The Cat in the Window
I’m leaving for a trip in a week. I’m sitting on the couch, watching my cat. I’m imagining her here, alone, wondering where I am. Crying out in a futile attempt to find me. I’m thinking about everything that could (or maybe even physically couldn't) go wrong. A candle spontaneously combusting. Her turning the stovetop on with an accidental push of her paw and the heat of it burning her or somehow starting a fire. I’m thinking about how scared she'd be, alone, in the corner, retreated from the flames wondering why I left her, why I did this to her, searching frantically for me.
Suddenly I’m sweating, and I can feel my heart in the base of my throat. I consider canceling the trip. None of this could even happen if I simply choose not to leave. Reality snaps back as my cat, the same cat I’m agonizing over, nuzzles her face against my leg and flops onto her side, purring loudly, entirely unbothered. I take deep breaths in, hold them, and let them out through my mouth.
I’m just about in a meditative state when I remember what started this flood of concern — I was leaving for a few hours today to get my hair cut in preparation for the trip. I give my cat an "I’m sorry for thinking about your death" kiss, and go to the fridge. I sift through a bag of apples, picking one up, and inspecting it carefully. I notice a small cut on the skin. I tell myself something's wrong. If I eat this apple, I'll get sick or die. I feel frustrated with myself for allowing that thought. I want to will myself to eat it anyways but the thought makes me feel panicky again. I decide it’s not worth the fight today and put the apple down. I pick up another one that I can't find anything wrong with. I walk out the door. I lock it, testing the handle twice before continuing down the hallway, trying desperately to think of anything else so that I don't go back and check it again.
I arrive at the hair salon and sit awkwardly in the swivel chair. I say an excited "Hello!" and she responds "Hey," in a quiet voice. I feel embarrassed for feeling happy when she doesn’t seem to be. I adjust my demeanor to mirror hers. I explain what I want and sit back, turning over our initial interaction in my mind. Is she not happy to see me? Am I a client she dreads? Should I get something more drastic done so that she can have more fun with it? When I left my tip for her last time, nestled in the tiny envelopes at the front desk, did it get lost? Did it never make its way to her? Does she hate me now?
While I ruminate on this, I hardly notice that she's cutting, and cutting... and cutting. Far shorter than I thought I indicated. I wonder if I didn't say well enough what I meant. She seems excited now, exclaiming, "it looks so good!" so I smile wide, desperate to keep her feeling good, and say, "I love it!" I tip her double and weave my way back through the salon after paying up front to give it to her directly. She looks at me confused as I say another excited "thank you so much!" and disappear out the front door.
I’m in my childhood bedroom. The walls are still yellow and it's bright in here even though it's raining outside. I hear the loud rumbling of an engine making its way down the driveway. I stop what I’m doing and listen closely. Listening for the way the door is opened, then closed, for the tone in which a "Hey Val," comes out. I sense calmness, perhaps even happiness, and I feel the tension in my shoulders relax. I desperately want to run down the stairs and tell my dad all about the trip my school is taking and how badly I want to go but I've been cautioned against it. Encouraged instead to find the right time, the right mood, so as not to upset him or at least be successfully prepared when he is inevitably upset. I decide today isn't the right day and quiet my excitement. I take my report card down instead, nonchalantly telling him that it came in today. He studies it, smiles, tells me good job and congratulations. I allow myself to bask in the rare moment of attention and pride.
It's nighttime, and I’m back in my bed. My now short hair is falling out of the bun I put it in to sleep. My eyes are heavy and I feel myself welcoming sleep. I see my cat sitting on the window sill, head ducked low to look through the small opening of screen rather than the reflective glass. I consider whether or not her little body, her tiny, collapsible collarbones, might be able to fit through that opening, lean too hard and pop the screen open, inevitably falling the three stories to the concrete below. I startle awake, heart racing, and jump out of bed to close it.
—
Inspired by Everyone in This Room Will Someday Be Dead by Emily Austin