by Peggy Gaddis
He’s not a client in our system, either.
I rally my forces and ask, “Now, tell me about Pringles. Age?”
“I’m thirty-two.”
I sense his tease and come back with, “That’s a mighty old cat.” I can sense his smile and press, “Your cat’s age?”
“Oh.” Playfully, like he was confused. “Four.”
“Sex?” I can’t wait for this one.
“I prefer women ... but never on the first date.” His voice drops. “I’m kind of old-fashioned that way.”
I choke out a laugh, but I feel my eyes light up and my heart go pitter-pat. He is? I totally have a thing for black-and-white movies, Fred Astaire, and any man who opens doors for me. I stumble, “Um, I meant, your cat?”
“Nah, he’s an only pet, so I know he’s not getting any. Besides, he’s neutered.”
Okay, so I like his humor. I can tell he’s smiling. Flirting, even. The recorders are running like they do for all calls, but I don’t mind. I’ll just claim that he’s the nervous type who deals with stress by cracking jokes and that I played along.
Really, I’m enjoying playing along. Next I ask, “Declawed?”
“I’d never do that to any pet of mine.”
Me, neither, but I don’t want to get too buddy-buddy with Mr. Nightfall here, no matter how much I like the cocoa-butter tones of his voice. I’ve never met anyone who actually darkened my vision before, and frankly, it’s a little unnerving. Usually with those ultra-dark, moody, depressed people, I see visions of churning storm clouds, not the La Brea tar pits like this guy. I lick my lips and marshal on with, “Does he live inside only, or does he go out?”
“Inside only. I used to live on the twelfth floor.”
City man. Probably lived right here in Norwich, Connecticut, and recently bought a house, though why he lied about Preston, I can’t say.
Hmmm ...
The apartment I see clearly: some pretty-nice furniture, a large flat screen, a king size bed with a really sharp comforter in chocolate and tan hues—something I would totally buy for myself. I shake off the sight and continue, “Now, tell me exactly what he’s doing.”
Another long sigh. The image of the bright apartment snaps off like a TV. Now, although I still see darkness, I can see a longhair tuxedo cat, quite beautiful, with yellow eyes. He’s hiding under an end table. “He seems so stressed all the time.”
Well, since he’s not declawed, I know there’s an actual stressor in the cat’s life versus a perceived one. From the shelter’s experience, cats who’ve been through this surgical procedure stress easily. Hiding, aggression, and random urination are the hallmarks of declawed cats—the single common denominator at relinquishment and ultimately euthanasia and the biggest reason we discourage it being done at adoption time. We don’t want a cat to be put down a mere two years after adopting it out.
I close my eyes to see what the cat’s real problem is. Soon I detect piles of cardboard boxes, so I ask, “What’s changed in his life?”
“I moved.” Begrudging tones tell me it wasn’t his choice.
Ah. A reason. “Not happy about moving, are you?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, neither is Pringles. Is he hiding?”
“All the time.”
I jot that down, and while I’m writing I see an image of an auburn-haired little boy, with one freckle for every year of his young life brushed across his little nose. His eyes are so light brown they look like caramel. “Children?”
“No, he was neutered young.”
I have to laugh. “Human children?”
A pause. “I’d have to call Ripley’s Believe It or Not if he managed that one, but no,” he states, “no kids here.”
That one really throws me for loop, and I feel my mouth drop open. Could my visions be totally wrong? This kid is adorable, so cute I want to scoop him up and swing him around. His name is Charlie, and I’m wondering if he’s been kidnapped.
Darkness. I get the heebies when I wonder if my caller could be tonight’s top feature on America’s Most Wanted, or an escapee from the local prison, and a full-body shudder works through me. Holy schnitzel, I need to get this man off the phone. I glance at Tina, but she’s knee-deep in dog training and can’t take this call.
The little boy reappears again, and he says, “I want my mommy and daddy.” I mentally ask him where they are, but he disappears, and my first instinct is to try to lure an answer from the boy. I find myself wanting to hasten through the phone call, but remind myself I’m a professional and muster through, even though my hands are still shaking over my keyboard and I’m holding back an urge to panic.
Guilt crashes into me, and I vividly recall Britni O’Reilly’s body, the 19-year-old girl who worked at the local convenience store where I sometimes buy my gasoline. She came to me as a vision when I was out walking my dog last summer, beckoning me inside my head to follow her into the woods. The hot sun and cool shade seemed like the perfect excuse to do as my third eye bade, and soon I found her grave in a small clearing. Since the sunken dirt gave me the perfect excuse to report it to the police—sans ESP—I did.
The cold case could have been solved that week if I merely told them her bag of clothes—and thus the perp’s DNA—were buried not ten yards away, right where Britni pointed.
But I was too chicken.
Icicles stake into my spine, and I force myself back to the topic at hand, trying not to choke on the memories and my promise that I would never let another ghost down again. Perhaps I’m just jumping to conclusions. How many times have I made a bad assumption? After all, I know how wonky my visions can be, so I give myself a mental shake and blink away my empathic tears. I focus hard on my caller and what is around him and his troubled kitty.
Although the couch beside the cat appears to be black, I can tell it’s really only tan colored. The table lamp, though brown, shows me glimpses of being light yellow. The more I talk to him, the clearer I see, which makes me want to know more about Charlie and how I can help him. “Does ... Pringles have any place safe where he can hide?” Britni didn’t. Does Charlie?
“That’s all he does. He used to be such a loving lap cat before this,” he pauses, his voice dropping lower, the playfulness now gone, and a thread of agony trembles the air. “Pringles is my little buddy; really, he’s the only thing that’s kept me sane these last few years, and the thought of how bad he must feel just breaks my heart.”
The image of the boy is gone, and I wonder if he’s a ghost and not a vision of a living child, which doesn’t really help my predicament any. How can I help him if I don’t know if he’s alive or dead? Do I have any evidence that I can take to the cops?
Now that my own heart has stopped its frantic pace and I take that moment to assimilate the disparity between what my ears and third eye are telling me, I realize the darkness is now more of a metaphor for how the man feels about his life versus any literal location or electrical shortage, and find myself taking a fortifying breath of relief.
“Have you taken your cat to a vet to rule out any medical issues?”
“No, I haven’t. Do you think I should?”
“Well,” I reason-- which is a fantastic antidote for panic, by the way--, “the stress of moving can make a normally healthy animal develop medical problems. If a cat is sick or injured, it will usually hide.”
“No,” he tells me again, “I haven’t. I’m new to the area. Do you have any place that you’d suggest?”
The ghost child has disappeared, so I run with my daily role. “We have a list of all the vet hospitals in the area. You can find it on our website online, or I can mail you a copy, or email one to you.”
“Hmm,” he says. “Where do you take your pet?”
We’re not allowed to endorse one place over another, and I tell him so.
But Mr. Nightfall whispers, “Come on, I won’t tell.”
Delicious shivers work up my arms, giving me goose bumps, and I stare at them in
disbelief that his voice can elicit such a response from me. Wondering if he’s some kind of mystic who lures people to their demise, I shoot back, “Who said I have pets?”
He seems very logical and forthright when he states, “You’re too passionate about your job to not have any. I’m guessing ...” I could see him looking up, “one dog, and one, no, two cats.”
He had it right the first time, but I pretend to be impressed. “Wow, are you psychic?”
He chuckles, and I can tell he’s enjoying himself, while I’m trying to reconcile myself to this strange situation. “Am I right?” his low voice asks, and I would totally be flirting with him had I met him in, say, a bar or at a party.
Something less ghost-y.
“No,” I tell him, since he’s not. “Now, are you going to make that vet appointment, or am I going to have to follow up with you?”
“Oh.”
I realize my-- inadvertent?-- slip.
“You, RoseAngel, definitely need to follow up with me.”
I feel a blush crawling across my face, and I slide a glance to my coworker, Tina, taking another call in her own foam-walled cell. Her eyebrows shoot up, and she smiles and indicates my phone call. I nod, and she gives me the thumbs up.
“Is Pringles still hiding now, or has the sound of your”—I almost add the word melodious—“voice lured him out?”
“Wow.”
I like that I impress him with that kernel of insight.
“He did come out. He’s rubbing on my slipper.”
Ooh, I like a man in slippers. And little else.
Oops. I didn’t say that.
I say, “Sometimes hearing their owners speaking in a relaxed tone lures stressed animals out of hiding. If possible, sit on the floor by him, wherever you know he’s hiding, and just either talk to him, or pick up the phone and call a friend.”
“Can I call you? Say, tomorrow?”
My heart revs at that, but I tease, “Oh, so you are going to follow up?”
“Oh, I’ll call.” Like he was going to make darned sure of it.
“After you take him to the vet. Otherwise, I’m just plain not going to be very helpful.” In a sing-song voice, since I think that will get through to him better than being stern. Plus, I really want this cat to see a vet, and I think Mr. Flirtypants will do it if he thinks it will make me more likely to take his call. Since Pringles is a male cat, and stress causes urinary blockages, I want to make sure he’s not a medical time bomb.
The cat, that is.
Trevor chuckles, really happy, and I see he’s in a cabin, just like I first thought, with rustic furniture, a small TV, heavy clunky stairs in the back corner. It’s a nice place.
But he hates it.
“Okay, okay, I’ll take him to the vet. But if the doctor doesn’t find anything wrong, then you owe me.”
“Oh, really.” I’m so flirting I don’t even know myself.
“Dinner.”
I really wish I could see his eyes when he said that. I bet they’re brown and piercing and really keen, and then I give myself a proverbial kick in the rear because I know I’m merely hoping he’s a brunet. I can hear my heartbeat thumping away in my head. But I parry with, “If the doctor prescribes any medicine, then no dinner for you.”
“Deal.”
What the hell did I just get myself into?