Free Rescuing Riley, Saving Myself by Zachary Anderegg Page B

catchment. I pictured myself in the pothole, on my knees, trying to get the dog into the crate but stopping at the sound of something growing louder, like the rumble of a train approaching, and then I’d turn to look up-canyon, where I’d see a wall of raging water about to crash down on me. I’d take a deep breath and grab hold of my rope, but the dog . . .
    Or maybe the worst case scenario was something simpler, quieter. Something more likely. I would climb down into the canyon, and cross to where I left the dog, and kneel down, and put my hand on him, and feel something cold and lifeless. I would shine a light into his eyes, and maybe hold my eyeglasses in front of his nostrils to see if they fogged up, but they wouldn’t, and then I would know I was too late. That I should have acted sooner, should have found a crate and brought it with me when I brought the food and water in, should have . . .
    I have lived my whole life with “should have”s and “could have”s and “would have”s. If I didn’t get the dog out, alive, it might be the biggest disappointment I’d ever feel, and I would have nobody to blame but myself. Michelle and everyone else would assure me that I did everything I could, but I’d know I didn’t. And I obsess over my failures. Lying in bed at the Motel 6, I understood that I was setting myself up for a colossal failure. Some people fail over and over again and seem completely oblivious to it. My mother, for instance.
    Oh great, I thought Another happy thought to fall asleep to .
    I am eight years old, at home, in my room, in bed. It’s 2:30 in the morning when I hear a noise and awaken to realize the lights are on. The noise I hear is my mother cursing. I am a neat child who keeps a spotless room. When I’m finished with my Lincoln Logs, I put them back in the cardboard container they came in. When I’m done with my Matchbox cars, I put them back in the display case that holds them. My closet is next to my bed, and my mother is pulling boxes out of my closet, muttering, “That damn kid never puts things away properly.” Her language is more violent than that. She is removing neatly stacked boxes of my toys, only to put them right back where she found them. I close my eyes and pretend I’m still asleep. After fifteen minutes, she’s done rearranging my toys and leaves the room.
    This happens perhaps five more times in the next few years.
    I am too young to understand what it means when she spends an hour polishing the kitchen sink until there’s not a speck or watermark on it, while there’s dust and grime on the bathroom shelf thick enough to write your name in. I am too young to understand why she’ll scrub the kitchen stove, over and over again, while junk mail and collection notices pile up on the dining room table. Or why she’ll have panic attacks and be unable to move. Or why she would tell me to lie next to her on the floor and then she’d clean my ears with metal tweezers for forty-five minutes, digging so hard it made me cry. Or why she is always so late that I know I have to get a ride from someone else’s parents because if I wait for a ride from my mother, I won’t get to my soccer game until the second half.
    All I know is that I can’t count on her. I can’t talk to her. I don’t want to be seen with her. I am on my own, because something is not right with her.

4
    I awoke before the alarm clock rang, but I usually do when I have something important on my calendar. I dressed, checked the television for the weather report—no rain was expected—and ran down to the lobby for the continental breakfast, which is how the hospitality industry tries to make cereal and toast sound more interesting than it really is. I was thinking of food only as fuel. I wondered if the dog had managed to eat any of the food I’d left him. I needed fuel to power my muscles, though in truth, I knew I could probably get down and up without eating anything, just on adrenaline. The dog