Dog Medicine (8 page)

After we ate lunch from the cooler, the warm sun sparkled on the water, and we were lulled into a peaceful slumber in the palm of the lake. We woke up when the boat drifted into a large fallen tree limb. The hull bumped hard against the branch and we were both so startled and confused by the echoing sound that we shot upright. His hair was sticking straight up, his sunglasses crooked on the end of his nose. Who knows how odd I looked; I hadn't showered since Ohio. We found the sight of each other hysterically funny and laughed until our sides ached. Later, after more fishing, we sped back to the dock, hungry for dinner in the main cabin. In the rush of wind and oxygen, I remembered for a quick moment what happy felt like.

 • • • 

Based on a wisp of a story that the breeder told us, we can piece together that right about the time I was docking that boat, Bunker was experiencing his own rush of wind, water, and oxygen. All of the puppies, now about six weeks old, had escaped out the unlocked laundry-room door. They'd taken off through the woods beyond the farmhouse, down to the river. The nice lady didn't notice until dusk, when she came home from the grocery store,
noticed the quiet, and opened the door to discover an empty whelping room. Not one dog to be found.

The breeder told us that all the dogs had followed Bunker's father, like he was the damned pied piper, down to Raccoon Creek, across the road, and down the steep hill to the spot where the older dogs sometimes romped while the nice people in the house took a swim. This was an unauthorized trip, though, and soon the nice lady was stomping through the woods, her flashlight beaming a jump rope of light through the trees. “Hunter!” she yelled at the papa dog. “You get your butt up here!” Hunter raced toward her. The puppies followed, most of them, and she clipped them all onto leashes. Two pups lagged behind. She had to wade ankle-deep into the muddy water to gather Bunker and his bigger brother. Those two, she said, were too busy to obey her commands, romping in the gloaming, covered in mud and giddy with discovery.

F
ALL
1988

Clay attended the all-boys high school in Columbus. It was the school with which my all-girls school had dances, proms, parties, and football games. Clay was popular; I was not. The popular girls at my school always found it strange that my brother and I were related. That is, until our first high school party. Another brother-sister pair with the same senior-freshman split was hosting and invited us both. Lots of the popular girls from my class would be there—and I desperately wanted to be part of that crowd.

My parents forced Clay to let me come with him so I teased my permed hair to unadvisable heights, carefully lined my lips with red liner before adding shimmery light-pink gloss, then donned my acid-washed skinny jeans with the exposed buttons and my red, blue, and yellow chunky striped sweater. I slid on some penny loafers (with shiny pennies inserted) and was ready. Clay was waiting for me in the car, honking at me as I rushed to jump into the passenger seat. Dad let us take his awesome sports car, the maroon Mazda RX-7.

My stomach twirled as we pulled up to the party. Clay walked into the house ahead of me, heading to the kitchen and high-fiving his buddies. I stood in the entryway, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, not sure where to go.

A bass beat emanated from downstairs. Down the half-dozen steps was a sunken living room with a couch and chair facing the television and stereo. The far wall of the living room had sliding
glass doors that led out to a patio. There sat a hot tub, the hot water twirling steam into the cool night.

The popular girls from my school stood in the corner, huddled like hair-sprayed football players. They turned to me, and said, “Oh, hi!” They gave my outfit the once-over and I did a half wave with my elbow pinned to my body. I approached, which could've gone terribly wrong, but they pulled out of their huddle and gave me half-body hugs. Kathy, our school's richest and most popular girl, asked if I was excited about coming to the party, like I was a five-year-old. I smiled and nodded, like a five-year-old.

The stereo was blasting 97.9, WNCI. That was my station. I knew just about every song they played. I had danced alone in my room for hours to their music, went jogging with my Walkman tuned to only that frequency. Once, I even called in and was the 97th caller, and won tickets to a Prince concert, the Lovesexy tour. As the girls chatted, I smiled and tapped my toe to “Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now” by Starship.

Two of the senior boys came down the stairs and walked outside, then stripped down to their boxers and stepped into the hot tub. Kathy walked to the sliding glass doors and yelled out to them, “You
guys!
We're not supposed to get into the hot tub until we're smashed! You can't already be drunk, can you?” She laughed as they lowered themselves into the steaming water, nodding and smiling.

“Oh, my god,” she said, grabbing my forearm. “Those guys are hammered and it's not even nine o'clock!” I couldn't believe that the popular girl was touching me, laughing with me at a party.

“They could drown!” I said, and she looked at me, her eyes wide, laughing. I smiled like I'd meant to make a joke. The radio was blasting a commercial, then the DJ said something unintelligible before we heard the unmistakable cowbell-synthesizer beat that begins George Michael's “I Want Your Sex.” The girls started
screaming and jumping up and down and Maddie grabbed my hand and we moved out to the open space in the living room and started dancing.

I barely danced, afraid the boys were watching us. Clay was still upstairs with his friends, and the boys in the hot tub weren't paying attention. So I laughed and smiled as the girls hopped up and down with their eyes closed. Maddie and Kathy were good dancers, but Diane and Renee looked ridiculous. I was astounded, both by their lack of rhythm and by their apparent lack of self-consciousness.

“C-C-C-C-C-C'mon!” We all sang together. I felt my body loosening up. Someone turned off the lights and all the girls screamed. I relaxed a little and did a few of the moves that I'd practiced in my room—some serious hip shaking followed by a tip of the toes twirl. When I finished, all the girls yelled, “Go, Julie! Woo-hoo!” I laughed, feeling half embarrassed, half thrilled. I kept going and soon it was like I was alone in my room, dancing with the lights low and the music blaring. Except I was with friends, actual friends, who loved to dance just like me.

Thirty minutes into the dancing, I was thinking that if this was what high school parties were like, I was in. I knew all of the words to these songs, and the other girls watched me lip sync, watched my moves, and tried to imitate them, and it was as if I could feel my social status rising with each shake of my hips.

When the station played Belinda Carlisle's “Heaven Is a Place on Earth,” we all sang the first few lines as loud as we could. “
Ooh baby, do you know what that's worth? Ooh, heaven is a place on earth. They say in heaven, love comes first. We'll make heaven a place on earth!
” I was breathless with laughter, dancing with abandon. I couldn't remember having this much fun. Ever. In my entire life.

Soon, the boys from the hot tub came in and started dancing with us, their boxers dripping. I thought that was great. I had no concept of sex yet. I had no idea that things on dance floors could
lead to anything but the need for an ice cold lemonade and a snack. As far as I was concerned, everything was great. The whole world was an amazing, wonderful place because of this half-lit living room with the popular girls (and me!) dancing along to Belinda and George and Whitney. Soon the dance floor was the place to be, and I was dripping with sweat. We all were. I wanted to dance all night. This was so easy, so amazing. Sometimes a girlfriend and I would hug and jump up and down, hold hands and try to do the same move. Sometimes a boy would put his body against my back and we'd sway together. I loved the way this felt. Something beautiful was awakening in me. I did my best Axl Rose interpretation (which was spot-on, by the way) and laughed so hard I nearly cried.

At one point, during Duran Duran's “Notorious,” I noticed Clay standing across the room watching me. I waved at him and motioned for him to join us. He looked away, then turned his back toward me. Whatever. I didn't care. “No-No-Notorious!” We screamed. I felt beautiful. I felt like I belonged. I noticed some of the boys watching me dance, and for the first time in my young teenage life, I honestly thought I might be pretty.

I had to pee during Madonna's “Open Your Heart,” so I trotted up the stairs to find the bathroom. Clay followed me and grabbed my wrist and said, “Let's go. We're leaving.”

“Why?” I asked. I checked my watch. It was only 11:30. We'd been there for less than three hours. Our parents told us to leave at midnight. “We don't have to leave for another half-hour.” I was out of breath, giddy from dancing, and eager to get back downstairs.

“Well, I'm going,” he said. “And I'm your ride. So come on.”

“Please?” I said. “Can we stay just a little bit longer? I love this song!”

“You are ridiculous. Godammit!” he yelled. “Come outside and get in the fucking car right now.”

“But I have to pee,” I said, ignoring his foul mood and pondering letting him leave without me.

“Hurry the fuck up, then,” he said, holding the front door open.

“Okay! Okay!” I said, my hands up in surrender as I sidled into the powder room. I peed and sang, “
I'll hold the lock and you'll hold the key. Open your heart to me-e-e
,” then came out into the foyer and asked if I could go say good-bye to my new friends.

“No,” he said. “We're leaving.”

I heard George Michael's “Faith” coming on and said, “Oh, man. Please? One more song? Can we stay? Pleeease?”

“I'm leaving,” he said, walking out the door. He slammed it hard. I didn't know how I'd get home without him, so I followed him outside and got in the car. I should've been mad, but I was still too happy from the great party, out of breath, damp with sweat.

We sat in the car for a while, and he didn't put the key into the ignition. He had his hands on the steering wheel, and he was looking down into his lap. I was about to ask him what he was doing when he began speaking through clenched teeth.

“You . . . looked . . . like a
fucking
hobag.” Spit flew out of his mouth with those last two words. I had no idea what a hobag was. I wondered if he meant hobo.

“What?” I said.

“What the fuck do you think you were doing in there?” he said. I was scared now. He was a senior, had been going to these kinds of parties for at least four years, and he knew how to act. Clearly I'd done something uncool.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” I said, trying to sound strong.

“You are so full of shit. You do too.”

“No. Honestly. I don't.”

He paused, squeezed the steering wheel, and then said, “You looked like a big, huge whore. A slut. I am so fucking embarrassed right now. I can't fucking
believe
what you were doing in there.
You should be glad I got you out of there before you made a complete and total ass of yourself.
God!”
he screamed. He banged the heels of his hands on the steering wheel.

“But I was just dancing,” I said, my voice a child's. Weren't we all having fun? This was my first party, sure, but I was taking cues from the other kids. It wasn't like I was out there dancing alone. But Clay made it clear that I'd just gone to my first high school party and made a complete mockery of myself.

“Girls can't dance at parties like that, Julie. You basically just told all those guys that you are ready and willing to have sex with every single one of them. You're lucky I got you out of there.” Slowly, tears came and I put my face in my hands. It was then, finally, that he started the car and squealed out into the street.

I wept quietly the whole way home. He didn't speak. Just clenched his teeth and writhed his hands around the steering wheel. When we pulled up to the house, I went straight into my room and quietly closed the door. I climbed into bed. I didn't take off my clothes, just kicked off my penny loafers and slipped under the flowered sheets.

I had shamed and embarrassed myself, and I understood the gravity of what I'd done. In bed, I planned my penance. I would never dance at a party again. I would decline invitations to parties.
Remember this
, I told myself.
Remember this awful feeling.
I tried to imprint in my mind that the best decision would always be to stay home, stay safe, and spend the night alone. I became known as the runner, the athlete who was always training, could never really party, who rarely went out, and always had everything under control.

L
ATE
M
AY
1996

It had been three weeks since the fishing trip, where I'd seen that small but bright flicker of happiness. Within a few days of returning to Ohio, the light had extinguished entirely. I was home. Dad was back at work, preparing for another very stressful bet-the-company trial. If my dad succeeded at his legal argument, the company would survive and hundreds of people would keep their jobs. If not, they all faced unemployment and major losses. In my dad's absence, my mom tiptoed around, asking nothing of me. I was the precious vase she didn't disturb for fear that a slight tremor would send me off the shelf and into pieces on the floor. She fed me when I accepted food, but otherwise we merely coexisted. There was a sour fog of failure around me; I felt it. I could almost smell it.

My brother was living about five miles away in an apartment with two other guys. He had a fiancée named Megan now, was madly in love, and couldn't wait to start living with her. I don't remember Clay coming home that summer. It is very likely that he did see me in my malaise, but I don't remember. Perhaps the sight of him shut me down? Perhaps I was too embarrassed about my condition to leave my room and say hello? Or, most likely, we saw each other and I acted as if everything was fine. The part of me that craved the instantly gratifying ease of denial loved pretending things were fine, while the part of me trapped in childhood trauma raged silently beneath my quiet exterior.

Those long, dark weeks, I stayed on the couch, sometimes watching television, but mostly sleeping and then waking and staring at
the couch's back cushion. It was maroon, a wide stitch, full of bodily smells from years of evening escape into the television. Day after day I would wake up, walk from my bedroom to the couch, fall asleep, wake up, stare at the couch cushion, maybe weep or think about going to the bathroom before drifting back to sleep. The pattern quickly became irresistible.

It was late spring. The weather was warm and bright, and I lay inside completely inert. I hoped to die. I hoped for a heart attack that would send me to the hospital where nurses would tend to me with care and ask me what was wrong. What I felt was more than sadness. It had become an irresistible blackness. I began to love falling into that dark place. I clung to the awful feelings because they were so familiar, so honest, so intoxicating, and they shut out everything else. There was no room for considering that I could try again at life, that I could try even though I might fail, that someday I could feel better. I fantasized about dying, then sat frozen with fear that I would indeed someday cease to live.

“Do you want something to eat?” my mom would whisper, rubbing my back gently.

“No,” I'd mumble.

“Do you want to come with me to the store?”

“No.”

“Okay, well, I'll be back in about half an hour,” she'd say, a slight exasperation in her voice.

The days like this became endless, merged into one long, bleak existence. I had never experienced this kind of gravity. The thought of getting up and going somewhere, doing something, exhausted me. So I didn't do a thing. For days. My mom's school year had ended, and she was home with me each day, but that made no difference. My favorite place was officially the dark crease between the cushions on the back of the couch. My face felt best pushed deep into that crack. Sensory deprivation had become the only way to comfort myself. I needed to be alone with
no light, no sounds, no smells, and as little air circulation as possible. The breeze from an opened door hurt my skin.

I don't know how many days I spent like this. Five? Ten? But finally, one afternoon, my dad came home from work at about two in the afternoon. Maybe my mom had called him in desperation. Maybe he'd seen me there on the couch for too many days and the sight made him unable to focus at his desk.

When he walked into the family room at around two on that average afternoon, there was no noise, just me trying to keep breathing. He walked over to me and said, “Julie?” I didn't have the energy to respond. “You've got to get up,” he said.

Eventually I replied with a muffled, “No.”

“Yes,” he said. “Come on.”

“I can't,” I mumbled. I started crying.

“Yes, you can,” he said, putting his hand on my back. I pushed my face into the cushion and sobbed. My hair was a matted, tangled mess. I could feel the clump of hair shift as I shook my head no. I wanted him to leave; I wanted him to never leave.

I felt his hands push under my body, and he began to pick me up.

“No, no, no, no,” I wept. I didn't want to be carried anywhere. I could only exist there on that couch. That was my only place left.

“We are going outside. You need to get outside,” he said.

“I can't,” I said in a whimper. “Dad, I can't.”

“I'll help you,” he said, quietly. “I'm here, and I'll help you.” I put my arms around him and buried my face in his neck, his smell encoded in me, cologne and skin and father. “Dear, get the door,” he said. I heard my mom's slippers rush to the front door, and he carried me down our front step and onto the driveway. “Can you stand?” he asked. I couldn't imagine letting go of him. I believed that there was no way I could actually stand up, especially outside. But I felt him letting my legs go, and I put one foot on the ground, then the other. He held me on our driveway, said to my mom who was watching, “It's okay, honey. I've got it.” She went
inside and closed the door gently. This was a moment for only my father to witness. It was as if he dipped his arm down into the burning depths of hell and would let it burn if only I would please, please take hold of his hand.

“We're just going to go for a little walk, okay?” he said, in a voice that was easy-going. Simple. A
you can do this
voice. He was still wearing his suit pants and a red tie. He'd loosened his collar a bit and rolled up his sleeves. “Just a little stroll,” he whispered, like a meditation. “Just down our driveway, to the next driveway, then we'll turn around. You talk if you're ready. You tell me what you need. Tell me anything.”

I leaned on him heavily and he held me with his strong arms. I focused on his strawberry-blond arm hair as we walked. He'd been a redhead as a child; I'd been born with red hair. We were kindred spirits. I wanted to be more of a priority in his life. I didn't feel worthy. I felt terrible at this very moment for making him miss work to tend to stupid, worthless me.

We made it to the end of our driveway, my feet moving mindlessly beneath me. I used to sprint down these roads, my legs so strong and my future so full of promise. Now here I was, feeling lucky that I'd walked 300 feet.

The air outside lifted me just an ounce, made me remember I could move again. It felt miraculous that just walking down our long driveway took some of the blackness away. As we reached our neighbor's driveway and turned around, I finally opened my eyes and squinted in the sunlight.

“I don't know what's wrong with me, Dad,” I said.

“It's okay,” he said. “You'll be okay.”

“I don't know if I will,” I said, weeping now. “I really don't.”

“You're still you,” he said. “You're still beautiful and smart and strong.”

I couldn't talk anymore, just nodded and wiped the tears streaming down my cheeks. He granted me a merciful silence,
just held my waist tightly as we walked, like I'd been in a car accident and these were my first steps since the bones had healed. I closed my eyes and let him guide me back up the driveway. He asked if I wanted some dinner. I said I was too tired. He took me to my bedroom, put me in my bed, slipped off my shoes, and pulled up the sheets. “I'm proud of you, princess,” he said. “You did good. I love you.”

I closed my eyes, exhausted by the walk, ready for a solid night of sleep. But I felt a bit different, like the blanket of sorrow had transformed from lead to wood.

 • • • 

They say that people don't choose their dogs—dogs choose their people. I like to imagine that at this point, Bunker knew to wait for me. Other families had come to the farm and taken away his three sisters and one brother. Each time new people arrived, he gave them a thorough sniff, concluding that they were not the one he was waiting for. Then he proceeded to ignore them or run away when they bent down to pet him, maybe even lift his leg to pee on one man's nice leather shoe. I like to think that when I was at the bottom, Bunker was fighting to make sure he found me.