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Secret

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Secret

I look at the same medal a thousand times per day, turning it over in my hand and absorbing every careful notch in the golden material. Winner in athletics. A great waste.

And I start thinking about what was left to me. A round and shiny piece of metal that states the perfect physical form of a healthy person. Ironic. A small prize that many are dying to achieve. I don’t like this saying. I don’t like death.

For what did it serve George being an athlete that the doctors praise if a nanosecond of carelessness and chance ended it all? People keep saying: “Who could imagine such a tragedy would happen?”/“Poor Julia, alone in the world… again”.

But I am not alone anymore. I have a new foster family. Not that it makes much difference. They don’t understand anything. They can make me tea and cookies. They can speak gently, and they can caress my head, but they are miles away from where I am. I can’t be rescued, and all that keeps me company is the damn medal. I don’t despise it, though. I like to remember his vitality when he ran… the search for this little shiny thing that now is all that binds me to him.

Most of my days after I was accepted into a new family, I stayed in my bedroom, but I started looking for other hiding places when those clean, pink curtains began to scream that I’m the intruder in someone’s home.

The neighborhood is too clean and cute, and I need to walk far to distance myself from such an artificial environment. My legs carry me to our old street, and I always regret it, but when I get there, I can’t walk away. I sink down somewhere, on a bench, under a tree in the abandoned park, at the back of the old sawmill where we used to help Bob… and I mourn. Almost always, not very well, but there I can scream, and a hot mug will not be brought to me by soft, trembling hands. My new family doesn’t know what to do. They try, but the truth is: I don’t need anyone to try. This is not what will make me feel better.

I’m sure that neither is roaming around here, but I don’t know where else to go. And at least here I can see it: the thing I hate more than anything because it took him away from me. He exchanged his own life for the life of this miserable little creature.

The dog looks at me with that expression of abandon, and I don’t feel the slightest trace of pity. I know I’m not in a much better situation, although I can say that now I’m well off. But I hope that seeing it suffer will relieve me a little. It’s not what happens.

The sight of the mutt’s skinny ribs doesn’t satisfy me any desire for revenge. I don’t even know if I have a wish for revenge. I don’t want to kill the dog. I know he is not to blame; he’s just stupid for being in the middle of the street when a car passed. His life isn’t more valuable than George’s, but George apparently didn’t think like that when he jumped to save the creature.

That’s why I decide to share my bread with it — the dog — after I pass by the bakery. I sink into the ground, near the outer wall of the unused sawmill, where the dog usually stays. I throw the pieces to the creature, and it eats as if it hadn’t seen any food in days, which is probable. I realize I can’t let the dog die. I owe it to George.

So I go there every day, and, while crying, I feed the dog, who seems more and more hungry. I’m leaving him spoiled, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything.

One day, I decide to change my spot. I move fifty meters away and sit under a tree. The dog quickly finds me. I don’t want his company, but, still, he lies there. He must be full of transmittable diseases, and I try not to get too close to him, but then I remember that George took him to the vet. He just hadn’t adopted it because I didn’t allow it. Besides the costs, I was afraid that he would end up getting to like that dog more than he liked me. It didn’t happen, and I know, deep down, that it never would. George’s heart was big enough to fit more than one living being. Maybe mine it’s too small…

As time goes by, I make an effort to let more people enter the gravelly space inside my chest. I let my new family flatter me a bit, and I try to be friendly with them. When I can’t bear it anymore, I return to my tree, where the dog is already waiting, salivating with anticipation. I give him food, and I sit down. For the first time, he licks my hand. I say that there is nothing for him there, but he keeps licking me, and I realize that his dark eyes look at me with excitement. His eyes may not be sad anymore because all he needs is food. But not me, so I don’t return his enthusiasm. I turn away and cringe against the trunk, and he seems disappointed.

The next days, he looks more lethargic, almost back to his former state of neglect, and I realize that I am insensitive, thinking that he doesn’t need more than a full stomach. I never understood dogs, but I know that this one feels. He misses George too. I know that George took care of this dog without taking it home. He managed to protect both the dog and me, separately, because I didn’t want an animal at home. Maybe a cat, a hamster, a fish. I never wanted a dog, that one.

And I realize that he must have a name. George certainly named it. He was the secret my tutor kept from me. One of many. I decide, then, to call it Secret, because it also became mine. When my new mother asks where I go when I’m out, I don’t tell her the truth. She is paying a psychologist, and if I tell her that I come back to the place where I lived, she’ll think I’m regressing and won’t let me get out again.

Secret and I silently make each other company, and sometimes I tell him about the moments I had spent with George. I talk endlessly about George, more than I speak to the psychologist because while she nods and asks me questions, Secret just listens and looks at me with those eyes that saw George. He recognizes the name; he also misses him. He understands me.

At one point, my hands slide by themselves to stroke the dog’s thick fur, and his response to it makes me cry. He comes around and rests his head on my lap. He doesn’t bother with my tears, he doesn’t make me stop, he accompanies me in my grief. He understands now that after food won’t come any fun, that I’m too devastated. He just sits there with me for as long as I need, and when I leave, he whimpers. I promise I’ll be back, and one day, before going back to my new house, I leave the medal with him. It is too big for him to swallow and too bad to chew, so he just carries it with his teeth to his little private spot where he deposits all the crap he collects.

The next day, he greets me with the medal in his mouth and puts it by my feet. I give it back to him. I tell him it’s a gift, and that I don’t need it anymore. I pass my fingers on his head, and instead of carrying the medal to his nest, I throw it far away. He runs to catch it. I’ve never seen him running. He brings the object back, and I realize George used to play with him like that. I give my first smile in months.

We spend more time playing, and the energy of our connection makes me want to walk. I wander around the woods, and Secret comes along, right behind me. I visit the places where I used to go with George, and Secret tags along, marking territory. We are taking over those places, claiming them as ours. I realize that I got a companion. It is already impossible to make him leave me. When I go home, it is the end of the world for him. I am sorry to leave him alone at night, but I can’t take him with me. Surely my adoptive mother and my new sisters will not like a mutt in the house.

In a sudden relapse, I become enraged and yell at the dog for being in that damn road in the middle of the night. I know he is not to blame. I know that it was not George’s fault either. Because now I know that I would have done the same. I would have tried to get this stupid dog away from the car.

Secret gets offended and feels like he needs to go. He walks away with his tail between his legs. It would be easy to just leave him there and try to move on with my new life, but now there is no way to separate my new life from what I built with this annoying mutt. He is part of my days more than my second foster family. We are both orphans, left by those who loved us. We only have each other.

I let out a grunt and run after him. I catch him from behind. He is dirty, and I’m afraid of fleas, but I carry him until I get tired and order him to follow me. He doesn’t need me to ask again. We cross streets, avenues, and neighborhoods. We stop in front of a pet shop. I ask them to do everything that Secret needs to be decent. It’s a small fortune, but I pay. Now I can afford such things.

When we leave the store, I barely recognize the dog before me, and I admit that he is more than just an animal I saved from the streets. He is my buddy. The one that was with me when nobody else was, that treated me like no one could – and without saying a single word. Those tired eyes see me like no one else besides George did. Secret was persistent. He didn’t give up on me, even when I had.

Now he’s my new best friend. My adoptive family also accepted the two of us as a package, in a desperate attempt to make me happy. With him around, I can bear my new reality, because I have a little piece of George with me. I appreciate more than ever that he didn’t let this dog die. This dog taught me to smile again, and he helped me bond with my new siblings. He met a female, and I met the owner of the female. I love the owner of the female, and the puppies made three children happy. I still miss George terribly, but by saving the dog he loved, I saved myself. And now we share this. A Secret.

 Paula Ottoni, 2012



Copyright © Paula Ottoni, 2019.