Page 16 of Scout Takes the Lead
“You don’t remember? This is the anniversary of her death.”
“Oh.”
My mom had died when I was nineteen, and I was too busy trying to make my own life to grieve too much for her. She had done her best in difficult circumstances, though. “I realized that I hadn’t talked to you in a while, so I decided to call. I hope it’s all right.”
“I love you, hermana,” I said, using the Spanish word for sister. Our mother had tried to get us to speak Spanish in the house but we’d resisted. Mercy and Grace were American names and we were American girls, and even though she insisted Puerto Rico was part of the States, we didn’t want to be marked as “other.”
“I love you, too. I’m sorry we haven’t spoken more often. Tell me what’s going on in your life.”
I got out of the car, and talked as I walked into my apartment. I told her about my training jobs and working at the pet store. “As soon as I can get a place that takes dogs, I want to get one of my own,” I said.
“Remember Buddy?” she asked. “That mutt Dad picked up for you?”
“Of course. He was the one who set me on this path.”
She told me about her job, working at a big-box retailer. She had divorced her first husband and married a second, but things weren’t working out. “I have to break this pattern,” she said. “I’m not going to keep marrying Dad.”
“I don’t want that either,” I said. We talked for a while longer, and gradually the easiness came back between us, the way we had been when we were girls. I still resented her for escaping, leaving me with mom and her many problems, but I thought I could get over that.
“Let’s keep in touch,” I said finally. “We’re the only family we have.” She agreed, and we ended the call. I hadn’t realized that Mercy had fallen into the same pattern I had, choosing guys with problems in the hope that we could fix them, the way we couldn’t fix our father. An interesting revelation, certainly.
9: Role Play: Alex
Usually I had to leave an extra hour for my drive to the VA hospital, where I met with my therapist, D’eriq. A normal person might only take a half-hour or forty-five minutes to get there, but I had to leave time for pulling over and closing my eyes if the traffic got to be too much for me. Add in that I couldn’t take the highway, which was way too stressful.
Scout wasn’t happy to get into the car. I guess maybe he was worried that I was taking him back to the animal shelter. I had to spend fifteen minutes just walking him around the car, first with the doors closed, then open, before he would even consent to sniff the lintel.
By the time I got him into the passenger seat, we were running late. We were on Hollywood Boulevard heading west when a low-slung BMW with fat tires raced past me. I got a quick adrenaline boost and normally I’d have pulled over to let the energy wash over me, but I looked at Scout beside me, his eyes on me and his tongue hanging out, and I kept going.
I decided to try an experiment. I turned south on State Road 7, a busy road that I usually avoided unless absolutely necessary. I was sandwiched between a concrete mixer and a car carrier, but instead of feeling boxed in and looking for a way to change lanes, I stayed where I was, sticking my right hand out to pet Scout.
Even when an ambulance siren sounded in the distance, and I had to slow down and change lanes to let it pass, the noise didn’t set me off the way it might have in the past.
I was surprised when we arrived at the VA early. I parked in the water tower lot and made sure that Scout’s service dog in training vest was secure around his thickening coat of gold fur, and we went for a walk around the grounds to kill time before my appointment.
The only trees were around a pretty, coral-roofed building, so we dawdled our way around it, despite the busy streets that were close. Nobody questioned Scout’s presence. My military bearing and his vest were enough. We even passed two other guys with service dogs as we made our way to D’eriq’s building.
D’eriq was a vet himself, who had gotten a degree as a clinical social worker. As soon as the receptionist called him, he came out to the lobby to meet us. He was African-American, with ebony skin and a high-and-tight haircut—-dyed blond. I introduced him to Scout.
He leaned down to let the dog sniff his hand. “Handsome boy.”
“Smart, too.” I held my hand out, palm down. “Scout, sit.” He sat. Then I lowered it and said, “Scout, down.” He obeyed.
“I’m impressed,” D’eriq said. “Come on back and let’s talk about how he’s helping you.”
D’eriq’s office was standard government issue drab, but he had livened it up with lots of inspirational posters, colorful photos of his travels, and a rainbow sticker announcing it was a “safe zone” where vets could talk about anything.
“Are you sleeping better?” D’eriq asked after we sat down.
“I think so. Still not much at night—-mostly I work and then after I feed Scout and take him out for a walk I crash for a couple of hours.”
He opened my case file on his computer and began to type. “Nightmares?”
“A few. But when I wake up I reach over for Scout and he calms me down.”
“Good. How about your reactions? Loud noises and unexpected movements have triggered your PTSD in the past.”
“Well, not making as much progress there,” I said. I told him about the guy who had reached out to touch me at the traffic light. “I over-reacted, I know. I have to work on that.”
