Something To Dream On (5 page)

Doggone it. I’m stooping, and my scrubs are covered in cat fur and dog slobber. I brush at them as if it will help.
 

Oh, noodles! I never fixed my hair. Why did this guy appear when my one model-worthy feature looks like a rat invaded a bird’s nest? Combing it with my fingers is useless, but I try anyway. God, I feel twelve years old and in the presence of a live issue of
Tiger Beat
.

“No,” he says.

No to what?

Oh, yeah. I had asked if he had seen the dog before. An embarrassed giggle slips out. Criminy. Now I feel even lamer.

“I live just up the road,” he continues. “This is the first I’ve seen her.”

The dog looks up at the man who hasn’t stopped petting her and whimpers a request to ease her pain. My mind and heart go back to the beautiful creature—the dog, that is. “I need to get her x-rayed. Why don’t you take a seat in the lobby while you wait?”

“But she's not my dog.”

“Really? Because with the way she keeps nuzzling against you, nobody's told her that.” I give him a shy smile. I also fight another giggle. “Congratulations, you’re the proud father of a beautiful girl.”

It’s okay.

The dog is okay. I am okay.

If I tell myself that enough, I’ll no longer feel the need to head for the nearest bar. Sure, seeing that dog on the side of the road set me back emotionally, but that doesn’t give me the excuse to blow months of sobriety. I tell myself it is all so easy—just decide to quit, let the universe guide you, give up all vices and crutches so it’s a lifestyle change—but every day has challenges of its own. Nearly facing death, again, is topping the list right now.

Thank God that dog didn’t die. Hospitals freak me out—even pet ones. At least I didn’t exactly see Dad die, but last I saw him, he was so close to going that … Man, blood disease is creepy. The thought that it could just hit so hard and without warning …

Granddad’s passing wasn’t much better.

The way my leg bounces reminds me of a drummer in search of a beat. This room smells of antiseptic, and the sand-colored walls feel sterile, as if made of white-painted concrete. The aluminum framing on the windows reminds me of an institution. It can’t be that bad in here. It must be my state of mind. However, the fact that this chair could use a cushion is not making anything easier.

A magazine. That’s what I need.

In the corner sits a table with a few tabloids on it. Something cheesy, like
Star
, will help. I can’t think about watching things die. Not after seeing Eddie …

I know too many dead people, and trying to avoid thinking about it right now is making me scatterbrained. Seeing that dog reminded me of what happened to Eddie. Someday I need to face those memories, but I can’t trust that I can do it now and not slip. That is what is making me so edgy. It’s not just the memories of Eddie; it’s knowing where that incident led and fearing this one will take me back down that path.

Okay, find something new to ruminate on, like school or work.

The bell over the front door tinkles, and a Benji-like mutt strolls in. Did that girl say I was a proud father? If you save an animal, does that mean it is yours? That dog is huge. Do I even have space for her? Putting me in charge of another life sounds like a horrible idea. Then again, I’ve grown a lot, and having another reason to stay on the right track is never a bad thing.

Since I walked away from drugs, it’s been pretty clear that everything in my life has happened for a reason. Being at the scene of that accident may not have been an exception. If that is the case though, why did that poor dog have to suffer for my attention to be grabbed? Maybe it was so I would feel I owed her. Now I really feel horrible for the poor thing.

The handle on the door to the exam area rattles and then stops, like someone started to open it and got distracted. I hope it’s that woman with good news.

I head out to the lobby, anxious to talk to that guy again and give him the good news, but stop just short of entering it to touch up my hair. Sadly, it does little to improve how disastrous I look. Lame scrubs. They are the most unattractive things in the world, but at least they hide some of my padding. The curves on my personal road that I want this guy to drive his hands up may be glorious, but all the speed bumps that come with them make me crazy.

Oh, who am I kidding? Even I don’t believe what I am telling myself. This is a disaster. Also, the news regarding the dog is pretty odd. I’m not even sure if I should give it to him straight.

The moment I enter the lobby, the man who needs to father my children pops up from his seat. I’m kind of surprised he stayed. Don’t most guys bail when a girl tells them fatherhood is looming?

“Is she okay?” he asks.

His eyes are big and hopeful, yet a twinge of fear coats them. He reminds me of a little boy on Christmas morning that has just seen Santa but fears he wasn’t good enough to rake in the presents. God, that look is just adorable. “She’s fine, sort of. Her leg is slightly fractured, but it looks to be a few days old. Honestly, we don’t think she was hit, at least not today.”

His head tilts with curiosity, and his brows narrow in thought, yet he barely takes a moment to ponder before spitting out, “So it’s like she was tired of hurting and just decided to hang out on the side of the road to see where life would take her?”

What a weird question, but yeah, now that I think of it, it’s kind of like he was supposed to find her. “What are you going to name her?” Now I’m certain that he needs to adopt her. If he says he can’t keep her, I’ll take her, but how can he not?

“Well,” he looks at my nametag, “Liz, maybe—”

“Lizetta.”

“Lizetta? That’s lovely. Why does your tag say Liz?”

“It’s easier at work.” Frankly, I’m not crazy about whacking off part of my name, but I’ve gotten used to it.

“It reminds me of Etta James, the singer. Do you think Etta is a good name for her?” 

Who is Etta James? I halt just short of asking to spare looking like a fool. “I think it’s sweet. What is your name?”

Wait. Is he naming her after me? Aw!

“Jensen.”

“Nice to meet you, Jensen.” He’s still a little wide-eyed and racy despite hearing Etta will be fine. I touch a hand to his arm to comfort him. A surge of electricity hits me. Sadly, Jensen seems unaffected. “If you can’t do it, I’ll take her. I promise she won’t wind up in a shelter.” Oh, that was just lame. This dog clearly trusts him, and Jensen not taking her will ruin the plan that’s slowly forming in my head. “However, if you do take her, we’ll cover the follow-up visits.” That statement may cost me dearly when Dr. Leopold finds out.

He scratches his temple.

Come on, Jensen, don’t let us down.

“It's just that, I don't know the first thing about animals. I've never had a pet before.”

Seriously? How could anyone grow up without animals? That would be such a drag.

His whole body pauses, except for his eyes that flick back and forth as if searching for an answer. Though I am holding my breath, I can’t help but fight a smile. He seems to be concerned about doing the right thing. It’s so sweet.

With a swift toss back of his feathery hair, I get a dead look in the eyes. “Yeah, I’d love to take her. I feel something greater than I am is telling me to, so I’ll accept that. It will be good for us both.”

Another weird answer.

My mind flashes back to that appointment Griffin and I had with the psychic about a year ago. On the way home, Griffin told me, “You can’t fight the universe, Shortnin’ Bread. It’s going to take you where it wants you to go, so you might as well work with it.” It took months for me to stop being freaked out after hearing that. Now it’s flashing back into my brain with this man’s words. Oh, that’s just creep—

“Lizetta?”

Huh? Oh, yeah. He is taking the dog. “You take her home and get her settled. In a few hours, I’ll drop off all the supplies you will need. I’ll also give you my cell phone number. If you need anything, all you have to do is call.”

He smiles in agreement, and, oh sweet baby goodness, my heart is trying to race through my veins and out my toes.

Maybe the universe has sent Etta to pave the path to our futures.

Nah. This guy could never see anything in me.

Could he?

A then G, no C. Son of a— Ugh!

Writing music was once as simple as breathing. All I needed to do was go for a walk and start humming. Halfway through I would race home to write it all down. It would just need a little tweaking and whala, brilliance! Now it’s like I’ve forgotten how to progress chords. That song should be working. Maybe my hearing is jacked.

Was it the drugs? Nah, I wrote just fine before I started getting wasted. Didn’t I?

I try it again, and the dog howls. Her pain isn’t just from the injury. My serenade is probably making her ears bleed.

The guitar gets ditched for both of our sakes. I sit and share a blanket with Etta so we can watch the game on TV. “You a hockey fan?” She gives me a blank stare. “Don’t worry. You will be. No one is allowed in this place unless they are hockey fans.” I lean in to whisper, “But if they are Kings fans, I am counting on you to nibble off their knee caps.”

Etta gets a good rub behind the ears. Having another responsibility really is a good thing. Shoot, anything to keep me on the straight and narrow is a good thing. It’s only been a couple of hours, and I’m already used to her. I just wish that I knew more about dogs. How much do you feed them? How often do you take them to the vet? Did Etta come potty trained? I need to jump online tonight.