Words by Ginny L. Yttrup Read Free Book Online

her. My refusal to open up, to explore my pain, has distanced us. The intimacy we enjoyed early in our friendship is gone. One more thing to grieve, I guess. I know I could change things, I know I could find that depth with Ruby again. But it's too hard. Instead, we live, for the most part, at a surface level. We share our love of art and creation. We speak of family and mutual friends. But very rarely do I allow her to dip beneath that surface.
    I wonder, as I often do, why Ruby sticks with me. What does she get out of our friendship? She says we're like family, we're bonded by our shared history. She says that she loves me. Sometimes I think I'm just another project for her, a lump of clay to sculpt and mold into something else, something worthwhile.
    I suppose her reasons matter little. I need her. And I'm grateful for her presence in my life, for her commitment. Perhaps one day, I'll have the chance to repay the favor.
    As I pull into my driveway, I see a beady eye glaring at me through a knothole in the side gate. Guilt tugs at my conscience. What was I thinking, getting a dog? "Hey, Van, sorry to leave you for so long."
    A muffled whine greets me.
    "Oh, you're good, boy. You've already got me figured out. Go ahead, drive the stake of guilt a little deeper."
    I say this as I reach over the gate to undo the latch. As soon as I push the gate open, Van Gogh lunges at me. His speed and agility catch me off guard and as his front paws hit my shoulders, I fall, landing on my backside. Van lands on top of me and smothers me with what I can only interpret as doggy kisses.
    I laugh so hard that tears run down my cheeks and into my ears.
    Van, a lab and husky mix, lets out a low yapping howl. I'd swear he's talking to me in a language all his own.
    I eventually get Van off me and get myself off the ground. Once standing, I look at the dog and realize he probably needs some exercise after being cooped up for a few days. I head to the garage and grab the leash that I bought yesterday. As soon as Van sees it, he jumps toward me again. This time I'm ready for him.
    I recall the information I read in the dog training book that I checked out from the library and say, in a firm tone, "Off!"
    At that, Van sits. He twitches with excitement as I attach the leash to his collar.
    "Good boy, it looks like someone trained you well. Let's go."
    With that, we head off toward the harbor, or at least that's where I assume he's leading me.
    As I trot along behind Van, I wonder why I agreed so quickly to go back and look for the child I saw this morning. Was I just trying to get Ruby off my back? Trying to end our conversation? Or do I need to prove to myself that I'm not crazy? That I'm not seeing things? Now, in broad daylight, with several hours distance from my visits to the cemetery and the forest, the thought that I actually imagined the child, or worse, thought that I might have seen a ghost, seems absolutely ridiculous. I don't even believe in ghosts.
    Then it hits me. Ruby will ask me about this again. She'll ask if I went back. I realize I've opened a door that I intended to keep shut. Maybe that's why she didn't push me further at lunch today. She saw the crack before I did.
    Before I know it, we've reached the beach by the harbor. The sea breeze sends a chill through me and I turn and head back. "C'mon, boy. Let's go."
    When we reach the bungalow, we go back through the side gate and the backyard. I unhook Van from the leash and he follows me inside. I fill the tea kettle with fresh water and set it to boil. While I wait, I grab my journal off the counter and head back to the deck where my morning began. I open the journal to a blank page and sketch the pale face I saw staring at me this morning. The features are vague, except for the dark, doe-like eyes. I realize as I sketch that the eyes that stared at me this morning looked as haunted as I felt.
    If she was real, she was scared.
    This thought strikes me—propels me. Whatever the