To Hiss or to Kiss (19 page)

I manage to get seated on my couch and take a few deep, calming breaths before Naomi knocks on the door, then comes in and rushes to my side, dropping her purse by the door.

“Jesus, Chloe? What is going on with you? You look horrible every time I see you lately. And why haven’t you called me? You never blow me off for days.”

I just stare at her and try very hard not to cry.

“Oh man, not more waterworks. I haven’t seen you cry this much ever in the nine years I’ve known you. Is this still about that man?” She finds a box of Kleenex and brings it over.

My voice seems to have lost its ability to work, so I just nod. It is, after all, about Jorge, but it’s more than that. It’s about Gracie, about the other dogs, about me and my own stupidity.

“Oh, honey, you need to tell me everything.”

And I do. Once my mouth starts working, the story spills out. The amazing sex, the natural intimacy of our relationship, working on my ability, Reiki, and everything that happened with the dogs. It’s hard to admit that Gracie is dead, but I rush over it into the story with the other dogs. I manage to cry only minimally until I tell her about Jorge’s anger and how everything was left. Then I lose it, sobbing into Naomi’s shoulder.

She holds me, for once not saying anything, which I appreciate. Finally I pull back and look her in the eye. “I fucked up, Naomi. With Gracie, with Jorge. What am I going to do?”

“You’re going to move forward. If you hadn’t gone after them, probably all of the dogs would be dead or at least severely injured. You know fighting dogs don’t have a long lifespan. And you don’t know if it’s over with Jorge. If what you said about your relationship so far is true—and just to hear you call it a relationship is huge—then you two crazy kids just might work this out yet.”

I groan.

“I can see your doubt. Don’t even blame yourself. No self-pity.” She swings an arm around me. “And you’ve still got me. That’s all you really need.”

It makes me smile. “That I do—for better or for worse.” We both smile at the return of my dark humor
.
If I can laugh, I can heal. Right?

* * *

Naomi somehow talks me into getting dressed and going out. We eat way too much Mexican food and get a bit tipsy on margaritas—well, I do, since Naomi still has to go to work tomorrow. For a while I forget my problems. Who needs a man or guilt or failure when you have queso dip and margaritas?

Now that Naomi’s dropped me off at home, those problems come roaring back, draining any energy I had in reserve. I check my phone again, which I’d put on vibrate and buried in my purse in a lame attempt to pretend I didn’t care if Jorge called me or not.

There’s a text from Barb.
Hey. Heard the police found a dead body, a dog carcass, and filthy dog cages in that house. But no living dogs. You wouldn’t know anything about that, right?

I text her back with no small amount of guilt.
I hadn’t heard. Are the dogs safe?

I hate lying to her, but she’ll understand. Knowing her she’ll know I’m lying but won’t say a word to me. She’s pragmatic like that.

This reminder of what happened with Gracie could set me off on another pity party, but honestly I am a little tired of guilt and self-loathing, so I decide to try the Reiki self-treatment again. If nothing else, it will probably put me to sleep for a good eight or nine hours.

I get comfy in my pjs and snuggle into bed. Sashi settles on my stomach to participate in the Reiki. Enoki lies by my feet.

I take some deep breaths, settling myself and trying to clear my mind of distraction. The book I read said to move past the mind’s chatter and listen to your higher self. I’m not entirely sure what that means, but it sounds good.

I close my eyes and make my body heavy, sinking into the bed. I follow the flow of my breath in and out of my lungs and belly. Then I start with my hands on the top of my head. Immediately, I feel the warm tingle associated with Reiki.

After a few minutes, my hands are drawn to my heart, and I leave them there to rest. The energy swirls around and through me, and I see Jorge’s face. Why am I seeing his face?

I know why. I love him and I don’t want to let him go
.

I start to argue—with myself—but remember I’m supposed to be listening to my higher self, and it’s probably not the part of me that’s cantankerous and pessimistic. OK, let’s try this again. What if he doesn’t want me?

Then I’ll fight for him
.

Ah, shit. I’m not so good at fighting. I’d go so far as to say I’m genetically programmed to run. After all, it’s what both my parents did in their own way. My mother literally ran away to make another life elsewhere; my father withdrew. Either way, same result.

I am not my parents.

OK, that’s true. If I knew how, I’d have a relationship with my father at least. Maybe my higher self is on to something.

I need to find Jorge.

I’m pretty sure at this point I fall asleep because it’s several hours later when I come back to awareness, my hands still resting on my heart. My bladder is screaming its need to pee, so I head to the bathroom before I even really process my thoughts.

By the time I get to washing my hands, I have come to a decision. I meet my gaze in the mirror. I will fight for him. There is a stubborn glint in my eyes. Screw genetics, the environment I was raised in, and my long-standing pattern of avoidance. I make my own life. Jorge doesn’t get to just send me away. This isn’t over.

I return to my room, get dressed, put out extra food and water for the cats, and get in my car to drive to Jorge’s house.

When I pull into his driveway, the house is completely dark and quiet. I park my car and walk up to the front door. It’s locked. I knock but there is no answer—not even from the dogs. And I’m sure that he wouldn’t have abandoned them. I open my mind but get only the vaguest hint of Jorge’s essence. I can’t hear him or talk to him. I don’t know if it’s because he’s blocking me or because he’s too far away.

My phone says it’s four in the morning, so I grab a blanket from my car and settle in on the porch to wait
.
He has to come home eventually.

I wrap the blanket tighter around me as if I’m drawing in my courage to heighten my resolve. Somehow I can fix this. It’s way too late to go backward. In this moment I realize that if Jorge never comes back, never forgives me, it isn’t going to break my heart—it’s going to shatter me into a million pieces that may never go back together.

Chapter Fourteen

Sunlight streaming onto my face wakes me. For a second I forget where I am and wonder why my neck feels like hell. Then it comes back to me. I’m on Jorge’s porch, and he obviously didn’t come home last night. I try not to think of the implications of that fact.

My stomach growls, protesting my lack of foresight, but I really didn’t think he wouldn’t be home. At the very least, I thought he’d be back by morning. A glance at my phone tells me it’s eight o’clock. I don’t want to miss him when he comes back, but food is a necessity, so I decide to head back toward the freeway where I saw a McDonald’s. Egg McMuffin, here I come.

My body protests moving after the uncomfortable sleep on the porch. Amazing how a few hours of napping on a porch can make me feel years older. The events of the past days don’t help with that either. Still, I force myself to make it to my car and drive the ten minutes back to the McDonald’s. Once I’ve eaten and had some caffeine, my brain starts to work a little better and I realize I need to find a grocery store. Preferably one that has pillows because there’s no telling when Jorge will return, and I plan to wait him out for at least several days. I am still on vacation, after all.

Since I don’t really know the area, I am grateful for my smartphone’s ability to find me a Kroger, where I stock up on bottled water, nonperishable foods that don’t require cooking, suntan lotion, bug spray, Caladryl lotion (I got eaten alive last night), an extra blanket, and two pillows.

As I pull back into Jorge’s drive, the butterflies of anticipation flutter, but the place is still quiet. No sign of his car, the dogs, or anyone else.

I unload my goods and find a semi-shady spot on the porch. After a few minutes of staring at the scenery, I realize I should also have bought a book. Or sprung for a better data plan for my smartphone. Not that the battery is gonna last long, and who knows how long I’ll be here sans electricity.

Looking at my smartphone I wonder if I should try calling him, but I feel incredibly nervous. I don’t much care for the phone anyway, and texting seems a bit too impersonal for this situation. Instead I text Naomi to let her know I’m fine and that I’m trying to make things right with Jorge. She texts me back a smiley face and tells me to call me if I need her.

After a few minutes of staring at my phone, I suck it up and call Jorge. After two rings, it goes to voicemail. Did he just hit the Ignore button on me? That is
not
cool.

I hang up and dial again. It goes right to voicemail. The bastard shut his phone off. But he is the bastard I’m trying to reconcile with, so I suck it up by the time the beep comes. “Jorge, it’s Chloe. I need to talk to you about what happened. I’m sorry, so sorry. I know I fucked up. Just—” I pause with a sigh, realizing I’m heading into babbling territory. “Just call me, OK? Or come see me. I’m at your house right now and I plan to stay. I’ve got pillows and food and I’m camped on your porch. And we need to talk.”

Well so much for not babbling. I hang up before I go on any further. I’m sure that message is
really
going to make him want to come home. I’d call back and try to undo the damage, but I’ve seen comedies. I know the hole only gets deeper, so I resolutely put down my phone.

With nothing better to do, I settle on staring blankly at the cornfield across the street. There’s a slight breeze and the tasseled stalks wave gently and hypnotically. My gaze becomes unfocused.

I don’t know how long I sit like that, but eventually a presence materializes in front of me. I pull my eyes into focus and realize it is Gracie, or rather her ghost. It was one thing to see her spirit just after it left her body. It’s a whole other thing to see her ghost days later. Makes me think maybe I am going insane.

“You’re not going insane, Chloe. I’m really here. I came to find you.”

“Oh, OK.”
I’m brilliant when I’m stunned.

“I want to help you.”
She wags her tail, then sits next to me on the porch.

I fight the urge to slide away.
“I think I’ve already done enough damage. I got you killed.”

“You didn’t get me killed. Those men killed me. But I saw that Hector protected you.”
Gracie sounds fierce and proud. She’s nothing like the cowering dog I first conversed with, and it makes me proud of her.
“Some of those men who hurt us are still out there. I came back to protect you and the other dogs.”

My guilt threatens to engulf me, but Gracie directs no anger at me, only love and concern. It’s overwhelming and humbling.
“Thank you, but I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

“My place is with you and the others. I have been looking for the bad people to keep you safe. I can see and sniff out a lot of stuff as a spirit.”

An idea starts to form. What if Gracie could give me identifying markers like street signs or addresses so I could leave credible information for the police?
“You can’t, by any chance, read?”

Gracie gives me a look that says I’m being silly.

“Yeah, yeah, I guess that’s really a human thing.”

“But I can memorize shapes. I have a real good memory. What do you need to see?”
She really is incredibly smart. She could be one of those dogs that learn to count.

I show her a mental picture of street signs.
“I need you to find the nearest ones of these around the location.”
Then I show her numbers on a house or mailbox.
“And these on the location.”

“I think I can do that.”

“You’re such a good girl, Gracie. I’m so proud of you. One more thing. I need to know if they plan to hold fights so I can give the police a date. Do you know dates?”

Gracie’s whine of frustration tells me she doesn’t.

“It’s OK. Here are the words I want you to listen for.”
And then I teach her the days of the week, as if they are command words. I figure a day of the week is enough for a tip to the police, and I don’t want to tax Gracie any more than I have to. She’s already learning more than most dogs.

We practice. Gracie sends me images of street signs and house numbers from nearby places. Once we make sure she is comfortable with hearing and recognizing the words for the days of the week, she stands and wags her tail.
“I think I’ve got it.”

“Awesome. We’ll work on it and we’ll figure out how to help these animals.”
There’s no way I’m going to walk away from animals in need, especially not when I’m in need of redemption. And what Gracie is offering is huge. Having a ghost as your spy is pretty cool.
“I will need to be home before I can start to help you.”
A computer search engine and map application is going to be necessary to pin things down, and my smartphone doesn’t have the juice for that.

“Will that be soon?”

“Might be a few days, but you can check in occasionally. I’ll answer if I can.”

“OK.”
Gracie accepts the plan with ease. Then she tilts her head, gives me sad eyes
. “Chloe, why are you sitting out here? I smell Jorge and the other dogs, but they’re not here.”

“You’re right. Jorge’s not home, and I don’t have a way to open the door.”

“Oh. Is he coming home soon?”

“I don’t know.”

“I bet he will. Humans always come back to their houses.”

“I hope so.”
I can’t even begin to express to Gracie just how much I want that to be true. Maybe it’s something like what a dog with separation anxiety feels waiting for its owner to come home. I could definitely see how some destructive behavior, so common in anxious dogs, could be good therapy to handle the separation. Too bad I didn’t buy more pillows. I could make a very fine mess of pillow fluff on the porch.