Chapter Nine The Guardian of My Soul #2
“We’re in a perfect place,” I assure him.
“And if you want to go through that box on the top shelf in my closet, I’ll bring it down, and we can look through everything.
We can talk about it, because I don’t want to hide anything from you.
I want you to know that—for me—the past few months have felt like a new life, in the best way.
I feel good about the future. A future with you. ”
The snowblower across the street shuts down, and the silence feels profound. I can almost hear the drumming of my heart.
“I can’t imagine not having you in my life,” Nate says with a glint of wonder in his eyes.
“I can’t imagine it either.” I’m astonished by a sense of awakening that leaves me reeling. Words come fast. They spill past my lips with open sincerity. “I love you.”
He lets out a small breath, then cups the back of my head in his hand and pulls me close for a kiss.
Within seconds, we’re undressing each other, and I’m struggling to keep quiet because my parents are in the next room.
I quickly switch off the lamp. Nate rolls on top of me, and the bed creaks noisily.
We freeze and smile at each other, laugh quietly, and decide we don’t care.
In the slow, steady flicker of the Christmas bulbs on my windowsill, behind the thin fabric of my pink curtains, I let myself go. At long last, I allow myself to fall willingly into pleasure with another man.
A few days later, after a whopping turkey dinner with all the fixings at Aunt Marie’s house—with my grandparents and cousins at two tables stretched end to end—Nate and I usher Scooter and Dolly into the back seat of my SUV and drive home to our apartment.
It’s dark when we pull into the underground garage. We park in our assigned spot, not far from the elevators, which is a good thing because we have boxes of gifts and scores of leftover food to unload.
“I feel like I’m going to burst,” I say with a groan as I open the passenger-side door and roll myself out of the seat. “I shouldn’t have had that second helping of sticky toffee pudding.”
“There was enough food on that table to sink a cargo ship,” Nate replies.
I shut the car door. “It’s like that every year, and Gramma always brings that chocolate mint fudge you loved. It’s her own special tradition, so you can look forward to that next year.”
I reference next Christmas before I realize that I’m voicing an assumption that we’ll still be together a year from now. But since Christmas Eve in my room, everything feels so much deeper and more real.
I open the door to the back seat, and Dolly jumps to her feet, tail wagging, eager to hop out, but Scooter is snoring and doesn’t get up.
“Come on, ya big lug,” I urge him with a gentle shove on the rump. “It’s time for bed.”
He lifts his head, looks at me for a second, and then goes back to sleep.
“Come on, Scooter. Chop-chop. You can’t sleep down here all night.”
He rolls to his side and lets out an enormous fart.
“Oh!” Nate calls out with a laugh. “Someone had too much sticky toffee pudding!”
“He didn’t have any of that, did he?” I ask.
Nate comes around the back of the vehicle. “I saw Uncle George offering it to him under the table. Scooter didn’t say no.”
I click my tongue as I reach into the front seat for the bag of leftovers. “Scooter, you know better than that. Uncle George can’t be trusted.” I hand the bag to Nate. “Last year he gave him a bowl of whipped cream drizzled in Grand Marnier.”
“He didn’t,” Nate replies. “How’d you like that, Scooter?”
Scooter doesn’t respond.
“He loved it,” I say, “but he had the runs for two days.”
“Not surprised.” Nate moves closer. “Let’s go. Dolly’s waiting at the elevator.”
Scooter still doesn’t move, and suddenly, the sticky-toffee-pudding story doesn’t seem so funny anymore.
“Are you okay, buddy?” I ask, leaning in to rub his back. “Are you sick?”
He still doesn’t respond, and I feel a tight squeeze in my chest that escalates to panic.
Suddenly, I’m thrust back to the hospital where I’ve just learned that Jacob is dead.
The sun is shooting toward the earth like a fiery cannonball.
We’re all done for. It’s a familiar sensation that has required years of therapy to overcome.
But thank goodness, Scooter lifts his head. He rises on all fours, stretches, and lumbers toward me.
“You’re okay,” I say with relief, backing up to give him some room to jump out of the car. He walks nonchalantly toward the elevator, and I turn to Nate. “That scared me.”
“Me too, a little,” he replies. “But he’s fine.”
Nate and I gather everything we can and lock the vehicle. As we walk with our arms full of boxes and bags, I watch Scooter lie down in front of the elevator doors, and I’m not entirely confident that he’s fine.
Sometimes I worry that I’m always going to feel like I’m standing on the edge of a high precipice, looking down with terror, forever teetering. Expecting to lose everyone I love.
I’ve often believed that the only other living being on this planet who truly understands my PTSD is Scooter.
Of course, my therapist and parents “understand” it.
They offer intelligent advice, sympathy, and concern when warranted.
But it’s different with Scooter because he and I share it.
Whenever I feel the oncoming trauma of a memory—as if I’m experiencing the fall from Cape Split all over again, in real time—I’ve been told that I appear to go into a trance.
Scooter does too. He stares at me intensely. But within seconds, his tail starts to wag. Then he whimpers anxiously and nuzzles the inside of my wrist with his nose until I, too, am released from the memory.
He’s never been trained to be a service dog, but that’s what he is to me. A quick snuggle with him, or the gentle lick of his tongue on my cheek, always calms me. He’s the guardian of my soul, the protector of my heart and my physical body, and I don’t know what I’d do without him.
“He just passed gas again,” Nate tells me as I emerge from the bathroom, still brushing my teeth.
Scooter is stretched out on his side, dead center on our king-size bed. Nate draws the sheet up over his nose to mask the smell while he gives Scooter a gentle kick from under the covers. “Dude. What did you eat? A dead racoon?”
Scooter lifts his head with indifference, then flakes out again.
“He can’t help it,” I mutter through a frothy mouthful of toothpaste before I turn around and spit into the sink.
A moment later, I shut off the bathroom light, kick off my slippers, and climb into bed. I sit forward and rub Scooter’s chest. “You’ll feel better in the morning. And for the record, I feel bloated too. It’s a good thing Christmas dinner comes only once a year.”
When I look at Nate, he’s still hiding his nose and mouth behind the sheet, and Dolly has hopped off the bed to sleep in the closet.
I can’t help but laugh. “Come on, you guys. It’s not that bad.”
“We’ll agree to disagree.”
I switch off the light, lie down, roll to my side, and face Nate, with Scooter occupying the space between us.
Then I realize that Nate and Dolly were right. The stench truly is that bad, so I tug the duvet up over my head. “I think this is stretching the outer limits of unconditional love.”
Nate laughs and pulls me close, but for some strange reason, I feel that familiar fear again—that this moment is too precious and, one of these days, I’m going to lose it all.
Part of me wants to jump out of bed and flee, but I know there’s no escape from this.
It’s my PTSD, so I focus on my breathing.
I inhale slowly through my nose, count to four, and exhale slowly through my mouth.
Then I tell myself that everything’s fine.
Nate loves me, Scooter is at my side, and, with the exception of the toxic cloud from the sticky toffee pudding he ate, life is good.
I just have to keep breathing and stay grounded.