The Lucky Cat Shop

by Debi Matlack

  It was important though. “I saw what you did…for me…”

  A wondering smile lit his haggard face. “Was I going to do anything else?”

  One more breath, despite the giant boa constrictor wrapped around my chest. “I love you too.” That was it. My eyes refused to stay open a second longer.

  “Maeve? Stay with me.” My fingers were tangled with someone’s. I gave a squeeze to acknowledge the request and then I drifted.

  At least this time I already knew I wasn’t dead. The memory of sitting next to Poppy, making my choice to stay, stepping back into my body, that was vivid and real. So was the bone-deep ache, centered on my sternum and radiating out to the rest of my ribcage, evidence of the measures taken to ensure I’d had a viable body to return to, even if Barrett and Scott weren’t completely aware of how close I’d come to death. I was grateful but it hurt to breathe. Little snatches of memory swirled by, the controlled jostling of the gurney as we scurried from the ambulance into the hospital, the stars blazed bright as day in the silken black sky. Lots of voices, questions, cold instruments, the disembodied sensation of different parts of my inert body being manipulated by other people. Then quiet and darkness again.

  Awareness seeped back in, impressions of warm blankets and the sounds of monitors beeping lifted the black velvet curtain from my consciousness again. Quiet voices approached and faded, the sound of my own breath. And, as I opened my eyes, I met the solemn gaze of an ethereally beautiful woman who watched me from the shiny glass front of a steel cabinet door. My bed was backed against a wall; there was no one behind me to cast that reflection. As that fact took root in my awareness and sprouted, the rate of beeping increased with my heart rate. The woman’s expression was startled, then she vanished. Footsteps approached in response to the difference in sound and a man in scrubs peered around the curtain, then came to my side with a professional smile.

  “How are you feeling?”

  I disregarded the voyeuristic female for now and thought about his question. “Considering the alternative, not bad.” Drawing breath to speak hurt, like I’d been stomped by the cast of Tap Dogs. But, again, considering the alternative, the pain was good. It meant I was still on this end of the tunnel.

  The smile became sincere. “There are some people who’d like to see you. Feel up to it?”

  Actually, I felt like pulling the blankets over my head and sleeping a few centuries. “Sure. Nothing like a party in ICU.”

  He cocked a brow at me with a smile. “I see I’m going to have to keep an eye on you.” He vanished, before too long I heard more movement, water running, approaching steps. “Just a few minutes,” the nurse’s voice advised, and the curtain moved aside to admit Mike and Barrett.

  And Dee.

  She drew closer, her brown eyes concerned with all the lights and wires. I held out my hand and she caught it, drawing it to her.

  “Boy, am I glad to see you, squirt.”

  “Are you okay, Aunt May?”

  I pulled her closer so I could stroke her hair back from those wide dark eyes. “I will be.” Mike squeezed his daughter’s shoulders and leaned over her to kiss me on the forehead.

  “Of course you will,” he whispered and turned, steering Dee back out. Only Barrett stood there now. I was startled to see tears standing in his eyes, which he rapidly disguised by turning his attention to the monitors. “I’ll ask your nurse about some pain meds, I know your ribs are sore as hell, even though they said none were broken.”

  “Barrett—”

  “And see if we can’t get you into a private room, all this noise in here makes it hard to rest.”

  “Barrett, shut up.”

  He drew a deep breath, eyes squinted shut, lips pressed into invisibility as he turned his face away. I reached for him, missed and tried again, this time closing my fingers around his. A silent spasm rocked him, almost imperceptible except for the tremor I felt where we touched. He sank into a chair, pressed his face to my hand and shook silently while I felt hot tears warm the clammy flesh on my knuckles. Awkwardly, I rolled to my side, laid my other hand on his head and laced my fingers through his hair.

  The curtain drew back, the nurse peeked in. I met his eyes, made a ‘shhh’ expression at him and he smiled, withdrawing. I saw motion from the steel door and the woman’s face looked out again. I returned her gaze, shook my head ‘no’ at her and, like the nurse, she faded from view.

  To my parents, who encouraged me to read from birth, and for not having any more kids. Being an only child probably played a large part in my overactive imagination, which is both a blessing and a curse. Thanks anyway.

  To that guy that lives with me, also known as the Spousal Unit, who puts up with all my moods, my weirdness, the long stretches of silence and outbursts of swearing, thank you. Even though you don’t read fiction, I still love you.

  Many thanks to Juli, Steph, Missy, for the brainstorming, and encouragement; to Jim for the information about firearms (about which I know nothing) and giving me further insight into how Barrett would behave under the circumstances; to my friends, family and my cheering section on Facebook; I have doubts about my writing, all the time, thanks for telling me to ignore that particular little voice.

  To the last publisher that I submitted my previous book to, that wanted me to rewrite it completely to fit their ‘formula’, thanks for pissing me off enough to publish on my own.

  And finally, to anyone that has ever wanted to write, do it. It doesn’t matter that it sucks, it all sucks at the beginning. Write about things you’ve done, you want to do, you hate, you love, just write, lather, rinse, repeat, ad infinitum. And most especially…

  Write for yourself.