life has its own timeline. I’d hate to think about what might have happened if I did find someone to hold me, or call me the following day, or someone who told me they loved me, too.”

  I watched the two birds and more slowly joined, forming a swirling circle. A buzzard dove towards the ground with precision, striking its target with a quick strike of the beak. I heard a soft yelp, and I was pulled from my moment of self-cleansing. Another bird dove, taking a strike, and the same soft yelp, followed by a spirited yip rang out. I saw a small brown mass, barely moving, around twenty feet away.

  I scrambled to my feet, slightly scared of what I would find, telling myself I shouldn’t even look. These birds may have caught an animal, likely a desert rabbit, and started the process of pulling the poor guy apart. I drew closer and the birds screamed, upset I was in the path of their dinner. I heard a soft whimper erupt from the little bundle, followed by a small movement — a tail. There was a little tiny tail wagging.

  “Oh my goodness,” I cried. “Puppy! What in the world are you doing all the way out here?” I picked up the pace, hoping the little bundle of fluff was still in one piece. The small brown fur pile let out another soft cry and I could tell time was running out. I bent down, greeted by a few strained thumps of a thin, straggly tail. There was a small cut over the small puppy’s shoulder blade, probably from the bird, but I couldn’t see any other visible damage. I ran my hand over the tiny head, watching the exhausted chocolate eyes close in bliss. I continued with two fingers down the emaciated body, feeling no other visible wounds.

  “You’re so skinny, little baby. What in the world are you doing out here? Are there more of you? Can I pick you up?” I slipped my right hand under the emaciated body, noticing the puppy was a girl. Her tongue hung from her mouth, completely dry of saliva, and she was warm to the touch. “Lets get you out of this sun and then I’ll look for others,” I whispered.

  I cradled her body close and moved slowly in case she was in pain. I never had a dog before but I always wanted one. The irony of the situation didn’t pass me by — no plan, no reason to be here, dumping my broken soul to the arid world, and being presented with a broken soul in need of rescuing. A broken soul I was actually capable of helping.

  I took my dirty soda mud covered t-shirt and filled the jersey knit with ice, wrapping the dirty folds into themselves to form a pocket before laying the panting puppy on top. She was too weak to even lift her head, but I noticed her nose wiggle when she picked up the scent of either water, soda, or Greek food. Her tongue flickered in response, but her body was too dry to even salivate. I filled the cap of one water bottle and held the miniscule cup towards her, but she was too weak. I saw panic in her face; her instincts kicked in and she knew she needed to drink, but her body wasn’t reacting. She let me open her mouth and pour in a few drops, wetting her tongue. I took my time and moved drop by drop, being gentle on her system.

  After a few rounds, her little tongue flickered into the cap and she pulled some water herself. I placed the ice and puppy pocket in the floorboard, rotating the tiny ball of fur to cool down the other side. I tore a few pieces of pita bread and set them on the floor next to her, just in case.

  “I’ll be right back little muffin,” I said, scratching softly behind her ears. “You stay right here and stay cool. I’m going to go take a short walk and make sure you’re alone. Then we’ll start moving down the highway and try to get you some help.”

  I didn’t want to leave her. I was afraid I would come back and find her precious little body expired. I really wanted her to stay with me and join my journey. I flittered through the shrubs, looking for any sign of other puppies, looking up to see if those nasty birds were trying to eat another sweet baby. I found nothing and continuing to look could be dangerous. I didn’t want to wander off too far and get lost, or spend so much time the puppy overheated and passed, or worse. I gasped. What if the ice melts and she drowns in a pool of water?

  I ran back to Merle, not knowing how long I had been searching for other babies. The air was cooling and I knew this meant nighttime would be sliding in soon. We would be running out of time to find a vet and we sure didn’t want to be on unlit back roads with no chance of other cars coming by just in case. I slung open the passenger side door to a soft but excited whimper and a few flops of an exhausted puppy’s tail.

  I sighed in relief, lifting her tiny body, thankful to feel she had cooled down. I ran my finger along her velvety mouth, noticing her tongue was still dry, but her breathing was regulating. I slowly dropped more water into her mouth until I felt that she had enough hydration to at least make the journey to the next town.

  “We’re going to start moving, little lady,” I cooed, already in love with her big brown eyes, soft curly brown hair, and scraggly tail. I stroked my fingers under her chin and gently lifted her to the seat before dumping the half-melted ice cubes in the dirty t-shirt out into the desert. “I’m going to let you curl up in the seat next to me and I promise to drive slow. Can you hang in there with me until we find you a doctor?” She thumped her little tail and gave a whimper in return. “You know what I’m saying, do you? I hope so. Because what I’m about to tell you is the truth. I’m already in love with you little girl and we’re going to be best friends. We’re just two broken souls on the same broken road, but together, we can rebuild.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Franklin and I pulled up to the Santa Monica Pier parking lot, her scraggly tail excitedly flapping against the front seat. A soft whimper escaped her muzzle and she licked her lips, pawing at the window. I laughed and fluffed her ears, happily accepting her face full of thankful kisses.

  “Your new collar looks great on you, kiddo. Rhinestones definitely suit you. Well, come on! Let’s go get you a birthday hotdog.”

  Franklin patiently waited while I walked around the car. I snapped the matching pink leather lead to her beautiful new collar and accepted another kiss. The moment she finished her recovery exactly one year ago today on a table in a very generous vets office, she started showering me with kisses and hasn’t stopped yet. I don’t mind; she’s introduced me to pure unconditional love. I am forever thankful for the parts of me opened up by one little mongrel saved from the mouth of vultures in the middle of the desert. I don’t believe any dog could have filled this role and I truly believed that day in the Mojave, as I bared my soul to the warm western winds, we were both in the right place at the right time in a simple twist of fate. I believed every challenge I went through on my way to the Pacific was put in place for specific reasons, one of those reasons being this adorably cute, scruffy, 34-pound ball of love.

  I couldn’t help myself. I scratched her right cheek, one of her sweet spots, releasing a sigh of content when she leaned her head against my chest. She nuzzled against me, gently kissing my hand, and then began furiously thumping her tail.

  “Okay, okay, Franklin. I get it! I love you, too, and you love me, but not as much as you love hotdogs,” I laughed.

  She returned an excited bark and hopped down to the warm pavement. She knew she wasn’t allowed to run free on this beach, and if we came here together, we were usually getting the world’s
most delicious hotdog, or meeting some friends for hotdogs — who always bought her an extra or two.

  We began our trek to the boardwalk; Franklin pranced with her head held high, tongue out to taste the hotdog-scented air. The sounds of Pacific Park carried over the parking lot, and I promised myself one of these days, I would ride the Ferris wheel and cure my fear of heights. One day.

  “Blossom! Good to see you today,” Vinnie greeted, a bright smile on his face as we approached. “And there’s my favorite girl. Aren’t ya’ girl? Aren’t ya? Yes, yes!” he chided, exciting Franklin with his prodding as he walked out of his booth for her customary scratches. “What are you having today, girl? One dog? Two dogs? Some tots?” He could barely get the questions out in between the plethora of kisses being placed on his face.

  “I’m so sorry, Vinnie. She only does this for you, Gemma, and me. Normally, she sits and behaves. I promise,” I laughed. Vinnie shooed me, like he always did, assuring me he had absolutely nothing against puppy kisses. “It’s her birthday, so I think we’ll get her two with cheese.”

  “Her birthday, ay? Well, happy birthday, then! Your dogs are on me today, doggie,” he replied.

  “I guess we’re about four weeks too late on her birthday, actually, but I consider her birthday to be the day we found each other.”

  “It’s been a whole year of putting up with you two already?” he joked. “Well, I’ll be. I still remember that day like it was just yesterday. You two rolled up here looking like the cat drug you in, and lord have mercy, did you smell like the cat drug you in — you and that pitiful half worthless ball of fur. But she had spirit, that one. You could see it in her.”

  “She sure did. Your little bit of hotdog was the first food she had ever ate, too.” This memory made me laugh. Vinnie was correct. By the time we finally made it to California, we stunk. I didn’t know we were actually pushing for California anymore. Hell, I didn’t even know what city to look for. I just drove until I couldn’t drive anymore, which literally put me into the parking lot of the Santa Monica pier. The Greek food didn’t survive the heat of the car, which I was okay with given how much of the stuff I ate in one pants-tightening, face-stuffing episode. We stopped by Vinnie’s for a soda, and an hour and a half later, he knew my life story, the story of my journey, and had helped me name the little brown bundle of fight I carried so protectively in a dirty shirt.

  “How’s the job?” he asked, breaking through my nostalgia.

  “Really great! I just got a promotion on Wednesday, actually. They asked me to be a transition coach for girls leaving the treatment center and moving into the residential housing.”

  “So we’re celebrating a birthday, a rebirth day, and a promotion,” he cheered. “And you’re celebrating all of this with hotdogs, huh?”

  “I couldn’t think of any other way to celebrate, if I’m being honest. We’re both creatures of habit and we both love a big greasy dog.”

  “Blossom, I am so proud of you. You’ve come so far in the past year, and this isn’t an easy town to get ahead.” He paused, stammering a little. “Have you, um, tried to call your mom at all over the last year? Or talked to your sister?”

  “I called once, but I hung up. My sister and I were never very close. The way I see things, we lived a life too full of chances to be a true family, but there’s a huge difference between family and unhealthy codependence.” I sighed. The subject was still painful, and I didn’t talk about the challenges I passed through to anyone except Vinnie. I suppose we came here for cheap food and cheap therapy. Vinnie had a grandfatherly appeal and conversation was always easy. I might even say he’s my first true friend. “You know, I can’t say I’m proud I haven’t called, but I have to remind myself while blood is thicker than water, blood also doesn’t move as well. Plus, I rather like the ability to transform myself to fit my surroundings.”

  “Has anyone ever told you how you are wise beyond your years?” he asked. “I wish you would talk to my daughter. She’s so stuck in her ways. It really breaks your heart to see someone whose favorite fight is with themselves.”

  “Maybe one day, Vinnie. Maybe one day. But when someone makes their own spirit their worst enemy, you have to be patient and wait until either their spirit or their physical body finally gets knocked out. You can’t rush the process, my friend. I know it hurts, but there’s only one common denominator in that fight. They have to be willing to do the math.”

  “Wise beyond your years, my friend. Wise beyond your years.”

  “Still learning, my friend. Still learning,” I laughed. “Well, Vinnie, thank you so much for the birthday treats. I really appreciate your thoughtfulness. Next time, the round is on me and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  He nodded and smiled, because we both knew he’d never let me pay. I tried my best to repay him by sending customers and making Vinnie’s Dogs an official sponsor for all events put on by Freedom From Fear, the organization I work for. Last year, we held two major charity auctions and five small concerts to support victims of trafficking. With over 17,500 attendees between the seven events, I hoped our guests got a craving for southern California’s best guilty pleasure. You can’t eat tofu every day, after all.

  Franklin and I spent the rest of the day making sure she was the happiest dog in the world. We stopped by the bakery for a cake…and a cupcake because they insisted, then continued to the beach where she spent the better part of the afternoon frolicking through the waves with her friends and sniffing butts of those she didn’t know. A good bath afterwards at the bark & wash complete with bows tied in the fluff of her ears elevated her mood to pure diva status.

  Once we got home, she wasted no time in crawling into her bed, curling up in a ball, and dozing off into a restful sleep peppered with short snores. I watched her for a while, sipping a steaming cup of cinnamon apple tea. I was still amazed something so simple could create such a large change; something so small could change my luck, and my attitude.

  I softly padded across the living room floor and settled in to my writing nook. My typewriter’s keys gently clicked along, bringing a smile to my face with their peaceful and familiar repetition. I promised myself I wouldn’t write on a computer; I didn’t want the printer to eat my manuscripts like my mom’s. I saw enough pieces of scrap printer paper carrying half finished stories through dark corners of our house in my lifetime. Whatever I knew from my past life, I was going to do differently. There were no problems, only solutions. There were no challenges without purpose. There were no hopeless futures, only paths for me to create.

  I didn’t need to pull my notes out this time; the story was almost complete. Even though I felt outlining my plan would help me write, I knew this story well. The words seemed to fly effortlessly from my fingertips. Every word pulled some of the pain from my soul, some of the questions from my heart, and some of the doubt from my mind. Every word pushed me forward and completed another fragment of my healing process.

  The final line clicked into place, and I smiled. I never thought I would have the desire to write a book, coming from the house of a miserably scorned creative. Every day, I was showing myself the path others tried to force me on was not my path. The behaviors I learned were not permanent. My brain and my future were not hardwired for anything I didn’t create within my own possibilities.

  Thirteen months ago, I would have told someone to go eat a dirty sock if they said this mumbo jumbo to me. But thirteen months ago, I was just a sad shell of a girl trapped in the misery of her own choices, contained in a bubble of someone else’s shield.

  But this girl broke free.

  A smile slipped over my lips. I picked up my pen and flipped the beautifully typed cream stack over to the very first page. I looked at the way all of my words, my simple words meaning nothing when they stand alone, came together to form a message of power.

 
I picked up a fresh sheet of paper, gently laying it on top. There was only one more thing I needed to do: give this adventure a title. On the front page, in deep blue ink pooling in all the right places, I gave this adventure of unimaginable events a title.

  The Girl Who Turned Left.

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  This may be the hardest part of writing a novel. Where does one even start?

  First and foremost, my parents raised me with a healthy bookshelf. They let me drag them to multiple Pizza Huts during Book-It events so I could get my stars. They gave me a high five when I was voted ‘Most Likely To Be A Poet or Author’ in the eighth grade, and ninth grade, and so on. And when I won more awards for reading, writing and art than team sports, they found a spot on the bookshelf my dad custom build for my closet. Who needs clothes, anyway? Without that custom bookshelf and those summers in the library, toting home bags of books to devour, I’m not sure I’d be brave enough to write a book.

  Second, I want to thank all of the authors who have been involved in Pen Name Publishing over the years. I frequently think I was insane to open a small publisher. Working at our level often feels like treading water with a riptide just off the edge of your fingertips. It’s been four years of highs and lows before I finally felt brave enough to put one of my own books in to the world. Originally, I thought I’d start putting my work out the same year we opened, but fell in to believing promoting my work would distract from helping our authors. Without their encouragement, I doubt this book would be here today through our little bookish home.

  Next, I have to thank my two editors – and the only two people who read this book. Rachel Edgell, who told me not everything inside was a shit sandwich, and gave me the hope that I could edit a turd into something readable. Next came Nicole Tone, a fresh voice in the Pen Name Publishing family who cleaned up the edges, fixed those mistakes our brain overlooks after reading a manuscript for the 129038912 time, and even encouraged me to add one more f bomb to the mix. She gets me.