At this point, I’m wishing I could crawl under the table and disappear.
She still doesn’t give me a chance to talk. “I’m not in this for the money. I train and match dogs with recipients because Charlie gave me an independence and security that I thought I would have to sacrifice when I first started having seizures. I want others to have a chance at that same security.”
I know she’s telling the truth. I can see it in her eyes. They are like perfect open windows to her soul. Her passion is contagious, and I wish I hadn’t made that stupid comment about the price of the dogs. I knew she wasn’t making money off of them. I think I’m self-sabotaging because I’m scared of how impressed I am by her.
I drag in a deep breath. “I think I should just wear a sign around my neck that says I’m sorry any time you’re around. I honestly didn’t mean anything I said a minute ago. I’m just…looking for reasons to not get a dog for my daughter.”
“Can I ask why you’re here then? What made you text me and schedule another meeting?”
There are two answers to that question. I’ll only give her one of them.
“Ever since Samantha was diagnosed with epilepsy, six months ago, she’s changed. She used to be such a vibrant little girl, and now she’s closed off. She doesn’t smile as much, and she’s acting out in ways that seem too grown-up for a ten year old.”
Miss Jones smiles. “Like breaking into your email and impersonating you to get a meeting with a service dog company?”
I smile back and nod. “Like that. And yesterday, when I turned you down for the meeting, Sam wouldn’t speak to me all the way home and then slammed the door on me after we got there.” I can’t believe I’m telling her all of this. And the way she never looks away from me is making me want to squirm. “Anyway…this has been the only thing she’s shown any excitement or interest in since learning of her condition, so I thought maybe I should at least hear you out.”
Miss Jones holds my gaze. Her eyes narrow slightly, and I wonder what she’s seeing. Her head tilts, and some of her hair spills over her shoulder. It’s curled in long, loose waves today, and before I can tell my brain to stop it, I wonder if she’s curled it for me.
“You’re not sleeping, are you?” she asks.
Her question is so out of left field that my head kicks back. How does she know that? Why is she asking? I’m curious where she’s going with this, so I answer honestly. “No. I wake up every hour to go check on her. I wanted her to sleep in my room with me, but she refused. She thinks my room is too boyish.”
I recall how I went to the home improvement store and almost bought three cans of bubble-gum-colored paint for my room before I chickened out.
“Does she spend most of her time in her room by herself?” she asks, and I nod. “And I’m guessing you’ve probably stopped letting her go to her friends’ houses?”
How could she possibly know that? Suddenly, I’m in an interrogation room, and she’s just grabbed the light and shined it in my face. It feels blinding.
“But I still let her invite them over,” I say, and there’s definitely a defensive edge to my tone.
“But you’re a single dad, so I’m guessing that the other moms haven’t been too excited about that prospect.”
Okay, who is this woman? Does she have a crystal ball shoved in her purse somewhere?
I lean forward. “Do you think that’s why none of her friends have come over?” I don’t like how insecure my voice sounds right now.
Miss Jones smiles, but I don’t feel patronized by it. More like, I feel as if she sees me and understands something. Something that I don’t even know yet. She leans forward again, and I resist the urge to lean closer too.
Nope. I’m gluing my butt to this seat.
“You’re not doing anything wrong, and everything about your daughter’s actions is normal.” Her words help me breathe for the first time in six months. “Samantha has just had life as she knew it ripped out from under her. Her freedom is gone. Her friendships are gone. The small amount of independence she had probably gained from growing older is gone.”
Her mom is gone.
“But it doesn’t have to be that way,” she continues. “I am a perfect example. Charlie has given me the ability to live alone with confidence that if I have a seizure, I’m going to be taken care of. And I know that thought sounds daunting to you right now, and you’d probably like to shrink your daughter and put her in your pocket so you can always watch over her, but believe me, you won’t be doing her any favors. She needs freedom. She’s not broken, and she can live a full, independent life just like her peers with the help of a dog just like Charlie. Help give your daughter her independence back, and I guarantee you will see your old Samantha again.”
Shoot. Just like that, Miss Jones moves to Evie in my mind.
Chapter Six
EVIE
I’ve only seen Jacob and Samantha twice since the day, three weeks ago, that he filled out an application to purchase one of our service dogs. And both times were to introduce Samantha to one of our dogs and see if they were a good fit.
The first dog, Max, I could tell straight away was not right for Sam. He’s an amazing dog and very gentle, but he was more interested in watching me than Sam. She was excited and engaging with Max, but he looked as if he had a show recording on his DVR that he couldn’t wait to get home to.
I think Sam and Jacob both started to get a little nervous at that point that a service dog wouldn’t work out for her like they had hoped. But I assured them it was normal to not match with a dog right away and that choosing the right service dog is a lot like choosing your soulmate. You don’t always find Mr. Forever on the first date.
Or in my case, the second, third, or eighteenth. But I’m getting off topic.
The next option was Daisy. She’s basically Charlie’s twin, just a little smaller. When I brought her to visit Sam, it was an instant connection. I let Daisy off the leash, and she went straight to Sam and laid her head in her lap. It was that magical moment when I saw both human and animal sigh with relief that they had found each other.
It’s hard for people who don’t need the hope that a service dog can provide for them to understand the bond that forms between a dog and a person. But as someone who knows firsthand what that sigh of relief feels like, it brings tears to my eyes every time.
Today is the official start of what we call “training camp.” It’s a week-long program where I help Sam and Daisy bond and show Sam exactly how to work with and utilize her dog.
I’ve instructed at least twenty of these training camps over the past three years, but never have I been as nervous as I am now, standing outside of Jacob Broaden’s front door.
He and I have not interacted at all outside of updates concerning Sam’s application and scheduling days to meet the dogs. No texts. No phone calls. And he’s been all business when we correspond through email.
I thought that he had been flirting with me that night he texted (and a few times over our coffee meeting), but I guess I was wrong about whatever I thought I was picking up on. My antenna must be busted. And now, I’m staring down the black front door of his gorgeous house, and I can see just how wrong I was.