Page 93 of Dying to Meet You

“This one seems too small to hide her.”

“Search around,” I suggest. “Ask the guy to help you. I’ll get the bass.”

“Okay.”

When I try to pick up the bass, though, several things slip out and onto the floor. The instrument case is unzipped. So I squat and tuck a checkbook and a savings account book back inside.

As their covers slide together, they reveal a photograph—a standard 4” x 6” print.

The photo is a selfie of me and Natalie, and it’s recent. From only last winter. We’re drinking Duckfat milkshakes and wearing gloves, like the diehard Mainers we are.

I can’t decide if finding it here seems sweet or creepy. Maybe a little of both.

I push everything back into the case and zip it shut. Then I carry the bass and the cat carrier out of the room, and go looking for my daughter. She’s made her way into a grungy kitchen with Rick. They’re peering into a corner cabinet—the kind with a hinged, two-panel door.

“Come here, kitty. Please?” Natalie extends a hand.

Oh lord. We are going to be here until I’m fifty.

Natalie drops her voice. “I’ll be your best friend. I’ll buy you some stinky cat food.” She clicks her tongue.

Miraculously, a black-and-white furry face appears. The cat takes a tentative sniff of Natalie’s fingers. And then she bumps her face against Natalie’s wrist.

“Come on. I’ll find you some food, I swear.”

The cat steps daintily down from the cabinet and winds like a serpent around Natalie’s ankles.

“Slowly,” I whisper. “Try to pick her up.” I unzip the carrier.

Natalie closes her arms around the cat. “I’ll just hold her. She’ll be less afraid.”

I say a silent prayer for the interior of my car.

A minute later, after loading the car with a few cat things and thanking Rick for his halfhearted help, we’re ready to leave. I put the bass in back and gesture to the cat carrier. “She has to go in here. We can’t drive around with a cat on the loose.”

Reluctantly, Natalie scoops her inside. There’s a plaintive meow as she quickly zips it shut. “It’s just for a little bit,” she tells the cat. “We have to buy you some supplies.”

“Natalie. I told you...”

“We can’t rehome his cat, Mom! He’ll get out after the hearing, anyway. The new lawyer will help.”

I let out a low moan of despair. I don’t want a cat. I don’t want my ex’s cat. “What will Lickie think?”

“Lickie is a good girl,” Natalie says. “And also a wimp. The cat’ll swat her once, and that’s all it will take to train Lickie.”

If only Natalie were as easy. I start the car and point it toward Petco.

34

Sunday

Rowan

Sunday morning I wake up in a daze. When I open my bedroom door, I almost trip over Lickie, who’s lying in my path.

It’s unusual behavior, and it puts me on high alert as I tiptoe down the hall. But five seconds later, I understand. Zoe the cat is sitting at the bottom of the staircase, glaring up at us with contemptuous green eyes.

Lickie whines.