The Cat

             Our Girl was sick. She had been sick for as long as she could remember. She had been born early, fragile, but to the delight of her parents, the midwife and the entirety of the household, she lived. The pride that her mother and father felt at watching their tiny daughter struggle to stay alive slowly turned to sadness as they came to realize that she would always be ill, that she would never become strong enough to live a normal life. Her father was a very successful businessman, wealthy and a well-known influence for miles around. Over time he grew bitter and embarrassed about having just one sickly child, and a girl, on top of that! And because he was a decent man he was often overwhelmed by the guilt he felt because of his resentment. After a number of years her mother – a very young and beautiful woman of high class – felt something frighteningly close to hatred for this child who had robbed her of the life she felt that she so clearly should have led.

            And so this girl was very alone. She was attended to by her nurse, as well as by some of the household help. Though they were respectful and tried to be kind, they were no replacement for the parents who so skillfully avoided her room, visiting only out of obligation or necessity. She would have surely been less unhappy had she not been an only child. Since she was very young she’d dreamed about having sisters and brothers, even a cousin or a friend who might visit and play.

            On several occasions her parents had tried to take her out – to a garden party, to have lunch at the hotel in town, or to pay a visit to a relative - but each trip out had provoked an episode of illness, each more serious than the last. It seemed like there was always something wrong. Sometimes she’d have fevers or a stomach so sour she’d go days without keeping any food down. She suffered terrible headaches brought on by sensitivity to light or sound. She was always weak, always tired. Sometimes it seemed to her like the very air was poisoning her.

            She read. She stayed in her room and sat in her chair piled high with blankets that never quite lost that clinging odor of sickness no matter how many times they were washed in scalding water and hung out in the bright, fresh air. In between books, she looked out the window and that is where she is today.

            She sat reading a fantastic book about a blindingly beautiful princess who was sent overboard her royal yacht during a violent storm and washed up barely alive on the pristine shore of a wild island only to be discovered (thank goodness!) by a brave and handsome explorer who happened upon the island during his travels. She’d read this book so many times that she nearly had it memorized. She got lost in it. She was transported, in fact, by any deftly spun tale not having to do with illness, cold climates, or lonely people. Burning sunshine and salt water and coconut milk were just what she needed.

            Though she had never felt the radiant heat of sunburn, the sting of seawater in her eyes, or even seen a real coconut, she had a vivid imagination and she imagined that they were all good things, certainly better than the situation in which she found herself, at present.

            Today she was as far away from all that as it seemed possible. There was a blazing fire crackling in the fireplace and outside the series of French doors that made up one wall of her room was enough snow that if she were to stand in it she would be covered up to her neck. The thought amused her. She imagined her little red wool hat popping out above the great plane of snow that covered the lawn like a cherry sitting atop a dish of custard. She wondered what it would feel like to walk through all that snow, to dig in it and make tunnels and throw snowballs. As she wondered, her face fell and she was again infused with a sort of mute anger that seemed to occupy her all the time when she wasn’t reading.

            “All the things I can’t do, mustn’t do…so many things I won’t see!” she groaned. To make matters worse, through the window she spotted the one other child who lived on this great estate of her father’s – the gardener’s son. Just seeing him blackened her mood, simply because he was outside and she wasn’t. He could run and she couldn’t. He laughed, and she didn’t. She knew that it wasn’t his fault that she was sick. She knew that it was silly to be angry with him, to envy him his strength and freedom. It occurred to her, suddenly, the she had no proof that he knew that she existed. Wasn’t that a strange idea? she wondered, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes as the thought grew sharper, If someone who I can see and know to be real isn’t aware that I am alive, much less observing him, does this mean that I’m not real? The very thought set her head to spinning and wore her out, however intriguing the question might be.

Underneath the weariness, though, was a deeper emotion – sadness. It didn’t seem so far-fetched to her that she might not be real but instead imaginary, like some of her best-loved characters in her favorite books. The thought was not unpleasant: What if she could become part of that cherished group of pretty princesses and glimmering fairies? In a way, they were her only and best friends.

The gardener’s son now shouted so loudly that she heard him through the great, glass doors along her far wall. She started, embarrassed to realize that her chin had slid slowly into her collarbone, her eyes gently closing, as she pondered the uncertainty of her existence. Then, she felt herself flush, as her embarrassment at nodding off before it was even dusk embarrassed her further. What point to being embarrassed having done something that no one has seen? she thought darkly. 

The boy and his father shared a small cottage that had been built for them several years before, when the two came to live on the estate. She found it strange that her father would be so generous as to build the little house just for the gardener and his son. One day, not long after their arrival, she had overheard the help gossiping about the two of them, and if their idle chatter was to be believed, the story of the boy and his father was just as interesting as some of her books.

The day that she overheard the maids talking had been a day like any other. She was laying in her bed, dozing but unable to sleep because of a dull ache in her bones and eyes that burned even when they were closed. The maids were cleaning the sitting room just off of her own room and one of them had left the door between the two rooms open. They probably believed her to be asleep and made no effort to keep their voices down, nor to censor themselves. They probably thought her too young to understand, even if they did suspect her to be listening. 

Melinda, the younger of the two, asked the other, “Did you hear for who that clever little house is being built, Lizzie?”

Lizzie, the fat one, replied, “Oh, the new gardener and his son, is it?”

“That’d be true,” Melinda answered, “and don’t you wish you’d had a nice cottage built for you when you started up here, emptying their fire grates and washing their dainties?”

Melinda was a girl who did not hide her jealous nature well, though she recognized that she might profit from making an effort to that end every so often. She sounded bitter as she explained that the boy’s mother had recently died after a long sickness (which of course was a pity, “the poor little fellow!” she clucked) and that before she’d died, she had instructed her husband to come here, to Our Girl’s estate, where she was sure he’d be helped.

Our Girl was quite awake by this point in the conversation, wondering who this woman was, how she knew her father, and why she had sent her widower and son this way.

Melinda continued, “Well, seems our fair mistress ain’t the only pretty face that ever turned Mr. Carrington’s head.”

“What are you getting at?” asked Lizzie, though it was unclear to Our Girl whether she was asking out of irony or whether she truly misunderstood the implication. She didn’t care – she was waiting for what came next.

“Oh, no…” Melinda went on, “I heard tell that the dear departed Mama of that little boy was once quite a special lady to our Mr. Carrington. Knew each other well, seems to be…” She trailed off, chuckling. “Can you imagine the shame, poor gardener fellow showing up at this grand house, begging for work from his wife’s old beau? Ha!”

“Ah, you’ve got an idle, evil mind, Melinda,” Lizzie said. “And what if the mother was Mr. Carrington’s sister, or cousin? That would explain him caring after the man and his boy.”

Melinda hooted, though it was not a joyful sound. “And you think it was for jealousy of her dead sister-in-law that the missus threw her antique crystal into the dressing room mirror when she learned of the boy and his Dad coming on? Don’t be a dolt! Angry about finding out that her daughter’s got a half-brother, more like!”

This electrified Our Girl. This eavesdropped conversation (though it couldn’t very well be eavesdropping when she was stuck in her bed, the sitting room door left wide open and those two yapping away at top volume, now could it?) had possessed her for days. She played and replayed the exchange over in her head, embellishing, adding details and new characters until she wasn’t sure that she quite correctly remembered the original story.

Still, she was fascinated by the idea: Who was this boy’s mother? How did she know her father? And how could he possibly be her brother? She remembered very well, however, the night that a great crash had resounded through the house, followed by a high-pitched, incomprehensible rant – her mother, screaming. It had woken her up but at first she thought that she'd dreamt it. But the hysterics continued even after she was very awake and they confused and scared her. She was so little when it happened, not more than six years old, and even after hearing the maids talk about it she preferred to think - and even halfway believed - that it had been a dream. Her memory was muddled - she'd been so small at the time that she couldn't be sure now exactly what was true. 

And now, years later, this boy who might be her brother (and over time, Our Girl had come to understand how that might be so) was far across the lawn, playing near the cottage that he had lived in with his father since his mother died and his father came to the house asking for work. He was so bundled up against the cold that he was having trouble walking, his limbs stiff and his movements lumbering. It didn’t seem to bother him, though, and he ran through the snow throwing great handfuls of it into the air and then falling backwards into the drifts, knocked flat by the enthusiasm of his play.

            She could have cried, she was so jealous, but anger dried her tears before they fell and left her eyes hot and stinging. She turned her gaze away from the gardener’s son and his simple, joyful play and returned to her book, relieved to find that she was nearing one of her preferred passages.

After spending several days being nursed back to health the princess realizes that her gratitude towards this intrepid sailor is more profound than she first thought and that she has indeed fallen in love with him. She professes her love for him and is astounded when he reveals to her that he, too, is of noble blood and that he has been sailing the world looking for just the perfect lady to be his princess bride.

            She closed her eyes and smiled, but her face fell when she heard footsteps in the corridor outside her room. She watched the handle of the door lower and the door opened quietly, her afternoon nurse’s head coming into view. She caught the nurse’s eye and the nurse smiled at her.

            “Ah, miss! You’re awake,” she said, “and feeling well, I hope?”

            The girl lowered her gaze and said nothing. There was a brief, awkward silence and then the nurse said, “Well. I’ve just come down to tell you that Dr. McDougal will be arriving shortly and he intends to give you a thorough going-over. We’ve all been worried about you these last weeks, you know.”

            The girl nodded her head as she closed her eyes. A wave of fatigue and nausea made her head heavy and it wobbled slightly as she sat there. This must be what it’s like to be very, very old, she thought, and the idea of herself as a tiny, frail old woman caught in the body of a girl almost made her smile.

            When she opened her eyes again it was because the doctor was lifting her gently from her chair.

            “Well, hello, missus!” he smiled at her.

            She didn’t dislike Dr. McDougal; he had warm hands and kind eyes and he didn’t talk to her as though she were stupid, which was more than she could say for her mother. It was simply that he was almost nearly always the bearer of bad news. No fault of his own, of course, but how pleased can one be to meet again with someone who is duty-bound to give ever-worsening status updates? She tried for a genuine smile but produced an expression closer to neutrality.

            “Ah, my beauty,” he smiled, placing her on the bed. “Let’s have a listen to those lungs, give you a good once-over, do you say?”

            Our Girl looked at him blandly. There really was no point in protesting, after all.

            “All right, then!” he persisted, the forced cheer becoming more annoying. “We’ll begin with a look in those eyes.”

            He looked into her eyes, felt her throat, peered into her mouth, and took her pulse at the wrist.

            He didn’t say much, set her back against the pillows, and then said, “Darling girl, I need to listen to your heart and your breathing. I’m going to lift up your nightshirt – is that all right?”

            She nodded, and he braced his arm across her upper chest and tilted her forward, lifting her beautiful satin bed jacket up beyond her shoulder blades. She heard him gasp softly and then he cleared his throat.

            “Okay, then. Breathe in for three then out for three, once for each time I move the stethoscope. Good?” he instructed.

            She complied. After several repetitions – in for three, out for three – he settled her back down, gently.

            “Ahem,” he looked nervous. “Dear child, have you fallen recently, say, in the last few weeks?”

            Our Girl’s interest was piqued by the question, though she didn’t know whether to be curious, frightened, or both.

            “No, doctor,” she answered, “not as I remember.”

            “Well,” the doctor ventured, “I’m concerned, love, because you have some impressive bruising along your ribcage. No one has…”

            The doctor swallowed, audibly.

            “No one has taken a hand to you, have they now?” he said softly.

            Our Girl was taken aback and asked, “Hit me, have they? No, no. No.”

            The doctor looked sideways, eyes moving under his small, round glasses.

            “Child? You have my confidence. I must know how you became bruised this way,” he whispered.

            Our Girl couldn’t think of it. It was true that no one in her short life had raised a hand to her. She hadn’t fallen.

            She faltered, “People lift me in and out of my chair, or the bed. That’s it, really. Nothing else…harder.”

            He looked at her, perhaps convinced, and then busied himself in feeling the temperature of her fingers, her feet, and testing the muscle tone in her legs and arms.

            It was at that moment when she heard her mother’s high, lilting voice. She was talking quickly, and in response came her father’s slower baritone. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the doctor, like she had, heard that they were on their way. He stood suddenly, then looked down at her.

            “Sweet child,” he started to say, before there were two sharp raps at the door and then it opened, her mother not waiting for anyone inside the room to grant her entrance.
     “Ducky!” her mother exclaimed.

Our Girl’s mother was most certainly not quite yet thirty, and her fine features and smooth skin made her appear more youthful, still. Her voice was too high and she was dressed for the outdoors, in fur, a hat, and heavy gloves. She looked uncomfortable in the warmth of her daughter’s room.

“Ducky,” she began again, gathering her force, “Your father and I," (This, with a deferential nod to her father.) "have only just discovered that we were unintentionally left off of the guest list for Lord and Lady Rushmere’s Winter Ball! (And this, with a strained, beaming smile.) Well, it just absolutely made no sense whatsoever that we wouldn’t have been included and so when I was sent a note this morning excusing the terrible error, why, you can imagine that I made extraordinary efforts to respond immediately and prepare our affairs for the voyage. You must understand that it’s of paramount importance that your father, and I as well, of course, both be present at such an estimable social function….”

It was at this point that the Lady noticed that her daughter, Our Girl, was not listening with rapt attention but rather staring at the wall next to her bed, listlessly.

Her father remained silent, contemplating the world through the darkening windows.

Her mother regrouped.

“Oh, kitten,” she said, breathing somewhat heavily, “Here you are just tired out and on I go, boring you with the silly details of our agenda. Suffice it to say that we’ll be off through the weekend and perhaps even into next week.” Her brow creased. “The trip is quite long.”

Here, the doctor found himself.

“Madam,” he broke in, “If you do have several minutes? I’d like to share with you the results of my examination.”

Visibly frustrated, her mother glanced upwards towards her father, who betrayed nothing. She twisted the gloved fingertips of one hand into the grooved V's between the fingers of the other hand.

“Yes, yes. Of course,” she said, already moving to the side room. “Why don’t we step into the library and let the darling catch some rest?”

The doctor gave Our Girl one last smile before turning and following her mother. Her father was last to leave her room but he made no concerted attempt to close the door. Because of it, she heard the entire conversation. Well, up until the point when she interrupted.

The doctor began: “Madam, I am most concerned with the girl’s condition. I might even caution you against leaving your estate this weekend.”

At this, Our Girl heard her mother emit a noisy and contemptuous sigh. And then, “Oh, yes! Haven’t we heard this before! Since that child was born I’ve been on pins and needles waiting for some dreadful outcome that we only just manage to avoid!”

And here, her father spoke. Or shouted.

“Olivia!” His voice was angry. “Perhaps you were too generous with your afternoon libation, my dear. Perhaps we can let the doctor finish?” His voice softened toward the end, but whether it was because of a self-consciousness being in view of the doctor or because he softened toward her mother, Our Girl would never know.

The doctor began again: “Madam, as you know, your daughter was not born a robust child and recently, her health has begun deteriorating at a rate that alarms even me.”

Our Girl felt as if she might start choking and realized only after several seconds that it was because she had forgotten to breathe. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and focused her attention on the forbidden conversation in the next room.

“It’s her liver,” he stated. “As sure as I’m born, it’s her liver. She’s got eyes more yellow than blue, terrible bruising around the torso…the help tells me that she hardly eats, they can’t tempt her with anything, and that she spends more hours asleep than awake.”

There was silence, and then, “I can’t do anything for her except try to make her comfortable. I’m so sorry.”

More silence, and then her father’s rich voice. “How long, then, doc?”

“Could be days, could be weeks,” the doctor replied. “I’d not easily make an accurate prediction.”

Our Girl could hear her own breathing and feel her own heart in the pause that followed. She wished – how she wished! – that she could see the faces on the three – her patient doctor, her shamed father, and her querulous, lovely mother.

There was harsh murmuring, and then her mother: “I’ll not have my life truncated by the ever-present threat of nothing, or something that might even be a relief!”

With that, she was back through the door. By the time she pushed it open, Our Girl had pushed herself up, with no small effort, to a seated position. Her mother stopped abruptly when she saw her sitting there, her cheeks aflame with two red spots. Her mother’s beautifully shaped mouth opened and closed several times, no sound escaping her lips.

Our Girl laughed, though it was more of a sneer, out loud.

“You thought me asleep, did you? Don’t worry yourself, mother. Nothing I’ve heard tonight has been much of a surprise to me.” She winced as a pain bolted through her right side. “Don’t worry, I say. Don’t worry…I’m even more eager than you are for the disappointing finale of this failed experiment!” At this last, Our Girl flung her arms out to her sides and fell back into the bedclothes, gasping for breath, lightheaded and nauseous.

What could her mother say? How could she turn it, back peddle, twist it round to make it okay? Knowing at least that this much was impossible, the Lady turned and fled the room. Her father stood with one hand on the foot of her bed, looking in the direction of his fleeing wife. Our Girl was touched to see that when he turned his head back to her, one tear glistened on his cheek, just above his beard.

“Good bye, love,” was all he said.

Beyond fatigue, she leaned to the side and vomited onto the lush carpet below.

When she stirred, it wasn't because the room stank nor even, remarkably, because she was uncomfortable. She awoke because there was a sound she hadn't heard before except in her dreams.

In her dreams, this sound that she heard was of a captive man, a lovely man, chained under decks of a magnificent sailing ship. He was chained about the wrists to a metal post and the sound that she heard was much like the clatter of metal upon metal. This man was her savior, voyaging intrepidly towards her coast despite the shackles that held him bound.

But the air was different - it wasn't saline, nor humid, as it should have been in the South Pacific. The air was glacial and bracing and the combination of frigid air and the clack of metal against metal roused her. Our Girl was here, at home. She had no idea of what time it was; she remembered being angry, her mother and father leaving, and with a frisson of disgust, she remembered being sick.

She didn't really want to look down. She remembered that it was just over this bedside that she had heaved, just hours before. But look down she did, and happily, her eyes were met with the same fine wool rug that she had seen daily for most of her life. Someone had cleaned up after her.

She went to feeling guilty and embarrassed about this, for a moment, until she heard the sound of her dreams but awake, and in greater detail. It was metal upon metal!

Now fully awake, she narrowed her eyes and took in the confines of her room. There was the end of her bed, draped in silks so that a draft might not disturb her. There was the heavy wooden door across from her, walls of bookcases, and rounding the corner, the beautiful stone hearth that still glowed with a vibrant orange. She looked into the large, gilt mirror that hung above the mantle and caught her dim, gaunt outline staring back at her.

She swallowed, and continued her examination of her quarters. Everything was still. Nothing was moving, until she heard it again, a rhythmic 'tunk tunk' that drew her eyes to the bank of windows on the far side of the room. One of the French doors was moving against its latch, she was certain.

She should have been terrified, she would have been terrified, had this not been the most invigorating, exciting thing to happen to her since she could remember. She fixed her eyes, now clear and acute, on the angled iron latch of one of the doors.

The doors were normally protected by a heavy brocade curtain which kept in the heat and out the cold, but this afternoon they must have been forgotten after the heated exchange between her parents and the doctor. Her eyes adjusting to the dim, Our Girl could make out the tops of the heavy hedges that lined her wall of windows. The moon was most nearly full, and shone brightly off the surface of the snow.

She heard again the dull clank of metal on metal and then a thunk. The latch gave and the window opened, at first just a hesitation. A gesture.

Our Girl held her breath. She should have been terrified and yet everything in her told her that this something was not something to be feared, but welcomed.

She stared avidly into the gloom at the base of the doors, scarcely breathing. And yet her chest seized, frozen, when she saw first the head - tentative - and then the sinuous body of a cat coming into the warm room.

It was the gardener's cat. She had often seen the boy playing with the cat, holding it in his arms or setting a bowl out on the stoop. She could only imagine that this cat was his pet. He was allowed to feed it leftovers. He was allowed to sleep with it!

She felt the icy air that came through the opening that the cat had created but rather than chill her, the cold smelled like life. This cold air smelled like snow and wood smoke and damp earth. Our Girl breathed in deeply, eyes closed. And for his part, the cat continued slowly into the room. He seemed alert, but relaxed, she decided. She lay there against her peach satin pillows and she made for herself a declaration: I will touch this cat.

Our Girl began to feel slightly anxious, just having made this vow to herself. She watched as the cat moved slowly, poking his nose towards each piece of furniture or decoration he encountered. He stopped, stood still, and in one movement, his head turned to consider her. Her breath caught in her throat and she marveled at the iridescence and beauty of his eyes caught, as they were, in this angle of mingled moon and firelight.

Her resolve thickened. She began to concoct a plan. Food. Where was her bedside table? With silent effort, she slowly thrust herself forward and then turned her head to look around behind her. Ah, yes! Her bedside table had been moved slightly behind her, just out of her reach, when the doctor arrived, she remembered. The table had been moved so that the doctor could sit beside her and examine her. And what was this? She squinted in the broad moonlight...salmon on toast.

She could hardly believe her luck. Someone had brought for her salmon on toast, a meal that she hadn't eaten because she was sleeping, and then there was Dr. McDougal, and then the ruckus, and then sleep, again. The help must have truly been distracted that afternoon, to forget not only closing the heavy draperies over the windows but also a plate of food that Our Girl had not eaten.

She thought back, quickly, to a story she had read about a pirate who had a cat for a pet. The pirate had fed the cat fresh fish. Could this be true? she wondered, because she was not so silly as to believe that everything that she read in her books was true. Do cats like fish?

Breathing shallowly, she leaned back on her pillows, both eyes on the cat. She extended her arm behind her as far back as she could, sure that it would touch the tray, but it met only empty air. She took her eyes from the cat for just a moment and was dismayed to see that the salmon toast was further away than she had thought. In a split moment, she decided to risk it, gripped the lower bed rail, grunting, and stretched her fingers behind her, far as they could reach, for the toast. Her fingers met the edge of the table and held. She breathed in sharply, lifting up on the edge of the table. The cat continued exploring the room, seemingly unperturbed by Our Girl's desperate quest for salmon toast.

She gripped the edge of the table so tightly that her fingertips went cold and white. She was twisted back in an unnatural expression, her breath ragged, both eyes on the cat. Ever so slowly, she pulled the table towards her. It shuddered against the rug and she gasped, fear surging in her veins, icy at the thought of failing before she had begun. She closed her eyes briefly and began again, pulling the table gently, bringing the salmon toast within her reach.

So carefully, she set the two elevated legs of the table soundlessly and felt for the toasts, still focusing on the cat, at this point walking closely around a high-backed chair, rubbing his spine against the leg. Her fingers met the moist fish and it felt like promise. She dug her fingertips into the salmon and scooped up as much as she could hold and then pressing her other hand into the bed rail, pulled back into her bed.

She was amazed at how this exercise had exerted her. It could have been the excitement, the late hour, the sheer demands on her small body - not accustomed to such intensity - but she felt nearly spent, wasted by this simple movement. Despair loomed dark in front of her and she shook her head, shook it soundly, determined.

"Tch tch tch..." it was a sound she made that was almost instinctive. In any case, it was a sound that got the cat's attention, and so rapidly that she forgot herself. She took in a sharp breath and then, staring brazenly into the cat's eyes and cradling her handful of salmon, "tch tch tch." More calmly, then, with what might have been a smile, leaning forward, "tch tch tch!" Seeing that she held the cat's gaze and that, if anything, it didn't seem frightened, she hazarded a purr. It came out thick and rusty, but picked up speed and melody as she pinched a good bit of salmon in her fingertips and leaned down, holding the treat out towards the cat, an offering.

For just a moment, it stiffened and so did Our Girl, so frightened that this might end. She forced herself to smile, to breathe, to 'tch tch tch' as naturally as if she did it every day. Amazingly, the cat began to walk towards her, intrigued.
She held her breath, tingling. She had never so much as touched a cat and yet here was the very animal, almost wild, slinking towards her bed in the quiet as if it were just meant to be. She was elated when the cat came close enough that she could see his flanks rising and falling with every breath he took. She could see that he was dirty, dust clinging to his fur and even bits of dead leaf, in patches. Her own thin chest rose and fell with unaccustomed speed, the air hot as it left her body, her mouth dry.

The cat hadn't moved in several minutes. She extended her hand, baited with salmon, as far as she could and so quietly, uttered a tiny 'tsk tsk'. She felt her head swell huge and her body, weightless, as the cat silently stepped to her hand and poked his nose into her fingers.

Her brain felt like music and with this victory, the stakes grew higher. I must have this cat in my bed, she thought. She was almost delirious with excitement; she'd not noticed that the air had become much colder nor that the fire had died down considerably in the last moments. She let the cat taste the salmon in her hand, wondering, So, they do enjoy eating fish! and planning her next move. Careful to keep a good bit of fish in her hand, she pulled her hand up and rested it just on the edge of the bed, still visible to the cat. Nervous, eyes closed, she rubbed her fingers together and whispered, 'tch tch tch!'

It seemed an eternity, so slow that time turned to sludge around her, and then the cat jumped up. Our Girl was ecstatic. This was new. This was another world. This was a life so simple, but a life that had been denied her. A cat, warm and heavy, in the bedclothes next to her.

The cat kept poking his nose into her hand, searching for the chunks of salmon, removing every trace of her lunch with his rough tongue. She thought that she might laugh out loud, not only from the joy of it but from the absurdity. She didn't feel at all like herself. She felt giddy.

She worried somewhat, as the salmon disappeared. I mustn't disturb him, she thought. She was terrified that the cat might understand that she had nothing to offer, anymore. The cat began to turn in circles, rubbing lightly against her legs. So carefully, Our Girl reached down and stroked the cat along its nobbled spine. When she drew her hand back, she saw that it was dusty. She rubbed her fingers against her palm and felt the fine grit. She smiled to herself. So carefully, she began to wriggle back against her pillows, slide her body further underneath her quilts.

The cat began to pick at the bedspread with his claws, rhythmically picking up the quilt and pressing it back down. Our Girl heard a funny noise, like a small rumbling. She realized that it was the cat purring. She marveled at the sound, warm and comforting, and dared to place a hand against the cat's body where she felt his tiny rumble buzzing against her palm.

She was delighted, nearly bursting with pleasure. It was with astonishment that she watched the cat settle into the curve between her belly and her hipbone. His tail whipped quietly once or twice and she noticed a dead leaf caught in the fur. She caught it and crushed it in her hand, bringing it to her nose. She rubbed the withered veins between her fingers and breathed in the smell of the outdoors. She saw a small clump of earth dried into the fur on his paw. Gently, she stroked his leg, breaking the chunk of dirt into her fingers. Possessed, she placed a bit of dirt into her mouth and ground it between her teeth. She sniffed at her fingers and then rubbed the remaining soil against her cheek.

There, with the warm weight of the cat pressed against her, she took in such a deep, whole breath that she shuddered, her body full and strong as she released the breath and with it, so much sadness. Her head grew heavy and yet she almost giggled because she felt like she was floating. She was so warm and so calm - damp leaves in her palm and a smudge of soil on her cheek. Her eyelids dipped and she watched through half-lids as the cat's eyes did the same, falling contentedly as he purred, holding her there for just a moment longer, to something real and true. And there she stayed - salmon stuck on her fingertips, hair askew, and her body curled around the cat - in perfect happiness.