Eulogy for Cat

I woke up this morning at five. That's the time my cat usually comes in to request breakfast, only this morning I woke up because he didn't come. I am currently sitting on the couch with my laptop - this is nothing unusual. I wake up and write every day. Usually, however, I have company - my cat sits right beside me all day long. That was the way things used to be. That all changed yesterday.

I grew up in a Navy family. We moved a lot, and I never had a pet. Sure, we had a goldfish for a few days. Hamsters for a brief time. I always wanted a dog, but I was always denied. Which, in hindsight, makes a lot of sense. Sort of.

When I was twenty years old, I lived in a punk house in the Mission district of San Francisco. It was a great old building that had been left to decay. We lived with eight people in a three room flat with a picture of Prince in a g-string on the front door. I was going out with a girl at the time and she moved in with me. We were in love. We were also battling some serious demons, though we didn't realize it at the time.

My girlfriend grew up with cats. She suggested we get a kitten. I don't remember being all that excited about it, but she was excited, and I certainly didn't hate the idea. I craved some kind of "settled" existence, and I was not in the right frame of mind to realize that being an addict and living with an addict made the decision to adopt a cat kind of bizarre.

I looked through the paper until I saw an ad for free kittens. I called a nice woman and we were shaking hands less than an hour later. The woman was friendly. Older (I have no idea now whether that means she was forty or sixty). There was a pile of kittens in her garden. Half were all white. Half were black and white. None were moving.

I walked over toward the pile and, immediately, one of the little black and white kittens stood up like he had been called to duty, walked over to me and put his paws as high up on my leg as he could. Something changed in my heart that day. I didn't realize it at the time. At the time, I thought, "I guess we'll take this one."

Kittens are one of my favorite things. If you can find anything unlikeable about a kitten, there is something seriously wrong with you. We went back to the house and everyone was stoked on the new kitten. We played the rest of the day. When it was time to go to bed, I lay down, and the kitten immediately plopped down onto my chest and went to sleep. I woke up the next morning to a tiny rough tongue licking my face. We decided to name him Catamaphone (which will make sense to Simpsons fans), but we called him Cat for short.

I think it is fair to say that, from the beginning, Cat was my cat. He liked my girlfriend and they were cute together. He played with my friends. But he slept on my chest. He followed me around like a puppy. I was fascinated and in love in a whole new way. We took him to the SPCA to get fixed. They had a deal where they would give you five bucks if you got your cat fixed. I donated the five dollars although I really could have used it. They were looking after my cat, after all.

Cat didn't leave my room much. I loved my roommates, and I didn't mind having a different band sleeping in the living room all the time, but I didn't trust them to be as vigilant as I was. Cat was hell on wheels, and he broke for the door every time it opened. He was fast as hell. I think if I had let him out, he would have come right back, but when you live at 24th and Mission, you have some reservations about leaving a tiny, cute animal to defend itself. There are some tough cats in the Mission.

Time passed, the house changed, and my girlfriend and I moved to a tiny apartment with Cat. We were happy for a while, and then things started to go downhill. Honestly, I don't remember whose fault it was. Which probably means we shared in the petty stupidity that led to our breakup. Regardless, we broke up. In one of the worst ways I can imagine.

A few days before my last semester of college, my girlfriend didn't come home until like six in the morning - several days running. We didn't speak of it. I was mad, but I didn't want to know what she'd been doing. I left for the first day of my last semester with the same words I used every time I left the house: "I love you, Cat. Be good and hold down the fort. I'll be home soon." When I came home all the locks on the apartment had been changed.

This would seem normal if I were an angry, abusive guy. Or a thief. I'm not. And I never have been. I get angry, but not at people I love. And if I do, it's more of a sadness. I remember trying every key I had, even though I knew - it was incomprehensible to me. I was pissed. My cat was inside the apartment.

I called my girlfriend and told her that the door was going to be opened whether she came home and opened it or the cops did. She came and opened the door. I said I was leaving. She said she'd pack my stuff up. I said one thing and I remember it like it was thirty seconds ago. I said: "If you think I'm not taking Cat with me right now, you're out of your mind." She nodded: "I know." I remember being glad that she didn't fight for Cat. It made it much easier to hate her as opposed to missing her. I called my friend Josh who went to Stanford and lived in East Palo Alto - the murder capital of the US at the time. I went and stayed with him. I rented an apartment in the same complex. I couldn't afford the City on my own, and I, literally, did not have the strength to even think about apartment hunting. So, I moved to EPA.

I stopped doing hard drugs because Cat didn't like it when I was spun, but my drinking hobby became a drinking obsession. I drank Albertson's brand bourbon. $7 a fifth. I probably went through four or five on an average week. I worked, I went to school, I drank as much as I could, and I read everything John D. MacDonald ever wrote. I was grasping at straws, and I'm not sure if I would have made it had it not been for Cat. I loved bourbon. I love John D. MacDonald. But they didn't need me. Cat needed me, and the responsibility of taking care of him saved me. As did the fact that he was there for me. Always.

A lot of animals do amazing things, and everyone thinks their pet is special, but Cat was something extra special. When I was sad, he knew it and would not leave my side. When I was sick, he slept with me. He didn't even demand food. He put me first. That was a new experience for me. Later, when I was married, my wife would tell me that every day about ten minutes before I came home, Cat would go and stand vigil by the door. Waiting for me.

Allow me to break the narrative for a moment. My cat played fetch. I would sit for hours and throw sparkle balls and he'd either catch them in mid-air or bat them around a little before trotting over with the ball in his mouth and dropping it at my feet. He came when I called. He was my best friend. I say this because I know there are folks who don't think you can have a meaningful relationship with a pet. And there are a lot of folks who don't like cats because they're not dogs. I didn't expect to adopt a cat who played fetch, obeyed voice commands, or was completely devoted to me. Cats were supposed to be aloof ... like I'd always tried to be.

Back to the story.

Things were hard, as I said. But, no matter what, I had to be able to feed Cat. I had to clean his litter box. I had something to take care of. He needed me. I didn't think I was worthy of being cared for. Cat disagreed. And there was no doubt in my mind that he deserved the best of everything. He ate better than me. I built a track around the wall of my 'bunker' ... er, studio ... and he'd run and jump and amaze me. The only thing that made me happy was Cat, bourbon, and John D. MacDonald. You can't snuggle with booze or dead writers, though.

I'd always been a pretty high-functioning drunk, so I didn't miss work, I finished school and even made the Dean's List. And I met a girl. And I reconnected with my best friend, Pat. We soon moved in together (me and Pat), and I was happy. We didn't have much, but we had guitars and a four track and I had a sweet girlfriend. And, most importantly, I had Cat. And he had a bigger apartment to run around in.

This girlfriend lasted about as long as the one who'd locked me out. Around two years. The major difference was that we parted as friends, crying, hugging, knowing we loved each other but were not right for each other. I think it hurt worse that way.

Pat and I moved to a new apartment, close to my first home in the Mission. We both worked. When we weren't working we read, played music, wrote a lot of songs about heartache, and spilled a lot of whiskey on our four track. The best songs I've ever written were written during this time. And Cat sat quietly and listened to us play.

Cat was the only true constant in my life. When I sat down, he sat on my lap. When I was in the shower, he waited outside the door. When I went to sleep, he curled up beside me. Once I was asleep, he'd take his night time prowls around the apartment, but he was always back when I woke up in the morning. Sometimes he didn't even ask for food.

And then I met Karen, the woman I would end up marrying. The first time she came to my house, we sat down and Cat ran over and climbed up on me, licking my chin for all he was worth. Karen thought it was cute. She was a cat person. Had she not been, we would not be married. But she was. She was wonderful with cats. Cat absolutely adored her. She gave him face massages and knew special tricks I didn't know. We were happy.

After a decent amount of time, we moved in together. Later, I would pop the question and we would marry. We're still married. We have two daughters. Until yesterday, we also had Cat.

When my wife was pregnant with our first daughter, I wondered how Cat would react. He was a thirteen pound Tom cat. I was about to have a baby that would weigh less and come un-equipped with claws and sharp teeth. I wasn't worried. Cat had never used his claws or his sharp teeth on anyone. Ok, I was a little worried. I needn't have been.

About a month before my daughter came, Cat began to lick and 'scent mark' all the things we had gotten for the baby. Crib, bouncy chair, toys. It was curious. Was he marking his territory? Was he helping us prepare? Other people worried. I didn't. Much.

When we brought my baby girl home, Cat kept a respectful distance without any encouragement. He was not angry. He was not jealous. He seemed happy for us. And he did not come within five feet of our daughter. Until she weighed thirteen pounds. That sounds crazy, but it's true. As soon as they were the same size, they became fast friends. My daughter slept in our bed, and, as she began to recognize the world around her, she began to really appreciate the cat she would later refer to as her 'big brother' - I would wager you'd have a hard time finding a better big brother.

Every morning, my daughter would wake up and grab Cat's tail. Then, she would rub it vigorously on her nose. She followed Cat around the apartment. She hugged him and dragged him to the ground. She tried to ride him like a horse. For a week or so, I worried that Cat was caught in a living hell. Then I noticed that he never left. He'd simply move away and wait to be tackled again. And he never once made an aggressive move toward the tiny child pulling on his ears. He was clearly enjoying himself. And my daughter was thrilled.

Years began to pass quickly. And each year took a little bit of Cat with it. Soon, he was eleven pounds. His demeanor did not change, but he became easier to pick up. He still chased sparkle balls. He still came running when he heard his name (I think he thought his name was psst psst, but he answered to Cat, too). When my second daughter was born, he did the same thing. Wouldn't come near her until they were the same size. Then, the exact same thing happened. Right down to the morning nose tickles with Cat's tail. Cat had another tiny friend. A more aggressive friend, but it was by nature - both my girls loved Cat.

As they tend to do, the years were catching up with Cat. Soon, he stopped chasing sparkle balls except for rare occasions. He slept more. His days consisted of napping beside me when I wrote and playing with the girls. He started sleeping more at night.

I was always good about taking Cat to the vet. He got a respiratory infection after being boarded that almost killed him (and me). I gave him antibiotics. He got better. Then the vet trips became more and more depressing. Bad teeth. He had some removed. His kidneys were failing. The last trip to the vet (before yesterday) was about a year and a half ago. They said he had a year left. He weighed seven pounds.

For the last several months, Cat could not eat solid food. We mixed cat food with baby food and when that was too much, we gave him straight baby food. We debated taking him to the vet, but I thought the trip would kill him.

Then, it was no longer a choice.

Two nights ago, I was reading before bed. My wife came in and told me to come see Cat. My throat closed and my heart sank. That's a cliche, but I felt it sink. I had been dreading this moment. I could read it on my wife's face.

Cat was unable to walk without stumbling. My wife had made an appointment with the vet for later in the week (the writing was on the wall, even if I didn't want to read it), but it was clear he was not going to make that appointment. My wife called the vet as soon as they opened. I found Cat hiding under the shelves in our "junk room," which he had claimed as his sanctuary. He was barely responsive. There was blood crusted on his nose and mouth. I have never felt such acute physical pain from an emotional response - and I don't know that I've ever been so scared.

When we got to the vet, Cat weighed in at six pounds. His bones poked out. His blood pressure was low. The vet, very kindly, told us that he could admit Cat to the hospital and buy him a few more weeks or months, but he would also support euthanizing him. As strange as it may sound, being "given permission" to euthanize Cat was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. When I can do it, I will go thank that kind vet.

I'm a pretty sensitive guy, and I'm not afraid of crying. I don't, however, like to cry in front of people I don't know. That didn't matter. My wife was trying not to cry. I didn't even try. I stood, covered in cat piss, bawling so hard I thought I might hyperventilate while the doctor asked me if I'd like Cat to be cremated or buried. Or if I'd like to take him with me. I tried to speak. I signed the paper.

Karen and my youngest went to the waiting room. My oldest was at school. I went back to a room that looked like a miniaturized version of every grandmother's living room. Soon, the doctor came in and put a pink towel on my lap. Then, he lay Cat on the towel. Cat had an IV in his shaved leg, and he had just been given the anesthetic. The doctor told me I had a few minutes and then Cat would sleep and he would be back.

What do you say? Especially when you're gasping and crying so hard you'd probably vomit if you had the strength. I thanked Cat for being the most loyal friend I've ever had. I thanked him for taking care of me and for letting me take care of him. I thanked him for loving my wife and my girls and being so sweet to them. His eyes were getting heavy and I said, "Psst psst." He looked up and I said: "I love you, Cat. I'll hold down the fort for you. Come back soon ... somehow ... if you can. And now just sleep. Just go to sleep and dream." I kissed the top of his head. You will never convince me that he didn't look grateful. His gratitude made it hurt even more. But it will help someday.

The vet came back in and made two injections into the IV. Thirty seconds later, Cat was gone. His body was there, but there was a very real sense that he was gone. The body was merely an empty vessel now. I stood up, tried to comport myself, gave up quickly and went out to the waiting room. I was sobbing. I later asked my wife how big of a wreck I'd looked like. She said I looked like someone who had just lost their best friend. Sounds about right. The nurses murmured their condolences. I shook the doctor's hand. Then, I shook, my whole body, for a long time.

I have always feared Cat's death, partly because he played such a huge role in my life, but partly because I'm not sure if I'd have a life if it wasn't for Cat. As I said, during periods of my life where I couldn't muster the courage to take care of myself (and didn't very well), I refused to shirk my obligations to Cat. I had to get out of bed. I had to make money to buy cat food. I had to be there for Cat because I knew he would do the same for me. And I promised him many times that, no matter how hard it would be, when it was time to step up and tell a man it was OK with me if he killed my cat, that I would do it. For him. And I did.

Yesterday, I did very little other than alternately cry and stare off into space. I hugged my family a lot. I winced when I saw Cat's bed. His food bowl. I'd realize that I'd never be sitting in a room and have Cat come in huffy that I'd snuck off and left him in bed. He was never mad. He just relocated his nap.

One of the realizations I had yesterday makes me feel strange. Over the years I have fought many battles against drugs and alcohol. And I quit them all. But I could never fully quit drinking. Three days ago, I drank too much at a party and had a come to Jesus talk with my wife. I have never been a mean or an angry drunk. And recently, I haven't even been drinking all that much, but the party made me realize (again) that when I take a sip of alcohol, I am taking a serious gamble. I might drink two beers and wake up feeling a little groggy. I might wake up with no memory of the night before. So, enough was enough. I wrote up a contract. If I ever drink again, my wife gets to sell my pocketknife collection (it's quite a collection) and my motorcycle. And I can never have a motorcycle ever again.

So, it occurred to me yesterday that, possibly, the Cat that kept me alive when I didn't care ... the Cat that spent his whole life loving me and putting me above everyone and everything else (including himself) ... maybe that Cat was finally satisfied that I'd be okay. And maybe he was smart enough to know that I would never break the vow if he checked out. He had been sick for a long time. Maybe it's a coincidence. I don't know. I don't think so, and I don't really care what anyone else thinks. I think Cat spent seventeen years looking out for me and, when he was confident that I would persevere on my own, he allowed himself to end the pain. He reached out to me and my wife and you could just tell that he needed it to be over.

What will I do now? Well, you can call it stupid or silly or whatever you want, but I am going to try and live the rest of my life by the example Cat set. He was never angry, never petty, never greedy. He was kind, loving, generous, and forgiving (not some of the time, ALL the time).

I don't believe in cat heaven. I don't believe in people heaven. I wish I did. I believe that Cat stopped being Cat the moment his heart stopped. My heart stopped for a second, too, but it kept beating.

My oldest daughter has never dealt with death before. She spent part of yesterday walking around with a stuffed cat and making meowing sounds (she's always done a really good Cat impression) until I asked her, in tears, to play with another toy. She asked if we could get a hamster now. Or another cat. It was like being stabbed in the heart. But she didn't mean me any harm. She was dealing with it in her way. And Cat would have understood that better than anyone.

Will I ever have another Cat? I don't know. If I do, it won't be for a long time. And if I do, that cat will have some pretty big shoes to fill. I know it won't be Cat, but someday I might be able to accept that I can love another furry thing.

Some people will probably find it weird that I wrote this. I understand. I had two reasons. One, when I was younger and didn't have any experience with domesticated animals, someone would tearfully tell me they put their dog or cat down and I'd say I was sorry while thinking, "Wow. It was only a dog/cat." I see now how stupid that was. It's hard to miss anyone you love when they die. It's damn near impossible when the loved one never did anything but fill your house, heart, and life with love and joy. Two, I have to write things out. I can't talk things well, but I can't keep it inside me or it will fester.

It still doesn't seem real. I took my best friend to the vet and didn't bring him home. Every time I leave my apartment and don't say, "I love you, Cat. Be good and hold down the fort. I'll be home soon." will be a twinge in my heart. Maybe for the rest of my life.

And I write this because, despite the fact that I am currently typing ten words a minute through tears, I owe Cat a decent send off. I need people to know. Even if it's only six people. I need to tell the story. Hell, I'm a writer. If I was a sculptor, I'd be shopping for slabs of marble online. I'm not. My sculptures are made out of words. Usually, they are made out of pretty words that I care about very much. This is the first thing I've written in a long time where the words don't matter. I could give a damn about the typos because it all comes down to this:

It hurts. It hurts like hell, and I wouldn't wish this feeling on anyone. But I wouldn't trade the last seventeen years of my life for anything, either. Cat is gone, but he does live on in our hearts. In pictures. In videos. In anecdotes - the only time Cat ever hurt me was because I came home and he was covered in gel. I found one of those blue liquid-filled eye masks ripped open. I don't know what they make that gel out of. So, I immediately stripped, grabbed cat, and stepped into the shower. Water might have been the only thing Cat hated. His claws tore me up pretty bad, but he was scared and trying to hold onto me. And he didn't stop licking my face the whole time I shampooed him, rinsed him, dried him. And when were we done, I put my pants back on and he sat on my lap looking at me with golden eyes like I was the best thing in the world.

I held onto him for as long as I could.

Catamaphone Mader. 1998-2014. RIP, buddy. We'll never forget.

Wind

You are in it, caught up, red-handed, dust-devil drawn - light sketch lines. There is so much above you, but you don't look up. You do not see the swift-winged swallows tear the sky to ribbons. You are aware of clouds, but you do not look to see them - you take their shade and ignore the beauty they sculpt into the opal sky. You promised. The words echo in your head - the echoes are loud and frantic and you picture her face. You think: well, yeah... You promised, but there is something childlike about her disappointment - you have lived too long in the world where promises are like sunny-day popsicles, overly sweet and easily broken.

She steps out of the crowd at the bus station and it breaks your heart, truly. There is an ache inside so acute it frightens you - you wonder what a heart attack feels like. You want to run, but before you know it there are air kisses and she still wears the same perfume and the wind won't scatter it fast enough, and you're angry. You didn't ask for this. This taste of perfume thick in your mouth.

She talks so much and you wonder if it's natural. It sure doesn't seem like it. Seems like dexedrine. But that's not your business. Everyone has their secret crushes. Their secret crutches. Yours makes you quiet, withdrawn. It works out well. You stare at the space between her eyebrows and let the words soak you to the bone, not understanding. There is nothing to be understood.

Do you want to talk about it?

Your mind closes, and you feel loathing like syrup in your lungs. Of course. She called because of the funeral. It must have been in the paper. For a brief second you are back, standing in a raucous patch of sunlight wondering why. Why? And now it is all too clear. She felt obligated. That's all. It makes you feel lost and selfish and sad.

You shrug your jacket on. She's still saying things and the things are still too fast. She grabs your arm and you shake it away with a ferocity that is surprising to both of you. It turns her face large, smooth. She is still yelling after you, shrieks of guilt, slick along the broken buildings. It doesn't matter. You don't want to talk anymore.

Little Johnny

Little Johnny didn't know shit about why you were always mad, always drunk. Sure, you had reasons, but a seven year old don't see reasoning the way we do. You hated your job. The car was always breaking down. The bills were always late. Periods tended to come late in the Jackson household, too. Johnny wasn't lonely, but he sure didn't understand you, and you never even noticed.

So, now Johnny's all grown up and no one talks about it. You don't drink any more and it's probably for the best although there is a drab, presbyterian, uniformity to the days - that's new. Back in the day, things were exciting at least. Someone was always yelling or crying. Excitement is not always a good thing. Yet, these new still-born days seem to drag on forever... 

You're always working that lip. Like your mouth is a blind mole looking for the vodka tit. Like you've decided, fuck it, if I can't drink vodka, I'll just keep doing this until there's enough blood to drink.

Someday, Johnny's son will wonder about the whole thing. The strange distance. The odd affirmations. The sentences that are shush(!)ed before they even get started. There's no going back, and everyone knows that - they also know they liked things the way they used to be and, for the life of them, they don't know why. 

They Never Are

"So, what now?"

"What do you mean? We bury her."

"That's it? You're good with that. We bury her..."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know, she was our mother."

"She was no fucking mother."

"That's the whole point, though. She can't hurt us now. We can get some kind of ... what the hell do they call it ... closure?"

"Yeah, we'll close it by putting her in the ground and hoping there's a hell."

"That's it?"

"That's it, Sis."

They walked up the steep path, puffing slightly. At 34 and 32, neither Sean nor Maddy were in 'sprinting up the hill' shape anymore. They knew the hill, and it knew them. It had even changed with them. Where once the hill had been an oasis of green, there were now stunted scrub bushes and empty beer cans. It was sad. It made Maddy especially sad. Sean was more concerned with his elevated heart rate.

When they reached the top, there was an awkward silence. The hill looked down over the whole neighborhood, including their mother's house. It was theirs now. Neither of them wanted it. They didn't even want to go inside. They'd sell it to a neighbor. Get rid of the damn thing. Exorcise the demons.

Sean lit a joint and passed it.

"Just like old times."

Maddy looked at the joint and frowned, then she shrugged and took it, inhaling deep.

"I thought I'd stop hating her when she died, Sis."

"Me, too. But now I just feel like I'll never get a chance to tell her how badly she screwed everything up."

"At least Dad got out."

"He fucking died, Sean. I don't know if that's a 'win'."

"Can you imagine if he hadn't?"

"Jesus."

They sat in silence, passing the joint until it was hard to hold. Maddy ground it out under the heel of her running shoe.

"Do you think she knew?"

"What?"

"How much we hated her?"

"Naw, Sis. I doubt it. She was fucking evil. And if she did know, it probably made her happy."

"Anything you want before we sell?"

"Nope. Literally, not one goddamn thing."

"I want her jewelry."

Sean cocked an eyebrow.

"Why? You gonna sell it?"

"Nope. I always wanted to see it ... touch it ... when we were kids. She never let me. I think 'things' were the only thing she loved. Especially the valuable shit. It's all that mattered to her. I'm gonna throw it all in a fucking lake."

"Will that make you feel better?"

"I don't know yet."

"That's a good point. I brought some booze, want some?"

"What the hell..."

The flask was filled with vodka.

"You drink too much."

"Yeah, I know. I do a lot of things too much."

"Why?"

"Really?"

"Yeah, I guess it was worse for you, huh?"

"Maybe. Different. She didn't ... she hurt you in different ways."

Maddy lifted the flask.

"To Mom. Rest in misery, you sadistic bitch."

Sean laughed, and then they were both laughing. Bright-eyed laughter that lived around the corner from sadness. It had been like that as long as either of them could remember. Laughter and tears. Both important.

They started back down the hill. They walked around the shining neighborhood and looked at the houses. Same old houses. Most of the same people, older now. Maddy wondered if any of them knew, but she doubted it. Mom had always kept the crazy at home. No one ever talked about it.

They saw a figure approaching through the darkness. An old man. Then they saw the little dog. Mr. Johnson. They had dreamed about living with the Johnsons as kids. Their house had always been filled with games and smiles. It hadn't been brittle. Their house had always seemed about to split down the middle.

"Evening kids. I was real sorry to hear about your Mom. We all were. If there's anything we can do, let me know."

Sean's mind raced. He couldn't think of anything to say. Maddy stepped forward and began to sob. The old man put his arms around her. It felt nice.

"It's OK, sweetheart. Everything will be OK."

"She wasn't how you think she was..."

The old man's face went blank, there was a sadness there.

"They never are, sweetheart. They never are."

The Find

Margaret walked slowly through the living room, waiting for her mother to yell at her. Or to ignore her. She lucked out and got the latter. She could feel it hidden under her shirt, an old soccer jersey that was too big for a seven year old girl - it had belonged to Jason. Jason was dead. 

She forced herself to do everything as "normally" as she could. She closed the door to her room with just the right amount of force and gently lifted her shirt. And there it was. Amazing. Her eyes were searchlights, scanning the room ... what would she need? There was also a trilling exuberance in the back of her mind that told her she didn't need anything else. Not anymore. 

Margaret's mother was a stern woman. She was not cruel, but her rules were absolutes. 'No' meant 'don't ask again unless you want the paddle'. Margaret loved her mother, with good reason. She knew what Jason's death had done. She forgave her mother for almost everything. And, now, she would have to lie. Not just one lie. Many lies. A mountain of lies ... if she built it high enough she was sure she'd be able to see over the morass that her life had become.

Hiding it from her father would be easy. He had always focused on Jason, anyway. Now that Jason was gone, he was largely silent. A man-shaped sculpture that lurched around the living room bumping into things and then apologizing to them. She was not convinced the ottoman warranted an apology, but she did not have to worry about her father. He did not see her. Not really.

Her mother. Her mother would take it from her. Her mother would turn red and grow several inches taller and she would take it. And then she would make Margaret apologize, which she would, even as her heart was breaking. Because she knew it was wrong. She was wrong.

She knew it, and she didn't care. She had tried to understand that losing your son changes you. She still struggled to accept it. Her parents were not the same people they had been a year ago. She spent so much time trying not to remind them, trying to be in the background, silent - she often forgot to think that she had lost something, too. 

Jason had been her champion in all causes. Her protector. He had shown her the secret joys that lived in the industrial wasteland behind their house. Where everything was freedom. She had never been scared when Jason stood beside her. He had taught her to curse. To skip smooth stones. He had taught her everything.

She often felt like there was something missing from the house, now. Jason. Of course. She did not realize that he had taken all of the love with him as well, though. His death had built a cathedral of sadness. Love was no longer welcome.

But now, she would have love. Now, she would feel joy again. She watched the small orange kitten stomp around her comforter. It swatted at her hand and she laughed, her mind chirping through the things they would do. She would not have to sleep alone. Whether she was having the nightmares or not. She would have an ally. Something she could protect.

She heard her mother coming up the hallway, quick strides. She didn't knock, but Margaret had just enough time to put the kitten in the closet. Safe. She forced herself to breathe. 

"Margaret. It's almost time to eat."

"OK, Mother. I'll wash up."

"That's a good girl. How was school today?"

"Fine."

"Did you pass your..."

Margaret's mother did not finish her sentence because she was distracted by a sound. They both heard it. A high pitched whine. Then, the tumbling song of fallen toys. Margaret's mother grabbed her by the arm and pulled her in front of the closet. She could see their reflections in the mirrored doors.

"Margaret, open the closet."

And time stopped. Margaret looked at her mother's face in the mirror and saw a befuddled rage building. She scrambled for excuses in her mind. She wanted to run. She looked at her own face and, for the first time, recognized the visage of resigned horror that Jason had left behind.

Breaking Dawn

Dawn dropped her eyes and let them wander until they came to rest on a carpet smudge. Some old paint or mud or dog shit. She was trying not to blink because she did not want the tears to leave her eyes. She picked deftly at her left cuticle. It was wet, and she knew she had made it bleed. She shoved her hand in her pocket, but the movement was too sudden. It broke the monologue that had been going strong for 45 minutes. She looked up at her mother's face, twisted with a sick, red sheen.

"Take your hand out of your pocket, Dawn."

The girl reluctantly presented her hand, waiting for the slap. It didn't come. Dawn took this as a very bad sign.

"Why do you do this shit, Dawn? How am I supposed to explain it?"

"Lots of kids bite their nails."

"That's true. But you don't bite your nails. You tear your cuticles off until they bleed. You're doing it right now! What am I supposed to tell the other mothers? And not just about your fingers. You pull your hair out. You can't walk through a room without touching all the green things. YOU CAN'T GO TO SLEEP IF IT'S AN ODD NUMBERED DAY! That's odd. That's fucking odd!"

"I don't mean to do it."

"Nonsense. That is all utter nonsense. You do this for attention. You do it to embarrass me. You do it so the other mothers can talk about us. Do you see the other girls? The pretty girls? The girls who will get asked to prom because they aren't crazy drama queens that cut themselves..."

"Mom..."

"Don't fucking lie to me. I know you do it and I know why. You want to hurt me that badly? You want to embarrass us more? After all I've done for you. You drove my husband away because he didn't want to be around you."

"Mom, Dad didn't leave because..."

The slap was sharp and reverberated in the small apartment, but neither of them acknowledged it.

"Am I going to have to send you away? Is that what you want? It is, isn't it? Your precious fucking father left and now you pretend to be crazy so I'll make you leave..."

"I'M NOT FUCKING CRAZY! STOP CALLING ME CRAZY!"

This time the slap had a bit more menace to it, but Dawn didn't care.

"How dare you raise your voice to me! Go to your room. Immediately."

Dawn ran up the stairs with her heart pounding. She wasn't sure that she would be able to wait. She picked at her cuticle and scratched her arm until it bled. Finally, she heard her mother in the bathroom and then the apartment was silent. Dawn texted Jimmy. One word: "NOW". Dawn grabbed the backpack she had stowed in the back of her closet. She met Jimmy at the end of the block where the engine of his truck was quietly idling.

"You sure you want to do this?"

"Drive. She called me crazy. I'm not crazy."

"No, you're not crazy."

"We're going to be happy in Reno, right Jimmy?"

"Well, she won't be there."

Dawn slid to the middle of the bench seat and rested her head on Jimmy's strong shoulder. She fell asleep while letting Jimmy's words wash over her. She won't be there. She won't be there. She won't be there. She won't...

The Break

You weren't there. You don't know anything about it. You know what you've heard and the stories you've been told and you think that suffices. Like you're some kind of witness by association. That's not the way it works.

See, I saw the whole thing. And you can spin it any way you want.I don't give a shit, but I'm done...alright. Just fucking stop it.

I'll tell you one more time. I hadn't spoken to her in months. I was worried. I drove all fucking night and showed up to a dark house and locked doors. I went around back and jimmied the sliding door. The smell inside was awful. Hard to describe. Spoilt milk and cigarettes and that taste you get when a tooth goes bad.

I covered my face with my bandana and went inside, expecting to find a dead body. What I didn't expect to find was my little sister, sitting in the middle of a dark room, covered in her own shit, mumbling to herself.

You know what it's like to see something like that? It's cold and she's naked and just...covered with it. She looks at me and doesn't see. There isn't even a flicker of recognition. My heart burned.

I picked her up and said soft things while I dragged her to the bathroom. I got her cleaned up. Then I made the call. The white coats came soon. I'd make the call again.

You're embarrassed for the family? Are you fucking crazy? Be embarrassed for yourself. Think about the reasons you care more about your reputation than your daughter, and then be ashamed.

And stop going to the hospital. She doesn't want you there. No one does.

My Girls

The pictures are the hardest part to explain. I don't care, but I know it bothers my kids. I don't know what to do about that.

The worst part is that it seems creepy. Perverted. I get that. It's not. But I'll never convince anyone different.

Roxie died when the kids were grown. I loved that woman with my whole damn heart for forty years. Every inch of it. When she died...it was an ugliness. I don't want to talk about it.

The first mannequin was a whim. I saw her sticking out of the dumpster like a lawn dart. I got her home and cleaned her off, and then I didn't know what the hell to do, so I kept going. I bought her a wig and put some of Roxie's old clothes on her. That bothered me, though, so we went shopping.

That's the thing, see? That's the fucking problem. I remember that trip to the store and the snickering clerks, and I dressed her in the changing room with tears in my eyes. I bought her clothes that I thought were tastefully understated. No lingerie. Nothing like that. There is nothing sexual about it.

The clerks bothered me, but I didn't care too much then, and I dont give a shit when I take one of the girls shopping now. My wife is dead. There's not a lot I care about. But I did...and do...care about my kids. And it hurts me that they think their old man is insane. Although maybe I am.

So, Claire was the first. I changed her outfit every day. I brushed her wig and got her looking pretty. Then, I'd put her in the chair by the window. And things got better. I swear they did, and I know it don't make a lot of sense, but I'm too old to care 'why'. I liked brushing the wig. I liked seeing her sitting in the sun, the soft rays snaking through her auburn hair. It was company. And hell, I knew it was weird, but it helped. The kids, Jesus. They sat me down one day. Dad, we're worried. Dad, it's perverse. Dad, it's not right. And I smiled and reminded them that I had been very understanding of their quirks their whole lives. They think it's about sex. It's not. It's about loneliness.

Jamie was next. She was a dark-skinned black woman. Beautiful. She cried out for different clothes. She had a different personality. I'm not crazy. I know they're not real. She didn't say anything. But Jamie would have looked foolish wearing clothes that belonged to someone else.

Next was Melissa, a slim asian. Then Mandy, Jenny, Marcia. That was it for a while. Mandy, Jenny, and Marcia were all white women. Most mannequins are white. I'm not a racist.

The kids didn't like having them at the house when they visited. The grandkids loved them. Kid's do that. I mean, what are they but giant dolls? The first family portrait was the first big wedge. Dad, you are NOT putting your 'friends' in our family portrait. Hours, we argued. Me saying they were family to me. Knowing they weren't. Not understanding how to explain it. Just knowing if they weren't good enough to be in the picture, then the picture didn't need me either.

My son actually suggested I buy a three thousand dollar sex doll. He said he'd buy it for me, which is stupid because I got money. I told him again. It ain't about sex. He slammed the door on the way out. So hard it knocked some of his mother's porcelain off the mantle. I called him and told him he'd scared my girls just to piss him off.

Then the girls and I sat on the porch and had a drink. I had a drink, they sat there. They didn't do shit except look nice and pretty - like a field of wildflowers. Splashes of color all around me. The neighbors gawk, but I don't care what they think.

We're a big family now. There are twenty girls in all. Dressing them and fussing with them takes up a good bit of my day. When we all get to setting down, it's usually about time to start thinking about dinner. It kills time; I see that. I talk to them. I'll admit that. But it's like how you talk to yourself when you're whittling. I kiss them all goodnight. That's a little strange, granted, but I've sure kissed weirder things.