Back when the world was real, my mom would have sent Rex packing moments after he got home. Even though she’d signed the consent forms allowing us to adopt the dog by ourselves, Mom retained veto power. If our choice was unacceptable, he’d be gone. Obviously Rex didn’t know this, because he didn’t exactly put his best paw forward. In his delirium about being adopted, he hurtled into our house at warp speed, dragging me, his leash, and the bag of dog food I was carrying in his wake. Rex raced through the mudroom and, like a heat-seeking missile, honed in on the living room, which he explored frantically. That’s when the phrase “bull in a china shop” really came alive for me.
I don’t think he meant to be destructive, but his hyper-passionate personality got the best of him, turning him into a weapon of canine mass destruction. Everything once stationary got swept in the air and crashlanded on the shiny new hardwood floor. That included every item on the coffee table, the fanned-out magazines, a mug of tea (which, wouldn’t you know it, was half full), a tangle of TV remotes. The glass bowl filled with tangerines, apples, and grapes wasn’t spared. Rex showed no remorse. He didn’t realize his ginormous tornado-tail had caused it all.
“Rex, no!” I yelled, mentally totaling up the damage. “Regan, a little help here!” I was already on my hands and knees picking shattered glass up off the floor. My sister, big surprise, was oblivious, texting her friends about our new arrival.
I caught a glimpse of Mom struggling to compose her face. The old Mom, an organizational wiz and neat freak, would have banished Rex on the spot. Mom 2.0, the one she turned into after Dad died, did not shout, scold, punish, or criticize. Which is probably some rule for dealing with grief-stricken teenagers she got from one of her bereavement books.
She choked out, “Are you sure he’s … trainable? He’s awfully bulky. And … disruptive.”
Words came out of my mouth without so much as a pause in my brain. “He’s not really like this. He’s probably nervous and excited. New home and all …” I trailed off.
I didn’t stop to wonder why I was defending Rex, or even why I’d felt compelled to adopt him in the first place. Then again, thinking I heard him talk? Reason was not my strong suit right then.
“Are you sure he’s clean? He looks—”
“Like something a monkey dragged in?” Regan, finally off the phone, finished for her.
“He’s totally housebroken,” I claimed, though I knew no such thing. I stole a glance at Rex, messily chomping on an apple.
“Tell her I don’t shed … much.”
I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. Tell her yourself, I wanted to say.
“But isn’t he kind of … big? How much does he weigh?” Mom’s voice was quavery.
I mumbled, “Maybe fifty pounds?” The adoption papers clearly had him twenty pounds more.
“Has he had his shots?” Mom asked, raking her fingers through her tangle of honey-blond curls.
“All his papers are in order,” I told her. At least that much was true.
“And you picked this dog out … both of you?” Translation: Regan has better taste.
My sister shrugged. “Grace insisted.”
Rex must have sensed Mom’s distrust, and possible betrayal from Regan. He rose and trotted over to my mom. He sat at her feet and offered up his paw. Which is cute, especially when a dainty dog does it. Not so much Rex, whose oversize clumsy claw accidentally came down on her thigh and ripped a hole in her jeans.
Here’s the part where Mom, even this new Zen-Mom, should have freaked. A grimace crossed her face, but amazingly, she held it together. Attempted to brush it off even. “Never liked how these jeans fit anyway.”
She must have really been worried about me.
THE GANG’S ALL HERE! is the cheery caption above the photo. The four of us, Mom, Dad, Regan, and I, look like sausages stuffed into shiny black wet suits. The photo was from two summers ago. We were posed beside a neon-orange rubber raft, about to ride the rapids on the Colorado River. I was squinting into the sun, looking doubtful. Regan was doing her best I-can-rock-a-wet-suit pose. Mom looked hopeful. Dad was beaming.
WE ARE FAMILY! proclaims the next caption, angled jauntily over a shot of us in the actual raft. Regan and Mom were perched in the back, my dad and I up front. We all held paddles, but in true Abernathy family form, Dad and I did most of the work.
Memories. Page after scrapbook page, picture after picture. Each one told a story. And each story ended with a stab in the pin cushion my heart had become. After bringing Rex home, I was doing exactly what Regan accused me of, shutting myself up in my room, not taking calls or texts, or doing homework. I was surrounding myself with proof that life wasn’t always this lonely. That I hadn’t always hurt this much.
It didn’t make me feel better, but I don’t deserve to anyway.
This had become a nightly ritual. Except tonight, of course, was different. I had a new cell mate in my self-imposed exile. The dog was inspecting everything, making loud sniffing noises, burying his snout and pawing through the piles of clothes, books, papers, crusted plates, and random leftovers that littered the floor. Regan called my room a toxic dump site, but the mess didn’t bother me. Nor Rex, apparently.
“I’m so happy! I love this room! I love your bed! Can I come up here? Please. Please, please, please!” His front paws, a silty gray with surprisingly snowy-white tips, had already edged the bedspread. I’m guessing service-dogs-in-training shouldn’t be jumping on furniture, but this one didn’t know what he was in for yet. He took my non-answer as a yes.
I flipped forward in the scrapbook until I found the pictures from last summer. We only ever took real vacations once a year, and unsurprisingly, Regan and I had lobbied for dramatically different destinations. My sister wanted New York City, because it’s sophisticated, the fashion center of the world, because her pal Sheena allegedly saw Sarah Jessica Parker in an organic foods emporium there—because they actually have organic foods emporiums there. New York, New York, the opposite of boring old Jupiter, Florida. Also because Regan’s ultimate dream is to be a fashion designer and her dream college, the Parsons School for Design, is there. My sister is nothing if not pragmatic.
Meanwhile, I had an amazing trip planned. We’d go out west for a hiking and camping trip in Bryce Canyon or Zion National Park. Then I wanted to go to a Navajo Native American reservation and see Four Corners Monument. It’s the only place in the USA where the borders of four states—Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico, and Utah—intersect. There’s this spot where you lie down and put one foot and one arm each in a different state. How cool is that? I don’t think that makes me a nerd.
Plus, my dad and I had this plan: before I turned twenty-one, we were going to visit every Major League Baseball stadium in the US. So far, I’ve seen the Florida Marlins and the Atlanta Braves. By going out west, we could hit the Colorado Rockies baseball stadium and the Arizona Diamondbacks. That’d be four out of thirty. And I was only twelve.
True, if we went to New York, we could see Yankee Stadium and Citi Field, where the New York Mets play. But going out west would be much better!
Our sister battle for vacation dominance got fierce. I accused Regan of total self-absorption, and she accused me of terminal nerdiness.
My mom tried to make peace by researching a third choice that would satisfy both of us—and fit into our bud get.
Dad settled it.
“We’re doing both,” he announced one night as he came home from work, practically blasting through the door. Before anyone could react, Dad explained, “I’ve decided to take two weeks this year. We’ll spend one in New York, then go out west.”
We were stunned into silence. Two weeks? Unheard of! Dad was a detective with the West Palm Beach Police and also worked with at-risk teenagers. Summer, when we took our vacations, was when troubled kids were most at risk—Dad couldn’t spare much time away. Plus, the expense of two places, two thousand miles apart? Had he just gotten a raise?
Or had he known, somehow, that this would be the last vacation we’d ever take as a family?
Maybe if I concentrated hard enough on the pictures, I’d find a clue. Only concentrating on anything was difficult as Rex, cozily ensconced at the foot of the bed, continued to babble away. Not that he was really talking, but apparently the shut-off valve in my head was faulty.
“I’m so glad you picked me. You won’t be sorry. I’ll be good. By the way, I love what you’ve done with the room! That wall you painted black speaks volumes—genius!”
Maybe if I ignore him, I’ll stop hearing him.
My phone, sitting on the nightstand, vibrated. I ignored that, too.
Rex picked his head up, looking from me to the phone. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”
“La-la-la-la-la,” I actually sang with my fingers in my ears. Not. Hearing. Him.
“What if it’s important?” Rex now inched his way toward the nightstand, nosing at the still-vibrating phone.
I grabbed it and turned it off.
“Shouldn’t you be doing your homework? I bet you have some.”
I shook my head. Not because I didn’t have homework. I shook my head in disbelief, because I’d like not to be crazy. And hearing a dog talk—and make perfect sense—qualifies.
“You did the right thing picking me, you know.” Rex kept up his banter. “Imagine if you’d gotten stuck with that furry blob?” He shivered. “I do not think she’d be keeping you such excellent company right now.”
I heard a growl. It was coming from me. “Listen, dog—”
“Call me Rex.”
“Okay, Rex. I know you can’t really understand me, and you’re not really talking … but do me a favor, I’m right in the middle of something. So, please—” I was about to say “shut up,” when just then the door banged open.
It was too much to expect Regan to knock, but barging in is harsh, even for her.
“That’s strange,” she mused, posing in the doorway. “Your phone is over there, your laptop is off, no earbuds. Yet I heard noise—like someone talking.”
I reddened.
“That was the TV. I just shut it,” I lied.
My sister wasn’t all that bright, but even she could tell when I was lying. She shrugged. “Whatever. Just came to remind you that we have to sign him”—she gazed over at Rex and shuddered—“up for classes.”
“And by we, you mean me.”
“I’ve got an art club meeting after school and you’ve got … what? A long afternoon of wallowing in front of you?”
I threw a pillow at her. But not before she got in last licks. “It’s putrid in here—open a window at least!”
Later, as I drifted off to sleep, I tried again to give myself a reality check, make sense of the nonsensical. Dogs can communicate with humans, but they don’t talk.
They do, as I found out, snore.
I think I prefer the talking.