After a couple of weeks of visiting Brave, I take her on a walk around the shelter building, inside the gate. I could just as easily let her off the leash and give her free rein inside the yard, since no other dogs are out right now, but she needs to learn to walk with others. This is part of the process, not so much unlike mine.
She has to learn to trust people too. Up until now, she probably hasn’t had much reason to trust, but I’ve been trying to change that with routine visits, where I bring her treats and listen to her barking.
She’s listens to me too. I’ve been starting most of my sessions by sitting outside her cage and telling her about Mason—about his visits to the wall and how much I relied on them. “Sometimes I imagine I can still hear his voice,” I tell her. “Inside my head, when I’m deep in sleep, I can hear him telling me it’ll all be okay, that I’m stronger than I think, and that he cares about me too.”
I let Brave lead me around the shelter property, wondering what would happen if I didn’t show up for days. Would she eventually get sick, just as I did? Would she lie awake, anticipating the clank of the dog wing door, the way I did Mason’s knock? And wait to hear my footsteps approaching her cage, only to be disappointed when it wasn’t me? The possibility of that dependency is just one of the things that keeps me coming back.
Brave and I do several laps before I bring her back inside. The dog lounge is empty—the perfect time to go in. She isn’t ready for socialization yet, but she still can get used to the space by smelling the scents of the other dogs.
I unhook her leash and let her roam free just as my phone vibrates with a text from Jack.
Jack: Any chance you’re free today?
Me: I’m at the shelter.
Jack: Until when? It’ll just take a bit.
Me: What will?
Jack: Can I meet you somewhere after your shift? I have something I want to give you.
I watch Brave lick the corner of a pull toy—slowly, cautiously, and from different angles—as though testing to see if it might spontaneously combust. When she’s sure it won’t, she takes the toy into her mouth and carries it to a corner of the room, where she gnaws on the rubberized handle.
A series of question marks appear on the chat screen. Jack is waiting for my reply. I know he means well, but, like Brave, I don’t feel ready for socialization either.
Me: Maybe some other time.
Jack: Please. I promise, it won’t take long.
Me: OK.
Me: How about 4?
Jack: Perfect. Anyplace you want.
Me: Hilltop Park?
Jack: Perfect again. I’ll see you then.
The park is just a block from the shelter and is usually bustling with power walkers, track team runners, baby strollers, coffee drinkers … We can sit on one of the benches, apart from the action, but still be surrounded by people.
With my phone gripped firmly in my hand, I count the steps all the way there (eighty-four). Jack is already sitting and waiting on the bench by the swings. He waves when he sees me. I wave back, wanting to feel excitement, but overwhelmed with trepidation.
“Hey,” he says, standing as I approach. His gaze goes to my shoulders, and he inclines slightly forward as though he wants to hug me (because we used to hug all the time). But then he backs away, knowing better, wanting to make me comfortable.
I take a seat. He does too, leaving about eighteen inches between us.
“Thanks for coming to meet me,” he says. “How are you doing?”
I open my mouth to give him my stock answer: fine, not bad.
But then: “I’m sorry,” he says. “That’s an obnoxious question, isn’t it? A better one would be: How was your lunch?”
“My lunch?”
“Yeah, isn’t that a much more interesting question? What did you have?”
“A bagel with avocado.”
“And was it good?”
“Delicious.” I smile—a genuine one.
“See that?”
“Maybe you should be my therapist. Between good questions and amazing letters…”
“Do you need a therapist?”
“My mother insists, but personally, I think they all suck.”
“It’s true. I’ll bet that if you lined up ten shrinks, only one or two of them would be any good. I speak from experience; I went through six before finally finding my lucky number seven. You should’ve met number four. The guy actually fell asleep, mid-session.”
“You’re lying.”
“No joke. The guy snored so loud; it sounded like a vacuum.”
“That’s horrible.”
“For him or me? But then, three shrinks later, I met Dr. Jim, who really helped me figure stuff out. Plus, he never fell asleep and didn’t constantly scratch his groin like therapist number two.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Who’d kid about that? I didn’t know where to look.”
“Lately, I’ve been using writing as my main therapy source.”
“Writing what?”
“My story, what happened—the during, the after…”
“The after?”
I nod. “It’s not all ice cream and roses. It’s scary and confusing, and sometimes even more isolating … Anyway, writing it all down—chronicling ‘the then’ and ‘the now’ … It’s just my way of trying to process everything and make sense of it somehow.”
“And how’s it going?”
“Depends on the day—like everything else, I guess.”
“Do you plan to ever share your writing?”
“Maybe one day.”
“Well, I’ll be first in line if and when you do.” His gaze falls to my hand resting in my lap.
I look down at it too, noticing how pronounced my scars look in the sunlight. I pull my sleeve down over them.
“So I have something for you,” he segues, reaching into his backpack. He hands me a brown paper lunch bag.
“You brought me food,” I say, peeking inside. I pull out a square wrapped package, but it isn’t food. It’s a music CD: Gigi Garvey.
“From her concert tour,” Jack says.
“The concert tour I missed.”
“The one we both missed. But no big deal; we’ll just catch the next one. And in the meantime, you have this.” He flips the CD over. Gigi Garvey’s signature is scribbled across the front, along with the words Stay brave, Sweet Jane. Love, Gigi.
I clasp my hand over my mouth.
“Do you have a CD player?” he asks. “I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t pass it up, even if you didn’t. I figured you’d be able to play it somehow.”
“I’m sure my parents have one somewhere.”
“Well, then, good.” He smiles. “Because you’re seriously going to love it.”
I run my fingers over the inscription, wondering if Jack told her what to write, or if she heard about my story. “How did you even do this?” I ask him.
“I have my ways.”
“This is so unbelievably…” I shake my head, too overwhelmed to even process what this feels like: glee, regret, self-pity, gratitude …
“You’re welcome,” he says. “And it wasn’t unbelievably anything. It was just necessary. Those are some classic tunes on there. You need them. It’s not a choice.”
Words of thanks swim inside my mind but never make it to my mouth. Instead, a surge of blood rushes from my head, and I clench the edge of the bench.
“Jane? Are you okay?”
Not okay. I take a moment to breathe. It’s all too much. And I have no idea why. My face flashes hot, but my insides are shivering.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, feeling like a complete and utter flake.
“Do you want some water?” He fishes for his wallet. “There’s a vendor by the basketball court.”
“No. I should be fine.” I rise from the bench. The ground feels slightly tilted. “Thank you for the CD, but I have to go.”
“I’ll walk you.” He stands up too.
“I’ll be okay,” I tell him, turning away, exiting the park, hating myself every single step, especially when I realize that I didn’t take the CD. I left it on the bench as though I don’t even want it, when, in reality, there’s nothing I want more.