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Authors: Nicholas Edwards

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BOOK: Dog Whisperer
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Bobby stared at her. “No way.”
Emily nodded.
Catching on completely now, Bobby's mouth dropped open. “But—that's
prejudiced
!”
Emily shrugged. One of the expressions she'd heard people use was “death by a thousand cuts,” and it was a pretty accurate description. “I don't think she meant it that way. It was just, you know, her automatic thought.”
“Wow,” Bobby said, and shook his head with disgust. “That stinks.”
Yeah. It really did.
When they got back to her house, she and Bobby didn't
discuss the tourists again, because there really wasn't any point. But playing with the Wii for a while made them both relax, and definitely helped cheer her up. Zack didn't know what to make of a game that caused people to jump wildly around a room, waving little plastic boxes, and he barked a few times to express this.
Her mother invited Bobby to stay for supper, but his family was going over to his uncle's house later, and he headed home, instead. Since it was so hot out, her mother decided that rather than cooking a big, heavy meal, they should have a tossed salad, with lots of fresh vegetables and greens, plus tuna fish for her parents, and a big scoop of egg salad for Emily. Sometimes, just for fun, they made fake egg salad with tofu and turmeric and all, but tonight, her mother was making the real thing, with lots of onions, pickles, and celery salt.
After dinner, Emily helped her father with the dishes, while her mother went upstairs to work for a while. When they had finished cleaning up, Emily considered going online, but she didn't really feel like it. The two tense encounters this afternoon had left her sort of edgy, and maybe even out-of-sorts, and she wanted to burn off a little energy. Sitting behind her laptop and firing off IMs right and left was fun and all, but it was—passive.
So she took Zack for a short walk around the yard, and then flopped down on one of the deck chairs to look up at the sky. It was still pretty hot, but it was a clear night, and there were lots of stars out.
Zack climbed up—laboriously—onto the deck chair, too, and she had to move her legs to make room for him. Even though it had only been a couple of days, it was hard to remember what it was like
not
to have a dog. It would be nice if Josephine could hang around outside
with
them, but she was an indoors cat and it wouldn't be safe for her. Besides, Emily could see her sitting in her bedroom window, and she looked quite content—and superior—up there.
She had been outside for quite a while when the back door opened, and her father came out onto the deck.
“Ah, there you are,” he said. “I was starting to get worried that the two of you hadn't come back yet.”
“It's nice out tonight,” Emily said. “I didn't really want to come indoors right away.”
Her father nodded, and lay back on one of the other lawn chairs.
They listened to small waves breaking against the rocks, the chirp of crickets, and the occasional passing car.
“You've been awfully quiet tonight,” he said. “Is everything okay?”
“Sure,” Emily said, although she must have tensed, because Zachary lifted his head anxiously.
“So, nothing's wrong?” her father asked.
Emily shook her head. But she knew he didn't believe her, and—since it also wasn't true—she let out her breath. “Mrs. Griswold yelled at me this afternoon, because Zack had to take a rest when we were walking, and it happened to be in front of her house.”
He sighed. “Well, she's—cantankerous.”
Which was the kind of word Emily liked, because it was easy to tell what it meant, even if it was unfamiliar. She happened to
know
this one—but it wouldn't have mattered if she hadn't.
“I'm sorry if it upset you,” he said. “Try not to
take her too seriously. She just likes to go her own way.”
Or, maybe, she just liked to be nasty to people. But Emily nodded, looking at a small bright flicker in the sky, and wondering if it was just a plane, or something more interesting than that, like a shooting star. Zack had settled back down, and she started some very light coupage on his chest, since she was supposed to do it at least four times a day, and had only done it three times so far today.
“You're still pretty quiet, Em,” her father said, after a minute. “Is that all that's bothering you?”
No. She didn't want to bring it up, though, because he might get upset, or—potentially even worse—
outraged
.
“Did you and Bobby quarrel?” he asked.
She shook her head. They didn't argue very often, but when she and Bobby
did
, it was usually a nasty one, and involved not speaking for a few days, after which they would make up, and promise never, ever, ever to let it happen again.
Another boat was moving past them out in the sound, but all they could see was a faint silhouette, and its night running lights.
“Am I from the inner city?” Emily asked.
Her father must not have expected anything
like that, because he sat up, looking startled. “What do you mean?”
“Was that where I was born?” she asked.
It took a very long time for her father to answer.
“No,” he said.
It had been a closed adoption, so Emily really didn't know much of
anything
about where she had been born—or, when it came right down to it, who she was. She had a birthday, of course—September 18—but she wasn't even sure if that was her
real
birthday, or one her parents had picked out so that she would feel normal.
Her mother never minded talking about it, but the entire subject of her adoption made her father almost as uncomfortable as it made her, so they rarely brought it up. But even her mother had never really given her many specific details, other than to say that her birth mother had loved her enough to make sure that she would grow up in the most loving home she could find, and how lucky they were to have her. Emily assumed that her parents knew a lot more than they were willing—or legally able—to tell her. The technical term was actually a “semi-open adoption,” but she, personally, didn't know much of anything at all. She'd also never gotten a birthday present or a Christmas card
or a photograph or any other indication that either of her birth parents ever thought about her at all.
She knew one other adopted kid, Maryann, who was from China and was a couple of years older than she was. Their parents—Maryann's mother was an adjunct European lecturer at the college—had made a point of trying to get them together regularly, but as it turned out, she and Maryann had absolutely nothing else in common and never did much more than say, “oh, yeah, hi,” if they happened to run into each other.
“Is September eighteenth my real birthday?” she asked.
Her father nodded. “Of course.”
“I mean, my
real
birthday,” she said, “and not one you and Mom gave me so that I'd feel, you know, more grounded.”
Her father let out his breath. “It's your real birthday,” he said quietly. “You were only about a week old when we brought you home.”
Okay, that was good. And it was a much more definite piece of information than they usually told her.
“Want me to go get your mother?” her father asked.
Emily looked up. Sometimes, her father liked to
avoid potentially complicated conversations like this, by mumbling that he needed to go get some work done or something. “You don't want to talk about it with me?”
“I think she would want to discuss it
with
us,” he said.
But then, it might turn into a much bigger deal than she wanted it to be, and there were too many questions they couldn't answer, anyway, so they would all end up getting frustrated. And she never wanted them to think that she wished she had different parents or anything like that—because it wasn't true. Supposedly, when she turned eighteen, she might be allowed to petition the court for more information, but that was a
long
time away.
Her father stood up. “Look, I'll be right back, and then the three of us can all—”
“No, it's not that important, I just—” Emily shook her head. Zack had snuggled up a little closer to her during all of this, and she was reminded—again—of how incredibly nice it was to have a dog. “Well, there was a lady today.”
Her father hesitated, but sat back down. “What lady?” he asked carefully. Nervously, even.
Emily shrugged. “Just a lady. They were, like, you know, tourists. They asked Bobby and me how
to get to Crowley's, because I guess Cyril wouldn't tell them.”
Her father nodded.
“And she thought I was lucky to be visiting Maine and getting to spend time in the country,” Emily said. “You know, like I was deprived and some charity had to send me up here.”
Her father sighed. “People make stupid assumptions sometimes, Emily. I wish they didn't.”
Yeah. “But, isn't that kind of what happened?” Emily said. “I mean, that you and Mom were really nice, and took me, because my parents—uh, you know, birth parents—couldn't, or
wouldn't
—or whatever—take care of me?”
Her father looked a little bit like he wanted to run away, or at least go find her mother as quickly as he could. “It was more complicated than that, Emily. I think it probably
always
is. But I know your birth mother made the best decision that she could, and your mother and I are
so
grateful that she did.”
Emily didn't want to feel grateful; she wanted to feel sulky. “And I'm supposed to think she's all great and everything?” For not
wanting
her?
Her father shook his head. “No, I think that sometimes you're probably supposed to feel confused, and hurt, and maybe even angry.”
That was good, because when it came to this particular subject, she usually felt all three of those things. “And maybe sad, too?” she said.
Her father nodded, looking pretty sad himself.
For that matter, Zack looked sad, too, and when he made a small anxious sound, she reached down to pat him.
“It's not about you and Mom,” Emily said quickly, still patting Zack. “It's just when the lady said that, it made me start thinking again, and I felt—well, I don't know. Really
bad
, I guess. But, there really aren't, you know, any answers, are there?”
Her father sighed. “No,” he said. “I'm afraid there aren't.”
When she was getting ready for bed later that night, her
mother came into her room. Her expression was so concerned that Emily knew her father must have told her all about their conversation.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Emily nodded.
“I know I can't do anything about the tourist,” her mother said. “But do you want me to speak to Mrs. Griswold?”
Emily shook her head very hard. Because her mother probably
would
stomp right down there and confront her. “No. No, definitely not. She was just
grouchy
, you know?” Mean and intimidating, too, but mostly just—cranky, and unfriendly. “Besides, the other lady bothered me way more, because the whole time, she thought she was being really nice.”
“Because it was her first thought,” her mother said.
Yeah. Emily nodded. “Like I was the only black person she'd
seen
up here, and that was all that made sense.”
Then again, as far as she knew, she
was
the only African-American in Bailey's Cove—or biracial, or whatever it was that she was.
“I can't stand it when you and I are out somewhere together, and people look around for your parents when I'm standing right there,” her mother said.
Which happened a lot. Usually, when they were around a bunch of strangers, her mother made a point of standing close by and keeping a hand on her shoulder. Then, before anyone had time to ask any potentially dumb questions, she would say something like “Have you met my daughter, Emily?” And the person would almost look surprised, say, “oh,” and then say, “
oh
,” when they finally figured it out. If it was any sort of college-sponsored event—where everyone was usually totally into being politically correct, Emily had noticed that people seemed to be faintly disappointed when they saw her father and it turned out that he was Caucasian, instead of African-American. Maybe they thought adoption was less
interesting
somehow.
“You seem to be thinking about all of it a lot
more, recently,” her mother said, breaking the silence.
That was true, although she wasn't sure why. Actually, she
thought
about it all the time, but she usually didn't bring it up in conversation. “Maybe because school's starting,” Emily said, “and—well, all those new people.” People she didn't know who were going to see her as “adopted” first, before they saw her as “Emily.”
Or as African-American first, instead of as a person named Emily.
Her mother nodded.
“And—well, another birthday, too,” Emily said. “And there won't be any—
anything
, you know?”
No card, or note, or present, or—best of all—
phone call
.
Her mother sighed. “I know. That part is especially hard, isn't it?”
Very
hard. And it always hurt her feelings, even though the lack of contact no longer surprised her, year in and year out. She assumed that her birth mother at least
thought
about her, briefly, on her birthday—because it had to be hard to forget having had a baby once. As far as her birth father was concerned, she had no idea, but from what little she had gathered, her sense was that he had never been
involved with any of it, and might not even know that she existed.
Which was really weird, if it was true. If he found out, would he be glad—or completely horrified to know that he had had an unwanted child walking around out in the world all of these years?
“Twelve is an especially big one, too,” her mother said. “So I think we should really go all out, don't you? With school starting, I don't think any of your cousins could come then, but let's ask Grandma, and Gramps and Grammy to fly in.” Which was all of her living grandparents, since her mother's father had died when Emily was seven. “Have a big celebration. And then, they can meet Zack, too. Does that sound fun?”
Emily nodded enthusiastically.
It sounded
very
fun.
 
The next morning, they took Zachary to the vet for a quick
check-up. Dr. Kasanofsky was very pleased with his progress, and his only instructions were to keep doing exactly what they were doing. He also told them—to Emily's delight—that no one anywhere in the
state
had reported losing a white retriever, and that they could probably safely assume that he had, indeed, been a stray.
On the way home, her father went by the town hall so that they could go in and get an official dog license, to go along with Zack's new rabies tag. Zack seemed to like his tags, because when Emily took him for his walk after lunch, he shook his head every so often and the tags would jingle softly together.
Every time they went out, he always seemed to want to walk towards Mrs. Griswold's house—in fact, he veered that way so automatically that she wondered if he might be the dog version of left-handed. It would explain his unerring tendency to want to walk down there. But, since she didn't want to look for trouble, she tried to make a point of steering them in the opposite direction.
Today, the strategy backfired, because as they walked along towards the access road, she could see a familiar figure in a fishing hat pedaling towards them on a black bicycle. It always looked painful when Mrs. Griswold rode, because of whatever was wrong with her legs, and right now, she was also weighed down by three bags of groceries and supplies.
Emily's first thought was to bend down to tie her shoe so she could pretend that she hadn't even seen her. But Zack was wagging his tail happily, so she summoned up her nerve and waved.
Mrs. Griswold looked shocked enough that Emily thought she might fall right off the bike, but then she lifted one hand briefly before pedaling harder and continuing past them.
The fact that she had just had a friendly exchange with the meanest person in town was something Emily was probably going to keep to herself.
 
Emily had never been too sure about whether she liked
kayaking, but her mother talked her into going for a short excursion on the sound before sunset, and they had a good time. The water was choppy enough to be interesting, but not so rough that it was scary. They rode in a yellow two-person kayak that was supposed to be really stable—but Emily still almost managed to capsize them when she dropped her paddle and lunged to grab it.
Her father stood on their dock the whole time and took a bunch of pictures. Zack waited next to him, and when they were close enough to the shore, she could hear him whining anxiously and shouted, “It's okay, Zack, we're having fun!”
All of the paddling made her arms tired, and she had no idea how her mother—who was just barely over five feet tall and very thin—did it so effortlessly. She even won races sometimes, and in the den, there
was a small shelf filled with her trophies. Emily had never won a trophy that she thought was worth anything, because in her swim class,
everyone
had been given one. She did get a blue ribbon at an art show once, though—and was pretty proud of it. Her parents wanted her to enter more art contests and shows, but she was never sure if her drawings and paintings were good enough, and wasn't sure she wanted to be all competitive about it, anyway. It was more fun just to
draw
, and not worry about what other people thought of her pictures.
Zack still couldn't climb the stairs, although he had started trying—but would whimper and have to be helped back down before he got very far. So she was still sleeping in the den, to keep him company. Since the floor really
was
pretty hard, her mother had started making up the couch every night, and with a little help, Zack could get up there, too, now.
So far, the only one who ever really slept in the homemade dog bed was—Josephine.
Before Emily went to sleep that night, she read three chapters of
Jane Eyre
. Her friend Florence had told her that it was old-fashioned and boring, but so far, Emily liked it a lot—especially compared to
Little Women
, which had kind of annoyed her, because she thought Beth was actually pretty
whiny
.
There were modern books on their reading list, too, but so far, she had mostly been choosing the classic ones. The next book on her list was
Wuthering Heights
.
After giving Zack a biscuit, and Josephine a couple of little chicken-flavored treats, Emily turned off the light and climbed back under the sheet and blankets on the couch.
Once she fell asleep, she had a really bad dream, and couldn't seem to wake herself up.
She was on an old boat, in the middle of the ocean, and it was either dusk or right before dawn. Either way, it was pretty dark, and the seas were rough. The deck was cluttered with coils of rope, piles of nets, line haulers, winches, and a lot of other gear, so that there was almost no room to move around.
The boat was tossing wildly on the waves, and she could smell the strong odor of fish stored in the hold, and rotting bait. Some of the waves were so high that they were washing right over the side of the boat, and she looked for a place to hide. It was hard to keep her footing, and she kept slipping as she scrambled around.
There was dim golden light inside the pilothouse, and she could see two big shapes moving
around inside. People? It was hard to see clearly. But, if she could get inside there, she would be sheltered from the waves.
She banged on the door, but they didn't seem to hear her—or they didn't
care
that she was outside, being battered by water and wind. The way the boat was pitching back and forth, she was
sure
she was going to fall overboard, or be swept off the next time a big wave—
Emily woke up, gasping with fear, before realizing that it was only another bad dream. That she was
fine
, and not trapped on some unknown fishing boat.
The couch seemed to be moving, and she saw that Zack was very restless, too—whimpering and shivering in his sleep, with his paws twitching violently.
“Zack,” she said, and patted him lightly. “Zack, wake up, boy, it's okay.”
He opened his eyes, looking as confused and frightened as she had felt a moment earlier, and she came to a strong—and startling—realization.
It wasn't a bad dream of
hers
. She had just been having
Zack's
nightmare!
BOOK: Dog Whisperer
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