Refund (20 page)

—We'll replace everything, said my husband. —Even the donut.

T
HE DRIVE HOME WAS NOT FUN
. S
ILENCE EXCEPT FOR OUR OCCASIONAL
outbursts. Why? And why the donut? Don't we feed you enough?

We got home and sent our son to his room. It was a dumb solution, but what else could we do? He ambled there, shoulders drooping. He was so obedient I was somewhat touched. My husband and I stood, startled to find ourselves here at midday with our boy in the house.

—You call in sick at work, I asked my husband.

—No. You.

He did not know that he was being insensitive.

—I want Mom, our son called.

—Me? Why me?

—I just do.

I called into work. I lied, said I had a sore throat. If only. My supervisor sounded envious. A sore throat. Why did I get to stay home?

—You can get sick next, I told her, and then I felt guilty for saying this.

The cat kept following me. He was in a merry mood, as though he sensed an opportunity; intent on displaying his cuteness, jumping
up and twisting in the air as he batted at a moth. I went into our son's room, closed the door, and sat down next to him.

—What happened? I asked him. —What did you want?

—I don't know.

—Did you want to be important?

—What?

He scratched his neck.

—Did you feel ignored? Bullied?

—No.

I could still see the imprint of the infant face in his current one, a perplexing shadow.

—Then why did you do it? I asked.

—I just wanted it. The donut had sprinkles on top.

He smiled, oddly joyful.

—Mom. Guess what. I can do a Heimlich.

He leaned forward and hugged me so hard I was breathless. I wrapped my arms around him and did not want him to let go. He smelled a little rank, like wet sand. It was the smell of future adulthood.

—Honey, I asked. —Why are you so happy?

—I like sitting here with you.

T
HE BIOPSY
. T
HE SAME CALM BLUE COLORS IN THE WAITING ROOM
. It was as though all the doctors had consulted the same color therapist. The magazines were carefully selected to contain no news of any sort. Interior decorating and cooking appeared to be the only subjects in the world. Other people waiting here wore glazed expressions or were chatting happily, pretending they were at a bus stop.

I was escorted to the patient room, also blue. I was sitting there when the breast surgeon walked in.

—Ready? she asked.

—For what?

She prepared her needle. The nurse gently put her hand on my arm.

—How is your iguana? I asked. I wanted her to tell me something wise.

—He did the sweetest thing, she said.

There was the needle, and there was pain; I was sweating.

—Easy, said the breast surgeon. She was drawing out something.

—You're doing great! said the nurse. She puffed out her cheeks. She said, —Take a deep breath.

—What did the iguana do? I asked, between breaths.

—Oh. His name is Blinkie. Because he never does. So. I was putting some lettuce in his cage, and he was chewing it, and he looked up at me and, I think, smiled.

The breast surgeon was suddenly eager to share.

—It was just a reflex, she said. I've studied medicine. I know that. But, you know, there was something, I don't know. Giving. You know?

—I know, I said.

—It just can't help it, she said. —You know?

—Yes, I said.

She applied a bandage to my breast.

—I'll tell you the results tomorrow, she said. —Early afternoon. I'll call you.

It was like a date, the way she said it. But so much less joyous.

—I'll be waiting, I said.

I
CAME HOME WITH MY SECRET BRUISED BREAST AND LET MYSELF
sink into the muck of self-pity. What the hell was going on? Why me? Why not my friend, my boss, my neighbor? Not me. The cat was following me. He coughed a couple times, a tiny, almost satirical sound, and when I held him, he stopped coughing. His heart beat, small, miraculous, against my palm.

The next morning, I was waiting. I was waiting when I poured the children their cereal, I was waiting when I kissed my husband goodbye, I was waiting when I watched the children run from the car to their classrooms, I was waiting when I sat down with my coffee at work, I was waiting when I came home to pick up my lunch, which I had forgotten. I was not present for anything at all.

I walked into the kitchen and saw the cat lying in the corner; from far away, I thought that he was sleeping.

However, the cat was not sleeping. He was dead.

I knew this fact in one second. My heart went cold with the shock at the presence of a dead thing. There was no blood, no vomit, nothing; he was merely curled in the corner, suddenly as lifeless as a teapot or fork. The cat. I thought it was a prank, but it was not a prank; he was, in fact, dead, dead, dead. I saw him and knew everything.

I was weeping before I touched him. He did not feel like himself; there was that horrible, stark hardness. I called the people at PetSmart.

—How old was he? asked the unlucky sales associate who picked up the phone.

—Maybe three months. I got him at the adoption carnival.

—Are you going to want a refund? he asked, tentatively.

—No! I just want to know what happened.

—You never know about the adoption carnival, said the sales associate. —Some of those cats have fatal diseases, you know, and they don't show up until you've paid your eighty bucks.

—How did this happen? I asked.

—You gave him food, right? asked the sales associate.

—Yes!

—Was there any poison in the house?

—No!

I was crying. I heard the sales associate start to panic.

—He coughed a few times, I said.

—We can get you another cat, said the sales associate, quickly. —Uh. We also sell coffins.

I made him listen to me cry a little longer.

—Ma'am, said the associate, now sounding a little irritated, —You know, you can get another cat.

—I want this one, I said. —Don't you understand? This cat.

I
WRAPPED THE CAT IN AN OLD
D
ORA TOWEL THAT THE CHILDREN
now found appalling. Then I moved him to the backyard and sat with him until the children got home. I sat in the yard, beside him, this small lump in the Dora towel, for it somehow was important to sit beside him. I was close enough to the house so that I could hear the phone.

There was that fullness again, now sad and useless.

T
HE CHILDREN CAME HOME FROM SCHOOL, BICKERING
. W
HAT A
luxury their arguments were! She stepped on my foot! He ripped my drawing! The arguments were endless, borne out of the mere boredom of existence. I gave them popsicles and waited for them to ask.

—Where's the kitty? our daughter asked.

—Something bad happened, I said.

They looked at me with their small, perfect faces, always ready for some news. I did not want to say it, to ruin everything.

—The cat, I said. —He's dead.

I watched their faces, curious what they would do. They did not have a facial expression ready to deal with this. Their mouths were open, slack with disbelief. Death always seemed like a joke. They ran around the yard, looking for the cat. They called all of the names that we tried.

—I'm sorry, I said.

I showed them the shroud, from far away.

—That's not him.

—It is. Trust me.

—No it's not.

They wanted, like little scientists, pure and irrefutable proof. Before I could stop them, they ran over, and our daughter lifted the towel a little and jumped back. A shriek. I ran toward them and brought them to the patio, away from the cat, which was now not the cat they had known. I held them as they sat, absorbing this.

They asked, —What happened? over and over, as though this question had the power to reverse time. It was a stalwart, beautiful question that did nothing.

W
E SAT IN THE GLARING SUN; THE AIR PRESSED DOWN ON US LIKE
lead. It was my job to carve a route out of this, though maybe not out, maybe that was not possible, but around. Around this.

—Maybe we could make him a memorial, I suggested.

This cheered them up! A memorial! They loved the idea. Let's do it! We would pay tribute to the dear unnamed cat. We dug a hole in the backyard, dirt flying. They were flushed and chatty and helpful. The children suddenly believed in an Egyptian theory of the afterlife and wanted to throw in anything the cat would find helpful in an alternative existence: the ball he chased; a handful of kibble; an old sweater; a spoonful of tuna; a poem.

—I'm getting him a blanket! So he won't get cold!

—I'm getting him some cat litter!

They rushed back and forth from the yard to the house, collecting items. The yard was green and shadowed and lush. I could almost taste all of this; I wanted to taste the pale, thin light filtering through the leaves and the blue sky above me and the children's golden arms. In the house, far away, the phone rang. The children grabbed flowers
from bushes and arranged them artfully around the cat's grave. They began to pick up handfuls of dirt and throw them into the hole. Their palms were gray and chalky. The children didn't understand any of it and they did, completely. The phone rang again.

The children finished their memorial. They turned to me, hands empty and open. Now they didn't know what to do. They ran to me, their faces aglow with sorrow and triumph at what they had made.

—Mom, they said.

—Yes?

—Now what?

Now what. The phone stopped ringing. It was quiet for a few minutes. I sat on the grass. They did, too. I sat with them, listening to the soft sweetness of our breath. We gazed at the pure, dark trees, and we had but this, this one moment, and the next.

—Listen, I said.

—To what?

—The air.

We listened to the air, to the gorgeous, peculiar sound of nothing. We could hear anything in it; that was our revenge. We could sit there, each moment, and listen.

Inside, the phone began to ring again.

—Mom. Did you hear that? my son asked.

He looked at me, waiting. I did. I was held by the moment; I knew it would lift me to the next one and the next. I let it lift me to my feet. Then I went inside to pick up the phone.

A Chick from My Dream Life

I
loved helping my sister Betsy hide her bad hand. In the morning, she'd be standing on the side of the bathtub, looking at her body in the bathroom mirror. “Make it fashionable,” she'd say. I'd flip through my tube tops, finding one the same color as her swimsuit. Betsy examined her tan lines or put on Sea Coral lipstick because she thought that was right for the beach. She ignored me when I pulled her bad hand—the one with no fingers—toward me and put a tube top over it. She liked tube tops because they hid her hand completely and made her look like she was carrying something bright. “Maybe tape it shut,” I said. “Or paper clip it. And bunch it at your wrist. There.” Betsy would hold the tube top up and examine it. “Cool,” she said. I smiled, the expert.

My parents were the ones who started helping Betsy hide her bad hand. After my mother hemmed the bottom of Betsy's coats, she would sew the extra material to one sleeve. Betsy always had sleeves
that were too long for her. I thought all her coats looked like they were coming alive and taking over her body. My mother took forever with those sleeves. I hated watching her with Betsy. Because of her hand, Betsy possessed my parents in a way that I did not. Sometimes when I played with Betsy, I pulled my coat sleeves down over my hands; but the sight of me with gigantic hands always seemed to annoy my mother. “You don't want to look like a waif,” she said, and she rolled my coat sleeves all the way to the elbow.

Helping Betsy with her bad hand was the only thing I could do right that summer. Betsy was only eleven, a year younger than me, but she had become pretty. The sun went into her skin, and she held it easily, her hair, knees, glowing. Everyone knew her walk at our junior high school, a slow, watery step, her hair lifting and slapping her shoulders. Betsy understood something that I didn't, and as her older sister, it was my job to stop this.

That was the summer when my father moved from his bed to the couch every morning and when my mother tried to figure out what was wrong with him. It was 1973. Sometimes he was the one who waited in the gas lines, sometimes it was my mother. In the car he read books about success. They had words like
Win
and
Conquer
and
Pinnacle
in the titles. He and my mother ran a tutoring business for high school students, and students had maybe gotten smarter, somehow, and now nobody seemed to need much help.