that space where nagging doubt is replaced by unending hope.
Chapter 18
I awoke with my tongue still stuck to the roof of my mouth, but fortunately, in no pain. I turned to look at my clock and caught sight of a figure—Crawford, I assumed—framed in shadows, in the corner of my room. I smiled, happy that I wasn’t alone, and fell back to sleep.
I dreamt of Ray. I don’t know why, but he kept appearing, an annoying phantom, messing up my peaceful, drug-induced slumber. I kept asking him to leave but all he did was smile, hold his hands out to me, and disappear, only to reappear after a few minutes. Finally, in my dreams, I asked him to go away for good, and he did.
When I awoke, although I couldn’t remember what time I had gotten into bed, it was dark in the room. My limbs were heavy and I stayed on my back with my head heavy on my pillow, my thoughts jumbled and confused. Still doped up on my new favorite drug, I fell back to sleep for a few more minutes, thinking about how I could con my gynecologist—the only doctor I ever saw—into giving me a refill of Vicodin.
I awoke to the sound of a dog barking. I reached across the bed to the nightstand and grabbed the clock, squinting to see the time: eight-thirty in the evening. I kicked the covers off and pulled myself into a sitting position, which wasn’t as hard now that the Vicodin had worn off and I was more in control of my limbs.
I stood. My arm was sore, but the pain wasn’t unbearable. I gingerly touched the covered wound with my good hand and was relieved to find the gauze dry and soft. I left the room and started down the stairs.
Crawford’s back was to me; he was standing in the kitchen, looking down. When he heard me, he turned around, and I noticed that he was standing with Trixie, which gave me pause. Maybe I was still asleep. Trixie gave me a short “woof” in greeting and a big golden retriever smile: tongue hanging from the side of her mouth, drool pooling on my kitchen floor. Crawford looked at me, confused.
“What’s Trixie doing here?” I asked, making my way down the hallway and into the kitchen.
“That’s what I was going to ask you,” he said, wrapping the leash around the knob of the back door. “She was in the backyard tied to a tree when I got back.” He handed me an envelope. “There was a note taped to the back door.”
I opened the note. The envelope was lavender and the note inside was, too; the paper was thin, lacy, and scented. It had the markings of Terri all over it. I read it out loud.
Dear Alison, thank you so much for agreeing to take Trixie. The move has been very hard on us, but particularly because our new accommodations cannot accept pets. I am devastated. But knowing how much you love Trixie and what good care you’ll take of her makes us feel better. Terri.
I looked at Crawford. “How long have I been asleep exactly?” I asked, feeling suddenly like Rip Van Winkle.
Crawford stood and looked at me. “Long enough for you to inherit a dog, apparently.”
“Where did they go?”
Crawford shrugged. “Not a clue.”
I looked at Trixie. I did love her but I wasn’t sure that I wanted to live with her. I made a couple of noises of protest but they were weak.
He pointed to a bag on the counter. “I don’t know what she eats, but I went to the grocery store on Route 9 and got some dog food.”
I pushed my good hand through my hair. “This is weird.” I looked out the window at the house next door. “Do you think maybe they finally split up and went their separate ways?”
He shrugged. “Hard to tell. You think she was lying in her note that they went together?”
I didn’t know. I started for the back door.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Next door,” I said.
He put his hand on the door. “No you’re not.”
I gave him an impatient look.
“I already went over there. There’s nobody there. It’s locked, no cars in the driveway, all lights are out. They’re gone.” He waited a beat watching my face and recognizing that I had a joke that just had to come out, said, “Okay, just say it.”
I let out a laugh. “They don’t call you Detective Hot Pants