Interior
A well-lit kitchen. There are pans on the stove and the oven light is on, indicating something baking inside. A woman moves from prep area to stove and back again, singing under her breath to a song coming from the living room.
The phone rings.
I heard myself sigh as I wiped my hands on my apron so I could check the Caller ID without leaving garlic remnants behind. Picking up the phone, I promptly dropped it against a pile of unripened avocados - which naturally connected the call. With what seemed at the time to be no other recourse...
"Hello?"
"Hi." (pause) "Is this (my real name)
"Yes it is! Who am I speaking with?" I asked, shoving the phone under my chin, freeing my hands to lift a lid and stir the sauce bubbling away on the gas top. After what seemed like an awkwardly long pause with no response... "Hello?"
"It's John."
John... John... John... Nothing was familiar about the voice. Nephew John, maybe...
"Hi John. Are you looking for Stephen?"
"Who's that?"
Once again I wiped my hands on my apron and tried to focus on the voice. Nothing. I opened the oven and poked the bread. Not ready.
Turning to face no one else in the room I said, "John, honey, I'm sorry. I'm really struggling to figure out who you are."
"Oh... um, I met you with your dog." Okay! Now we were getting somewhere. Must be a friend of someone or other. Or maybe someone from kickball. Or the park.
"Ah ha! Which dog?"
"How many do you have?"
"I have four." I checked the Caller ID: Unavailable.
"The mini greyhound." Okay, okay, okay. Think! Where had we been recently. I squeezed my eyes shut trying to remember where we'd been lately, and feeling really embarrassed that this John person is someone I should probably remember. "Um," he started again, "I got out and I keep thinking about her and wondering how she is."
Got out... GOT OUT???
Oh, CRAP.
My stupid handler badge.
[This is probably a good time to mention that the dog in question, an Italian Greyhound, is the "working end of the leash" - my therapy dog. We do community events and visit various inpatient facilities, one of which is a drug and alcohol rehab center. And not one of those white collar, voluntary stay, cushy facilities where the clients sit around drinking cucumber water between massages, either. Nope. We work every weekend at a "you really fucked up" mandatory rehab whose clientele is comprised of multi-offenders from all over the tri-state area.]
"Well, John. She's good. How are you?" I asked, wondering if he heard the trepidation in my voice as loudly as I did.
"I'm okay. Are all your dogs small too?"
"I'm glad to hear you're doing well. Are you sticking to the program; going to meetings and all that?"
"You have a really small dog, too, one smaller than her. Didn't you tell me that?"
I was becoming unnerved. Clearly, he remembered my name from my badge, and I could only assume he found my phone number online, which means he probably got my address, too.
Shit, shit, shit, fuck. Breathe...
"My dogs are all different sizes. Some bigger than others." That wasn't a lie. Mia Macy IS the biggest, but no need to share that little tidbit. Let him think there's something bigger than 12 pounds in the house. That seemed like a good plan. "So, John. You're doing good, right? You're writing in your journal and going to meetings, right?" I don't know why I felt compelled to ask again.
"I have to because of the halfway house. I wish you could come here with your dog. She's really cool."
"I wish I could, too," I half-lied, "but we just do inpatient visits. Do you want me to see if I can find another dog to come see you, because I can ask if you want."
"Nah... well... maybe. I really just wanted to see you guys again because you're really cool too, and I felt better when you guys came and we hung out because no one else did. I mean, my mom said she would but she didn't and my girlfriend didn't either."
"I hate it when people say they'll do something then they don't. It's not fair. Sometimes family is like that. I don't know why though." I was getting more uncomfortable by the second, measuring my words, hoping I sounded empathetic, but not as though I might invite him to dinner. Speaking of... "So John, I have to finish making dinner for the family so I'd better go before I burn something."
"Oh. Sorry. Okay."
"Stick with it, buddy. Even if it feels like no one is paying attention. I'll tell Mi... uh, my dog, you said hello and give her a hug."
"Maybe I'll see you guys again," he said, his voice not quite despondent but nowhere near happy.
"And I'll find out if another dog can come see you if you tell me where you are."
"Nah. Thanks anyway."
"Okay. Well, then... bye John."
The phone went dead.
Fade out as the woman slides down the kitchen wall to sit, dropping the phone on the floor beside her.
