Where I Lost Her by T. Greenwood

Where I Lost Her by T. Greenwood

Author:T. Greenwood [Greenwood, T.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2016-01-11T16:00:00+00:00


“Plum, honey. Go get in the car. I’ll be there in one second,” I say, and she runs to the car in the driveway. I hear the door slam shut.

The dog is growling, pushing against the baby gate.

Lisa yanks the dog back by its collar with her free hand and starts to close the door. “Wait,” I say. “Whose dog is that?”

She stops, just as the door is about to slam shut, but she doesn’t answer me.

“It’s just that I saw someone, the night I saw the girl. He was driving a white truck, and he had a dog. That dog. I remember the ears.”

I can only see a sliver of her now. Somewhere in the depths of the house a baby cries.

“It’s my dog,” she says. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

And then she is gone. The door slammed shut.

I go to my car and open the driver’s side door. Plum is already reading a book she’s pulled from her backpack, eating an apple slice from a plastic ziplock bag.

“That was a mean dog,” she says, without looking up from her book.

I nod. “I know. I’m sorry if you were scared.”

“I wasn’t scared,” she says. “I wonder what happened to its ear. It looks like somebody cut it off with scissors. No wonder it’s mean.”

I nod again.

I am reeling as I back out of the long driveway. A half dozen little faces are pressed against the house’s windows, peering out at me.

Plum shoves her book back into her backpack and sits staring out the window.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods.

I shouldn’t have dragged her along on this little visit. But then again, I hadn’t exactly expected it to go like this either.

“I miss Zu-Zu,” she says softly.

“Oh, sweetie,” I say, partly relieved that her sudden sullenness has nothing to do with whatever it is that just happened at that house. But mostly I am concerned. Her eyes are full of tears.

“I bet you do,” I say. “Maybe when we get back to the camp we can write her a letter. Put together a care package for her?”

“What’s a care package?” she asks, interest piqued.

“It’s like a box filled with things that she loves. Treats. Books or cookies. Something to make her happy if she’s feeling homesick.”

“I got homesick once,” she says, nodding knowingly. “At my friend Maddy’s house. Daddy had to come get me in the middle of the night.”

I nod.

“What if Zu-Zu gets homesick in the middle of the night? Would my daddy go and get her?”

“I’m sure he would,” I say. “But if we send her a care package, maybe it will keep her from getting homesick.”

And thinking about care packages makes me think about art camp. About the smell of the musty cabin, the lumpy mattress. About the girl I was back then. A girl who could find poetry in chickens. A girl who wanted nothing more than to make beautiful things with words. I feel suddenly, strangely homesick for that girl with all her beautiful longing and hope.



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