Finding Alice (16 page)

I was so shook up that I stuck close to those two for the rest of the night. I would’ve been content to stay with them all night until Amelia started harping at me to get away from them, telling me I couldn’t trust them. Of course the other voices were yammering at me too, and before morning came, I was so freaked that I just got up and quietly sneaked away. Sometimes my head is a really screwed-up radio station that’s tuned into everything all at once. Voices, voices, voices—all jabbering at the same time. Sometimes the ones without names almost make sense, but mostly they are cruel and twisted, and violent too. Then there are voices that I think are my grandma’s and maybe Pastor John’s and a child’s voice that makes me very sad. Amelia’s is the strongest, but even she can be nasty when she’s in a foul mood.

I still see the two Tweedles here and there, and sometimes we talk or get something to eat together, but I am never completely sure if I can trust them or not. And every time I decide to trust them, Amelia assures me that they are truly evil, and somehow she makes me believe her. My life is completely impossible.

Mostly I remember being alone and afraid. I remember hearing
the voices and running from the various people who are always after me. That’s what my life seems to be about these days. I just don’t know how much longer I can take all this. Although some of the voices, including Amelia’s, tell me they have the solution.
Destruction
.

But I try not to consider that route. I don’t know where it would lead me, ultimately anyway. In the meantime I am trapped in the never-ending nightmare of my pursuers—this is my reality. I know this is how it will continue, and I am so very, very tired, so afraid that I will never be able to rest.

Come to me, and you will find rest
.

chapter
NINETEEN

The Cheshire Cat

A
t last I am ready to give up, call it quits, and give in to the demands of the voices, including Amelia’s; she is more persistent every day. I accept the fact that I am worthless now—my life is meaningless; I am the refuse of the world. Amelia delights in reminding me that this will never change.

I feel lost and beaten and remember a day long ago. I think I was about ten. I made a kite out of sticks and newspaper. I used poster paint to create an orange-and-yellow sun with a happy face on the front and waited impatiently for the paint to dry. Then I tied it to a ball of string and took it outside. A gusty March wind promised a perfect maiden flight for my beautiful kite. I couldn’t wait to see my sun smiling down from the cloudy sky. I didn’t really know much about kites and hadn’t known to attach a tail. Somehow I managed to launch my kite into the air, but it whipped and zipped wildly about, completely out of control, and quickly snagged on an oak tree, where it instantly broke into a tangled mess. My poor sunny kite became a hopeless wreck as it flapped and fluttered in the branches, beaten by the relentless wind. I am there with
it now, I think, battered and abandoned to the elements. It is time to give in.

The early morning fog creeps along the river, and I am creeping toward the bridge. The tall one. The one that keeps calling my name, entreating me to come and admire its heights before I plunge to its depths.

I don’t know what day it is, but the city is dressed for Christmas, full of good cheer. Down here by the river it is damp, cold, foggy, and dreary, and I blend in quite well. I am looking for the bridge, but I think I am lost. I can see it, but I cannot see how to get on it. I look at the slate-colored water and wonder if I should just jump from the sidewalk, roll down the steep hill and into the water. Then I could swim to the bridge before jumping off of it and back into the water. This almost makes me smile, but instead I sit down and hold my head between my hands and moan. I need relief.

I feel something warm rubbing against my leg, and this makes me jump. When I look down, I see that it’s just a small cat. Not a kitten exactly, but a scrawny tiger-striped cat that isn’t fully grown yet. I reach down and stroke its back. I feel all the bones in its spine, and at first I am repulsed, but then I feel sorry for the cat. He looks cold, like me, and I pick him up and move him to my lap. I do this slowly and carefully, afraid that he will become frightened and scratch me. I’ve heard that cat scratches can be dangerous. He seems grateful for the attention and curls up in my coat and begins to purr.

I continue petting him, and his purring grows louder. I am amazed by this phenomenon. He’s like a machine. The more I pet him, the louder he purrs. I wonder if everyone at the river park can
hear him. But when I look around, there is no one within sight, so I think perhaps it doesn’t matter much.

I spend the day with my cat and call him Cheshire Cat, Cheshire for short, although he does not really say much. I believe that God has sent him to me to save me from the bridge, at least for today. As usual, Amelia tells me that I’m wrong, that he’s just a stray and probably full of dreadful feline diseases, but for a change I don’t believe her. Cheshire tells me different. He tells me that he has come from afar to be my friend. I believe he will grow up into a human-size cat, and the two of us will stroll along the riverbanks together. He will protect me from my enemies, and we will be friends forever.

For now though he is small enough to fit in my gigantic coat pockets. I move the contents from the pocket on the right into my left pocket, and this becomes his pouch. I am the kangaroo mama keeping my baby safe in my pocket pouch. I will do this until he grows big enough to take care of me. I’m hoping that won’t be too long now.

Cheshire and I stay together for a while. Is it only a day? Or a week? I cannot be sure. But when I see the Tweedles, I show them my treasure.

Tweedle Dweeb just frowns. “Your cat looks pretty sick, Alice.”

I look down at Cheshire and shake my head. “No, he’s just sleepy.”

Tweedle Dumb surprises us by speaking. “He looks half-dead to me.”

“He is not half-dead,” I insist. “Just sleepy.” Now, however, I am starting to wonder. He didn’t want to drink any water this morning, and that did seem a bit odd.

“You should take him to the Cat Lady,” says Tweedle Dweeb as if I should know what that means.

“Huh?”

“This lady who takes in stray cats and knows how to make them well. The Cat Lady. Haven’t you ever heard of her?”

I shake my head no and look down at Cheshire. I know in my heart that he’s not well. I just don’t want to believe it. A gigantic lump, the size of a pumpkin, grows in my throat because I am afraid he might die.

“Where is the Cat Lady?” I demand suddenly. “I must go to her at once.”

So the Tweedles lead me to the northeast side of town, where houses are small and run-down. First we ride the MAX, which is free, but then we walk for miles and miles, or so it seems. I am worried that my worn-out red slippers will disintegrate before we reach this place.

It is nearly dusk when we stop in front of a little pink house. It is shaped like a box and has multicolored Christmas lights strung about the windows and a plastic holly wreath hanging on the door.

“This is it,” says Tweedle Dweeb with pride. “I told you I could find it.”

I stand there and look at the house, wondering what I should do. “Go on up,” urges Dweeb. “Knock on the door.”

“But—”

“Go on. She’s nice. She can help your cat.”

I reach down into my right pocket and touch Cheshire’s fur. He is so quiet that I am afraid he might already be dead. I wonder what the Cat Lady would do if I handed her a dead cat.

“Go on, Alice!”
Tweedle Dweeb looks mad now. Like he’s worked so hard to get me here, and I’m just standing on the sidewalk acting like a complete idiot. Then the two Tweedles begin to walk away, and I am torn. Do I stay with them or take a chance on saving Cheshire’s life with a total stranger. I am seriously afraid that they’re just playing a mean trick on me. Maybe someone truly evil lives in this house. Maybe someone who eats cats, or people. Or maybe someone who will take me away, lock me up, steal my thoughts, or reprogram my brain. How can I know for sure?

Just then I notice a fat black cat walking up to the tiny porch. He meows for a bit, and after a while the door opens, and an old woman steps out and says, “Why, Oliver, where on earth have you been all day?” And the fat cat strolls into the house as if he owns the joint.

The woman stays on the tiny porch peering out toward me. “Do you need something?” she calls out.

“I, uh, I have a cat.”

She nods. “That’s nice, dear.”

“He’s very sick.”

Now she frowns as she steps out onto the narrow walkway that leads from the sidewalk to her house. “What’s wrong with your cat?”

I take a step toward her, glancing over my shoulder to see if the Tweedles are still nearby in case I need them, but they have vanished into the foggy evening air. Were they even here at all?

The woman is next to me now. She has on a lavender cardigan and red polyester pants, and she smells like onions. I open my coat pocket so she can peer in.

With both hands she reaches into my pocket and removes my lifeless cat. I am certain he is dead now. She sighs deeply and heads
back toward her house, then pauses on the porch. “Are you coming, dear?”

I hear Amelia whispering at me, telling me to stay away from this woman, to go back to the bridge and finish what I’d started. But Cheshire seems to be speaking to me too, saying, “Don’t leave me alone here.”

So I follow the Cat Lady into her box house and watch as she gently lays Cheshire on her plastic-topped kitchen table. She puts on the glasses that are hanging from a rhinestone chain around her neck and stoops over to peer more closely at my cat. Then, looking very much like a doctor, she examines him. I watch in wonder as she carefully checks him out. Then without saying anything, she leaves and goes into another room.

I wonder if this means I’ve been dismissed. Should I take poor Cheshire and go now? Perhaps he is too far gone and there is nothing she can do. Or maybe she is calling the authorities and accusing me of cat abuse. Worse yet, she may actually be a spy, and this might be a big setup. I am ready to grab my cat and run for my life, but even as I consider this, she returns with a small box and a faded blue towel. She gently lays Cheshire in this box, wrapping him in the towel. I am afraid this is meant to be his coffin, and I begin to cry.

“Is he dead?”

She pats my arm and says, “No, dear, but it’s close.” She putters over to the refrigerator, and I hear her open the door and then run water in the sink. She hums as she does this, but I keep my eyes on Cheshire. I don’t want him to die.

“Have you prayed for him?” she asks as she returns with what looks like a miniature baby bottle filled with something whitish gray.

I shake my head no.

“Well, if you really love him, you should pray for him. God loves all creatures great and small, you know. He cares about the tiny sparrow when it falls from its nest. He cares about sick kitties, too.”

I bow my head and close my eyes and honestly try to pray. But I am not sure what kind of words to use. I am afraid that God is still really mad at me for not honoring the golden key. What if I pray for Cheshire, and God decides to smite me by killing my cat—just to show me that I’m evil and that he is still the boss? I sigh deeply, and feeling like a failure, I open my eyes. The Cat Lady is attempting to interest Cheshire in the contents of the bottle, but he is not responding.

“Dear Father in heaven,” she says in a soft voice, “we ask you to help our little feline friend here tonight. We know he’s not well, and we want you to make him better. We know that you love all your creatures. We know that you are a great healer. Please reach down your loving hands and touch this poor cat. Help him to eat the food he needs to nourish his little body. Help him get better quickly. Amen.”

I nod and echo her “amen.” And I mean it. I mean it with all my heart.

“He appears to be starving,” says the Cat Lady, eyeing me carefully as she holds the bottle in one hand. “You don’t look too good either.”

I press my lips together and look down at my feet, my shabby red slippers. Suddenly I wonder what I am doing here. Once again it occurs to me to run. But I don’t.

“When did you last eat?”

I shrug.

She makes a
tsk tsk
sound between her teeth, then hands me the tiny bottle. It is warm, and the warmth feels comforting in my hand.

“I have an idea.” She picks up Cheshire now, still wrapped in the blue towel. “Why don’t you sit down and hold your cat like a baby—cradle him, you know?” She leads me to an overstuffed chair that’s covered in an old quilt. A large golden cat is curled comfortably in the seat.

“Time for you to move, Juliet,” she says as she gently pushes the cat away. I notice that a number of cats are curled up contentedly here and there. Also a lively pair of black-and-white kittens are wrestling together on the large braided rug that covers the linoleum floor.

“Here.” She takes my arm and guides me into the chair. “See if you can get him to eat something.”

I sit down, and she arranges Cheshire in my lap, and I try to feed him from the little bottle. She returns to the kitchen, and I am able to relax better on my own. I stroke his furry head with one finger as I hold the bottle temptingly near his tiny mouth. “Come on, Cheshire,” I say quietly. “Come on and eat something. You’ll feel better if you do.”

Finally, after what seems like a long time, he begins to lick the milky liquid from the rubber tip, just barely moving his little pink tongue. Soon it seems he likes the taste, and he begins to drink more. It takes a while, but he eventually empties the whole bottle. I want to jump up and down and shout for joy, but I control myself. I simply pet him and praise him for this accomplishment.

“Oh, good for you,” says the Cat Lady when she returns to the living room. “I thought he might drink it if it came from you. Cats are like that, you know. They attach themselves to you just like a baby to its mama.”

She reaches down and gently removes Cheshire from my lap, and I wonder what she plans to do with him now. I sense that she is kind, that she really loves cats. Why else would her house contain so many?