by Helen Brown
My uncles returning scrambled as eggs from World War I were said to be depressed, possibly crazy. One of them was incarcerated in a mental home. A maiden aunt didn’t speak for years after my grandparents insisted she put an end to her affair with the local postmistress. With the compassion and understanding typical of rural 1930s New Zealand, the wider family called her Creeping Jesus. As far as I could understand, my aunt and uncles had logical reasons to be depressed.
Even though all these variations of sorrow are shoved into the same closet, they seem to have as much in common as flax skirts and Dior gowns.
The word depression wasn’t big enough to describe the ocean of melancholy I’d slipped into. There was no shoreline. The sea had no floor. Some days I fought to stay afloat. On others I was suspended lifeless, like a broken willow branch, drifting in its infinity. For Kübler-Ross to label this mere “depression” and a “stage” was outrageous folly. And then, to imply there would be a final stage of—
5. Acceptance. No way was I ever going to say it’s okay for a beautiful nine-year-old boy to die. Kübler-Ross missed a few other stages while she was at it, including guilt, self-hatred, hysteria, loss of hope, paranoia, unacceptable confessions in public, a powerful urge to open the car door and hurl oneself onto the motorway.
I thanked Rosie for the books and flicked through Your Cat and Its Health.
“You will read it properly, won’t you?” she said.
“Look Rosie, we might not meet your standards, but we’ll do our best. We’re not going to kill her, at least I hope not…”
“Never mind, baby Cleo,” Rosie said, putting on that silly voice again and burying the kitten between the steamed puddings of her breasts. “Itty-bitty kitty can come and live with Auntie Rosie any time.”
Cleo writhed between Rosie’s sweltering mounds. Then, in a split second that seemed to be happening in slow motion, she flattened her ears, rolled back her lips, hissed and swiped a fully armored claw at Rosie’s face.
“Ohmyyyygoooodddd!” wailed Rosie.
“I’m so sorry!” I said, dabbing the blood on her cheek with a paper tissue that had been doubling as a table napkin. “I’m sure she didn’t mean…”
Clutching the tissue to her cheek, Rosie glared down at her assailant.
“This kitten…your kitten…has fleas!” declared Rosie, rearranging her spectacles.
“Really?” I said, scratching an ankle. Steve and Rob had complained of being “itchy” over the past few days. I’d dismissed their complaints as neuroticism. It now dawned on me I was itchy, too. An archipelago of miniature volcanoes encircled both ankles and stretched up my legs.
“Yes, look,” she said, parting the sparse forest of Cleo’s underbelly. “Dozens, possibly even hundreds…”
The sight resembled one of those shots taken by helicopter over Manhattan. Oblivious to us staring down at them, an entire city of fleas bustled through avenues of Cleo’s hair. So engrossed were they in their flea workday, so confident that whatever they were doing was the most important job on earth right now, not one paused to glance up at a pair of horrified human giants.
“That’s a serious infestation,” said Rosie, awe verging on admiration in her voice.
“How do we get rid of them? Do I get some powder from the pet shop?”
“Too late for that,” pronounced Rosie. “What this kitten needs is a bath.”
When I pointed out cats have a natural loathing of water, and that immersing a kitten would surely be close to animal cruelty, she shrugged. “Well, if you don’t want to take responsibility for your kitten’s health…”
Rosie had me cornered. If I didn’t obey her she’d report me to some kind of committee of animal protection feminists. They’d plant burning crosses on our front lawn and glue posters around the neighborhood.
“But we don’t have a kitten bath,” I said, almost certain I’d never seen such a household item, not even in a pet shop. “Or kitten shampoo.”
“The bathroom vanity will do,” she said. “And mild human shampoo is fine. Now, find me a hand towel, please.”
The closest thing we had to a hand towel was a faded blue rag that had enjoyed a previous life as a beach towel until the boys and Rata tore it apart during a tug-of-war. With the efficiency of an Egyptian embalmer wrapping up a cat mummy, Rosie wound the cloth around Cleo’s shoulders. With her legs (and claws) tucked against her body, Cleo was defenseless. Her startled, furry face emerged from one end of the towel. The other end was wedged deep in the folds of Rosie’s T-shirt. I desperately wanted to rescue Cleo. But, immune from any more scratch attacks, Rosie had taken control.
She instructed me to fill the basin with warm water, then tested the temperature with her free elbow. When the depth and temperature were ideal, Rosie swiftly unwound the cloth and passed Cleo to me.
“I thought you were going to do this?” I said, wrestling with legs and tail, which were moving in opposite directions simultaneously.
“You’re the mother,” Rosie replied, taking a step back towards the safely of the towel rail.
Our kitten relaxed in my arms. I took it as a huge compliment. Staring down from her dry vantage point, Cleo was fascinated by the water, and expectantly watched it glistening in the basin, as if it might house a school of goldfish. I unwound, too. Maybe Cleo had inherited the famous Abyssinian love of water and was going to enjoy her bath.
Inhaling deeply, I lowered her into the water. Swift handling combined with respect for feline pride would be required. Cleo seemed to understand the procedure. She kept still as a statuette while I massaged baby shampoo into her coat. The kitten was soon wreathed in a cloak of bubbles.
I was proud of her nestled in the basin. Fortunately, Cleo couldn’t see what a bath was doing for her looks. With her fur slicked down and whiskers pasted against her cheeks, she could’ve been mistaken for a rat. Nevertheless, Rosie had to be impressed with Cleo’s understanding of hygiene requirements.
“Good girl,” I crooned.
“See? Nothing to it,” Rosie said. “Every cat needs a bath now and then.”
Cleo suddenly let out a primeval yowl. It was a shocking noise that penetrated my maternal genes as instantly and powerfully as the cry of a child lost in a supermarket. Cleo’s little head drooped sideways and, to my profound horror, she went limp as a dishcloth in my hands.
“Get her out! Get her out!” Rosie bellowed.
“I am getting her out!” I bellowed back. As I lifted the little creature from the water, her head and legs swung lifelessly. “Oh…!”
What was Rob going to say? His heart had already been shattered. He wouldn’t be able to take another blow. I’d already proved myself a failure as mother. No way should I have been given command of something as small and helpless as a kitten. I was barely capable of putting my clothes on.
Snatching the towel from Rosie, I engulfed the lifeless form.
“Oh Cleo, I’m so sorry!” I cried, rubbing her with the towel and hurrying her through to the living room. I flicked the gas heater on, held Cleo as close as possible to the flames, and massaged her frantically.
“You were right, Rosie. I’m hopeless with cats. This is terrible!”
Rosie towered over us disapprovingly. “The water was too cold,” she said.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“I thought it would probably be all right. Or it could’ve been the wrong shampoo…”
The tiny body lay lifeless in my hands.
“I’ve killed her, Rosie!” I sobbed. “She’s the only thing that cheered things up around here. Now I’ve drowned her! I know you don’t think I’m a cat person, but I was starting to love this kitten.”
So this was going to be my life from now on. Everything I touched was destined to shrivel up and drop dead in my hands. For the sake of the world I’d have to climb a mountain at the bottom of the South Island, crawl into a cave and wait for things to end.
Then, to my astonishment, the rag on my lap em
itted a single, demure sneeze. A shudder of life rippled through her body. She raised her head, climbed unsteadily onto her paws and shook herself indignantly, showering me with water.
“Oh, Cleo! You’re back! I can’t believe it!” She hardly needed the additional rinse of my happy tears.
The kitten fixed me with eyes the size of satellite dishes and bestowed a lick on my finger, as if she’d woken from a pleasant dream and was wondering what was for breakfast. Jubilant with relief, I rubbed her precious fur until it was nearly dry. Not since the boys were born had I felt so ecstatic to see a creature alive and functioning.
“Listen, she’s purring!” I said to Rosie. “Do you think she forgives me?”
Rosie didn’t look convinced. “Just as well she has nine lives,” she said. “One down, eight to go. That poor kitten’s going to need every one of them in this house.”
After Rosie left, I kissed Cleo, thanked her for coming back to life, and held her close to my chest to keep her warm.
From that moment on, Cleo and I had an understanding. Baths, as far as she was concerned, were strictly for the birds.
Cleo was turning out to be quite a teacher. Like all good educationalists, she adopted her techniques according to the abilities of her students. Her near-drowning experience demonstrated I wasn’t doomed to destroy everything in my path, after all. For the first time in my life I’d actually revived a living creature. And Cleo was giving me a second chance.
Compassion
Even though the cat is a solitary creature, it is capable of acts of great kindness.
“Sure you’re going to be okay?” I asked, clicking Rob’s school lunch box shut. His sandwiches were made of wholemeal bread, the healthiest available on supermarket shelves. Rob would’ve preferred white fluffy bread, naturally, but I was determined he’d sprout to a vigorous adulthood. If he couldn’t learn to love broccoli and bean sprouts I was going to stuff them into him, anyway. No more bad things were allowed to happen to this boy.
The school had been understanding about us keeping Rob home for an extra couple of weeks. It was his second year of school, so he knew most of the kids in his grade. Nevertheless, his first day back without Sam loomed over us. Since Rob’s education began, Sam had been woven into the fabric of every day. In playground warfare, the extrovert older brother provided a protective shield for the younger, quieter one. Nobody would pick a fight with Rob when they knew they’d also have to confront Sam (famed for his Superman kicks). Older and younger brother were Starsky and Hutch, Batman and Robin, each incomplete without the other.
“Will you drive me?”
“Of course,” I said, fastening the buttons of his new shirt. Western style, it featured winged golden horses flying against a white background. Wings and feathers seemed to haunt every aspect of our lives. The shirt was on the lurid side, but Rob loved it, and I was encouraging him to express his individuality.
There were no arguments with Steve about the cost of children’s clothes anymore. With Rob’s help I’d managed to venture into an impressive range of shops over the past couple of weeks. Like most New Zealand primary schools, Rob’s had a no-uniform policy. The intention was to create a laid-back atmosphere. The reality was, children’s fashion trends absorbed more time and money than most parents would’ve liked.
On his first day back, everything about Rob was fresh from the packet, including the shoes with marshmallow-soft soles. (“They squeak,” he said, as we wrangled with the spaghetti of his shoelaces. “People will laugh at me.”—“They’re just jealous,” I assured him.) His clothes and professionally trimmed hair presented a mother’s challenge to the world: this boy is precious; damage him at your peril. The only item on him that wasn’t new was the Superman watch on his wrist.
“What if bullies get me?” he asked, clutching the stainless-steel band of his watch.
My insides melted. If only I could shadow his every step through the day ahead, monitor each breath that filled his six-year-old lungs, and roar at his adversaries.
“They won’t,” I said, fiercely hoping I was right. But what if I wasn’t? His status as grieving brother had the potential to single him out for special attention from emotionally disturbed retards. “Tell the teacher to call me if you want to come home any time.”
“Look after Cleo for me,” he said, opening the fridge door and removing a jug of milk, too full for his child’s grip. The jug wobbled as he poured the milk into a saucer, slopping a pond on the floor. Cleo arched with delight as the delicious liquid flowed. Her tail uncoiled and her tongue set about its work with crisp strokes.
Rob was sleeping more soundly since he’d moved back to his old room. His nightmares and dreams were less disturbing. No doubt the comfort of a centrally heated kitten had something to do with that.
A sharp tapping on the window jangled my nerves. The unmistakable cheekbones of Ginny Desilva, the most glamorous woman on the zigzag, pressed against the glass. Her perfectly shaped lips were arranged in a magazine smile. She raised three moisturized fingers, waved her glistening talons at us and called, “Hallooooo!”
Ginny was wearing a gold vinyl jacket, false eyelashes, earrings the size of chandeliers and a ponytail that was perched high on one side of her head. My regulation track pants and stained T-shirt didn’t stand a chance.
A boy about Rob’s size was holding Ginny’s hand. He had spiky hair and a pixie face.
“That’s Jason!” said Rob in awe.
“What’s he like?” I hissed through my teeth, while nodding and smiling at Ginny.
“He’s one of the Cool Gang.”
Ah yes. The legendary Cool Gang. I’d heard Rob and Sam talk as if they’d rather paint their willies blue than join the Cool Gang. That was only because the Cool Gang hadn’t asked for their membership.
The only thing cooler than the Cool Gang was the Cool Gang’s parents. They were doctors, lawyers and architects who arranged tennis matches on a rotation basis so they all had a chance to show off the courts in their back gardens. Ginny and her husband, Rick, were Queen and King of the Cool Gang’s parents because they transcended the run-of-the-mill professionals. Rick ran a record company. And Ginny, well, all she had to do was drape herself in fake fur and be Ginny. Journalism had trained me to make snap judgments. Fashion model means way too beautiful and skinny plus shallow plus competitive about physical appearances and men plus dimwitted equals an excellent person for me to avoid. Ginny, in the single conversation I’d had with her when we’d bumped into each other on the zigzag, claimed to be a midwife, though this seemed too outlandish to be true. I’d assumed she was on something at the time.
“Hi,” I said, almost blinded by the sheen of her mahogany hair as I opened the back door.
“Wow! A kitten!” her son yelled before any of us had time to exchange formalities. Weaving around my track pants, Jason burst into the kitchen.
“Rob, you didn’t tell me you had a kitten!” said Jason. “It’s so cute! Can I hold it?”
“She’s Cleo,” said Rob, proudly presenting his pet to Jason. “Her dad’s a tomcat. He was wild. We’re pretty sure he was a panther.”
“Jason adores cats,” Ginny laughed, as we watched Jason burying the kitten in his neck. I was waiting for her eyes to settle critically on my track pants and the lake of milk on the floor (which Rata was obligingly slurping), but she seemed oblivious to our chaos.
“I heard Rob’s going to be in Jason’s class this year,” she said. “Jason was wondering if Rob would like to walk to school with him today, weren’t you, darling?”
Jason nodded, though somewhat dutifully. Rob walk to school with Jason? But the morning was all planned. I’d played it over in my head so many times—mother and son make tragic appearance at school gates. Mother gives son invisible injection of power and protection before son steps boldly into new school life.
“Thanks, but we’re driving,” I said, immediately aware how clipped and ungrateful I sounded. What was wrong with me? Not so
long ago I’d been considered a warm, friendly person. When I was at primary school the other kids gave me the nickname “Happy.” There was no danger of a name like that anymore. “Would Jason like us to give him a lift?”
Of course she was going to say no. She’d do it on the grounds of politeness and respect for the hermit shell of misery I’d retreated into. I’d escape with the appearance of having made the offer. She’d decline, and we’d get on with our appropriately separate lives.
“That would be lovely,” Ginny replied, fixing me with brown eyes conveying unexpected warmth and something else. What was it—a fleeting spark of wisdom? “Byeee!”
Byeee? Must be retired fashion model speak. Watching Ginny sauntering away like an apparition from a punk rock magazine, I felt ambushed. With a tap of her fingernails on our kitchen window she’d gazumped our ceremonial drive to school.
Not only that, she and Jason had blustered into our kitchen as if it was the most natural thing to do. Her audacious swoop of neighborly intimacy was unnerving. She was crazy, obviously. Either that or unbelievably compassionate, with greater depths than I’d assumed she was capable of. Yes, Ginny had to be insane. Or incredibly wonderful. How else would she know that the best way to treat traumatized people is to behave normally (give or take a byeee or two)? I hadn’t been prepared for a guerrilla attack of kindness, not so soon after breakfast.
I couldn’t help admiring the woman. A gold vinyl jacket and leopard-skin tights? What was that perfume trailing behind her—tiger musk? And how come those chandeliers didn’t pull her ears apart? I was too thickheaded to realize I’d just made a friend for life.
With his punk hairdo and purple schoolbag covered with rock band stickers, Jason was the personification of Cool. Yet he was besotted with Cleo in an unself-consciously boyish way.
“This is the cutest kitten!” Jason said, rocking the black bundle in his arms. “You’re so lucky!”
It was the first time in ages that anyone had put the words luck and our family in the same sentence.