I wasn’t exactly Wonder Woman, Xena, Nancy Drew, or that girl with the dragon tattoo.
So what should I do with this new info?
Tell someone, sure. But whom?
I suppose I could have told Regan, the first person I saw after meeting JJ. She’d picked me up at the shopping center, but as usual, had been deep in Regan-land, talking all about herself. She’d asked no questions, not even, what movie did you see, or where are your friends? Or why are my shorts soaking wet, or even, why is the dog covered with sand and seaweed that is now all over my backseat? Regan wasn’t interested then and would not appreciate me knocking on her door now.
Next in the on-deck circle: Mom. She’d ask a million questions I didn’t want to answer. She’d take me to the police, but what did I really have to offer? I could now tell them for sure who else was in the car with JJ. But I had no real proof, just the word of an at-risk kid with two strikes against him already. I still didn’t know who had the gun.
Still, the police would listen to me. My dad’s buddies would investigate. They’d drag JJ in, subject him to serious grilling, maybe wrench the rest of the story out of him.
It was a plan, but it didn’t make me feel good.
JJ pretty much said that they had threatened him. If JJ told, the gang would make him pay. I’d be responsible for that.
I laced my hands behind my head and stared at the ceiling, watching the blades of the overhead fan go round and round until they blurred together. Maybe there was another way. What would Dad have done?
My dad lived his beliefs. Family first, serving and protecting the community, baseball, and above all, I guess, justice. Sometimes it meant making sure the bad guys got put away. Other times it meant giving deserving people a hand up, a second chance. Probably hundreds of kids in trouble cycled through the precinct. He only worked with those he believed had potential, who truly wanted to improve themselves, get on the right track. And JJ Pico, whatever I felt about him, had been one of those kids.
I rolled over onto my stomach, rested my head on my arms. The obvious answer was for JJ himself to man up. It was his responsibility to go to the police and tell them who shot my dad. Whatever the cost.
The police could find a way to protect him, I reasoned. Put him in Witness Protection or something. Maybe that would be a good thing, a chance at a fresh start for him and his family. Maybe they could take Otis. My vision of a new life for JJ was oddly comforting. If the whole truth could come out, that would be justice for my dad.
Without thinking it through, I grabbed my cell phone and scrolled to the Canine Connections contact list LuLu had provided. I sent JJ a text. Do the right thing. You know what I mean.
I stared at the screen even though I knew JJ wasn’t about to text back. He was probably asleep, believing his conscience clear. Rex, curled up at my feet, lazily rolled over onto his back and assumed a favorite position: front paws up and bent in begging position, eyes closed, head lolled to one side, tongue hanging out.
He looked so innocent, so vulnerable. Affectionately, I stretched my foot out and ran my toes over his exposed belly, the only soft part of the pup’s prickly pelt.
Rex. Still a mystery.
“What are you?” I whispered. This time I got a honking snore for an answer.
Did my dad snore? I caught myself wondering. Did my mom tease him about it? Why did it matter?
Because snoring would not be the only parallel between a mangy mutt who’d begged to be adopted and the parent who’d meant everything to me. The parent who’d never again smile that smile and tell me to “Say good night, Gracie.”
The outsize digitized numbers on the alarm clock read 2:17 a.m. I was too wired to sleep. I couldn’t even think straight. I pictured my brain splintering into a million little shards shooting like asteroids into the ether. Maybe that’s why I allowed the most insane thoughts loose.
Dad was a detective. Rex often acted like one. He’d shown me Sheena in the act of stealing. He was the one who overheard Lissa’s plans to break into a house. And yeah, it turned out that Jasmine had, in fact, been cheating. Just like Rex said.
Then there was JJ Pico.
Dad had placed him in Canine Connections. Separately, he’d told Regan about the organization, suggesting she train a service dog. I don’t think he’d have been surprised that Regan got me to do it for her.
Which put me on a collision course with JJ Pico.
For extra insurance that JJ and I would continue to cross paths, the dog led me straight to his door.
I don’t believe in reincarnation. I don’t believe in being able to channel a dead person’s spirit. I think psychics, tarot card “interpreters,” palm readers, or anyone who claims they can contact the dead are a total scam.
Magical thinking. It was something my mom had told me from her bereavement book The Year of Magical Thinking, about a woman coping with the sudden death of her husband. Magical thinking was something people, not necessarily nutcases, sometimes ended up doing when they lost someone. This woman—not crazy—refused to throw away her dead husband’s shoes because a part of her, for a short period of time, thought maybe he’d come back.
I rolled out of bed and Googled “magical thinking.” An instant-info overload of articles, references, medical and scientific definitions came up, most of it way over my head.
This much made sense: Magical thinking refers to irrational beliefs. When people believe they have the power to cast spells, or bestow luck or curses on others, that’s one kind of magical thinking. Another kind is way more common and recognizable. Like if you sit in a certain seat in class, you’ll do better. If you don’t stare at the phone, it’ll ring. If you turn your baseball cap backward, you’ll affect the outcome of the game. Everyday stuff like that is considered magical thinking, too.
There was an article describing the magical thinking my mom’s book was about. It said some people in mourning believe things can continue the way they were, and the loved one is still there in some form. Maybe that explained my hearing Rex talk, the conversations I knew I had with him.
Maybe I was a magical thinker, not a mental girl.
I peered at my snoozing pooch. He looked laughable, ridiculous, with his paws bent in the air, tongue still hanging out, drooling and snoring.
Do I really think this is Dad, come back to me in the form of a mangy mutt?
Does that count as magical thinking or just plain insanity?
The rest of the article said magical thinking was a coping mechanism, that it was okay, it didn’t mean you’d gone over the edge—as long as it didn’t last for such a long time that you never moved forward. Which is exactly what Regan accused me of, and my mom worried about. Me being stuck in mourning, not moving on.
I pictured the beach tonight. How when I saw the moonlight reflected on the ocean, instantly I’d thought about Dad. It was like I could feel what he felt, hear him saying, “There’s just something mystical about that sight, Gracie.” It didn’t hurt to feel that way. It was kind of okay. Was that moving forward? Was that what Rex had been sent to do? Sent by whom?
Was Rex here to let me know that Dad was not really gone?
A strange sense of calm settled over me, feathery light and safe as a mother’s, or father’s, hug.
19
Life Unleashed
I woke up a few hours later no more certain about Rex, but definitely on a mission. My personal campaign to force JJ Pico to confess was on. Between classes, I barraged him with texts and voice messages. Confession is good for the soul. And Tell the cops. And The police can protect you. Ask me how. I wasn’t surprised that he never responded. Later, at Canine Connections, I planned to harangue him in person.
Only—not so fast.
The first clue that something was different today at Canine Connections was olfactory: The place smelled great! Instead of its usual dog aroma, the scent of freshly baked sweets filled the air. I traced it to LuLu’s desk, where sure enough, a platter of chocolate-chip co
okies and cupcakes sat enticingly.
Rex and I tandem-salivated.
We had visitors! Their excited chatter reverberated around the room. All were kids, some with parents, some without. All disabled.
Last clue: LuLu brought the cheese. “Good arf ternoon!” she joked, sounding seriously un-LuLu-like. We trooped in, Maria with Daffodil, Megan with Romeo, Lissa with Chainsaw, Trey with Clark Kent, JJ with Otis, me with Rex, all of us present—and bewildered. Were we supposed to greet the newcomers? Ignore them? Introduce ourselves? We looked to our leader for guidance.
“Take your seats, trainers,” LuLu said. “As you can see, some very special guests have joined us.”
“And brought cake!” Rex raved, drooling copiously.
“These people have traveled from all over the country to be here. Each one has been selected from a huge pool of applicants to receive a service dog. These are the kids that you have been working for, the young people your dogs will go home with!” Lulu said gleefully.
I must have gasped, since she was quick to add, “Not today, of course. There’s the Public Access Test to take, and the personal pairings to be done. But the group”—she indicated the visitors—“was anxious to meet you and get a look at their new partners.”
I squirmed. Of course Rex wasn’t going anywhere with anyone. We did this only so Regan could rock her essay and get into college.
“For the next week or so,” LuLu went on, “our guests will live in our specially equipped dorms and go through orientation. This is so we—myself and the staff at Canine Connections—can get to know each person, and better understand his or her individual needs. That way, we can decide which dog fits best with each candidate. Then we’ll custom-train the dogs and their new owners together. Does that make sense?”
Not as it applied to Rex it didn’t.
LuLu asked for one of the moms, a chunky round-faced lady, to address us. It was more like she beamed at us. “Hi, everyone, I’m Ronnie Souther, Kaitlyn’s mom.” She gestured to a little girl in a wheelchair. “On behalf of everyone, I thank you for training these wonderful animals. We’re so grateful and can’t wait to meet our new helpers. If you’ll indulge us, each of the kids has prepared something to say to you. But there’s one thing I want to say before we start, and I hope it stays with you: ‘Some angels have wings, others have tails.’ You guys, the trainers, are giving us our angels.”
Today’s weather? Sappy. With a real chance of tears.
Mrs. Souther’s daughter, Kaitlyn, a spunky little girl in a wheelchair, went first. She told us she lived in Spokane, Washington, and was in third grade. Confidently, she read from her notebook. “I was born with spina bifida, which means my legs aren’t too strong. I want to use crutches instead of a wheelchair in school, and with the help of a dog, I can do that and stay balanced. My dog can also help carry my school things.”
I flashed on our dogs at CVS, carrying our purchases.
Kaitlyn took a breath, and scanned her paper. “Other things I want my dog to do are open the refrigerator, and …” A blush crept up her small neck. She turned to look at her mom, who jumped right in. “Kaitlyn has trouble getting in and out of the bathtub.” She knelt to whisper in her daughter’s ear. A wide grin appeared on the girl’s face. “I almost forgot. I play sled hockey and my dog can help me at the tournament!”
“Sled hockey,” LuLu explained, “is hockey on sleds instead of on skates. Kaitlyn also swims, plays basketball, and skis. She won first place in the butterfly stroke in the Special Olympics.”
The kid was an athlete. Cool.
Kaitlyn wrapped up with, “I want to thank you and can’t wait to meet my dog!”
Daffodil, I caught myself thinking. The yellow Lab would be perfect for her.
Next up was ten-year-old Hailey, who’d traveled from Kansas City. She suffered from arthrogryposis—a disability I’d never heard of. As Hailey explained, it meant her muscles were very weak and some of her joints were shorter than they should be. Even with the use of crutches, she was severely limited physically—walking, bending, and getting up were hardest. “My new dog will help me by picking up things I’ve dropped,” she read. “He or she will be something sturdy for me to hang on to if I’m slipping. That would make me feel safe. I also want my dog to help me chase boys at recess!” Her hand flew to her mouth as an explosion of giggles erupted.
It was catching. Soon the whole room was laughing with her.
If she ends up with Romeo, I caught myself picturing it, the boys will be running to her. With that beautiful chocolate Lab by her side, this little girl will be the center of attention—not for her disability, either.
The stories continued, equal parts heartfelt and hopeful.
Joss, from Tennessee, lost his sight in an accident. He just got accepted to a college halfway across the country. “Going away from home for the first time will force me into a new environment,” he explained. “I’ll have to learn the layout of the campus, of my classes, my dorm. With a dog, it’s my best chance.”
Chainsaw, I immediately thought. The German shepherd had been a quick study when the dogs were learning to cross streets, avoid obstacles, and open doors. Chainsaw would be a good match for Joss.
Another boy, about my age, from Bangor, Maine, had severe respiratory disorder. “I get very depressed,” he admitted. “And I keep losing my inhaler. I heard dogs could be trained to sniff out the inhaler and bring it to me.”
“Look,” “find,” “retrieve,” “give it to me.” All were basic commands the dogs had mastered. Otis. The pooch with the fewest class hours was probably the smartest. Otis could be taught what an inhaler was—he’d quickly memorize its unique odor—and learn to associate the word with the item. Bonus, the sight of that poufy poodle in his protective booties could lift the depression from a gloomy gray cloud cluster.
Thinking about Otis reminded me—time to nudge JJ. We hadn’t said a word to each other since getting here, nor even made eye contact. I had a note prepared, How can you live with yourself?, which I folded and passed to him. I watched with dismay as he crumpled it up. Whatever. He couldn’t ignore me forever.
The smallest child in the room was Daniel, only six. He didn’t say anything because he couldn’t. “Daniel is severely autistic,” his mom explained. “He has no language, no friends, and a terrifying habit of running away. Once, he opened up a side window and crawled out of the house. It took us an hour to find him.” She swallowed at the memory. “I plan to use a double leash on our new dog. When we go out, I’ll hold one, and one will be attached to a harness around Daniel. That way, Daniel will stay safe.” Her hopes included teaching Daniel to talk. “Seeing the dog respond to words may help our boy put words and actions together. And when he has meltdowns, I’m hoping a dog will comfort him and …” She had trouble finishing. “Be his friend.” She dabbed her eyes. So did Maria, Megan, and even Trey.
A big dog wouldn’t work for a boy so small. Clark Kent would.
Last to talk was a girl named Kim, from Orlando, Florida. She’d seemed unable to stay still throughout the class. She was all jerks and twitches and tics, her body twisted at weird angles. Haltingly, and with a speech impediment, she told us she had cerebral palsy. Her disorder isolated her from the kids at school. She saw a service dog as an icebreaker. “People are scared or intimidated because of my disability. And,” she continued with difficulty, “I want to have someone who will love me no matter what I look like.”
My heart clutched. I knew which dog would serve her best. But no way was I giving up Rex. I pulled him closer to me and stroked his head.
“Is it time for cookies?” he asked, looking up at me hopefully.
I’ll give you all the cookies you want—if you just stay.
I hadn’t said anything about today’s Canine Connections class, but at dinner I sulked in silence, pushing the food around the plate.
My mom thought she knew why. “Tomorrow is going to be a tough one,” she acknowledged, reaching out
to cover my hand with hers.
“Tomorrow?” I repeated numbly.
“June second. Dad’s birthday,” Regan reminded me. “You, of all people, forgot?”
I was horrified. Forgetting the first birthday my dad didn’t live to see felt like a betrayal. “Can I be excused?” I mumbled, anxious to get away.
“No, you cannot,” Regan responded sternly.
“What?” Who was she to boss me around? She’d had a party when she should have been grieving.
Even Mom looked at her with surprise. “Of course Grace can go if she wants.”
“Ugh.” Regan rolled her eyes and pushed herself away from the table. “I was going to wait until after dinner. But since little miss pouty puss is about to lock herself away, I’ll do it now.” With that, my big sister dramatically strode off. She returned a minute later bearing gifts.
“What is this?” Mom asked. Regan had given us identically wrapped presents. Judging by the gifts’ shape and heft, I would have guessed a large-sized book, but I couldn’t picture my sister making it past the café in Barnes & Noble.
“Open it,” she said. “It’s to celebrate tomorrow.”
Celebrate? Without him? Even in Regan’s “getting back to normal” world, that was so wrong.
Mom went first. I watched her expression change from perplexed to touched as she extracted a large framed photograph, and lovingly ran her finger across it. I leaned over to see. It was a candid of Mom and Dad strolling on the beach, holding hands, eyes on each other. It was a fairly recent shot, and among the most beautiful I’d ever seen of them.
“I remember when you took this picture, Regan.” Mom’s voice was thick with emotion. “Where’d you find it?”
“In the trash heap that Grace calls her room,” she answered. “When I was cleaning it up.”
“Go on, Grace,” Mom urged. “Open yours.”
What the Dog Said Page 12