My Life as a Cat

by Carlie Sorosiak

  “Taken care of. TJ and the rest of the crew are going to step up their hours, and we’ve just got a boatload of new volunteers for the end-of-summer events. Plus, I have a bunch of time off stored up. Been saving it for a rainy day.”

  “And I’m supposed to tell her mom – what? That she hasn’t seen her daughter in almost a month, but that’s OK. Her plans don’t matter?”

  “I wouldn’t lead with that, no. But you could mention that we’ll drop Olive off in Florida afterwards. Just a quick detour. She’ll still have time to settle in. So, you coming? It would mean a lot to Olive. And Leonard.”

  “Well then, by all means, if it would matter to the cat.” I was listening attentively by the refrigerator – and I will say that her words stung. Maybe she knew it, too; she threw a glance in my direction, an apologetic look in her eyes. Her nose twitched. “Sorry to drag you into this, Leonard.”

  Don’t mention it, I wanted to say – because really, I was the sorry one. Who was bringing all the fighting into this quiet house, if not me?

  “OK, OK,” Q said to Norma. “The truth?”

  “The truth would be nice,” Norma said.

  “It’s for the kid,” Q said, “but it’s also for you. Wait! Hear me out. You haven’t left Turtle Beach for three years. Three years. That’s a lot of sightseeing to make up for. So when Olive brought it up, I latched on to the idea. Remember how we always talked about trekking around Yellowstone? Come on, Norma. Don’t break my heart.”

  I knew that Q was stretching the truth, bending it to fit. But I was grateful.

  Giving them some space, I hauled myself across the living room and into Olive’s bedroom, where she was stuffing an old suitcase with paperback books. “I don’t really know what to bring,” she said, then she winced. “How bad are they arguing?”

  I did my best impression of a human shrug, lifting my shoulder blades up and down – which is actually quite difficult, if you are a cat. And I peered around her room for almost the last time. Leaving the beach house was giving me a strange sort of melancholy feeling. This human home: I remember so clearly, when I first arrived, dripping wet with floodwater – how blown away I was by every little thing. The toaster. Small toothbrushes in plastic holders. The flickering of the TV. Now, I would even miss the turtle night light, with its eerie green glow.

  How much would I remember? How much would I remember, really? Because memories are nothing, I realised, without a feeling attached. And that would be stripped away, as I travelled back. Logic, my species said. Logic above everything else. Feelings cloud the way.

  “Do you want to pack anything?” Olive asked. “I’ll bring your new litter box, your bowls, enough food for the trip, and of course your raincoat. But I still have some room in my backpack.”

  What else was there? I had no suitcase of my own, no socks to bring.

  She opened the laptop, just in case.

  So I typed, I am ready.

  It occurred to me that I should leave something – something for Olive to remember me by. A keepsake. Nothing too big. What could fit snuggly in the palm of her hand?

  Norma and Q were still arguing in the kitchen, so I slunk past them with ease, stopping by the plant holders. With my nose, I sifted through the pebbles – through the black, grey, blue. Once, at the aquarium, Olive had stopped by the penguin enclosure and told me a fact: that male gentoo penguins would tirelessly search through piles and piles of stones, until they found the smoothest, most outstanding one. Then they’d present the rock to their intended companion: as offering, as an expression of their soul. To me, you are as flawless as this stone.

  Soon, I found it – the perfect, blue pebble – and carried it back to Olive’s room in my mouth. I heard her outside, rolling her suitcase down the driveway, so I set it carefully on her pillow. Hopefully she’d understand.

  Hopefully she’d remember.

  Q knocked softly then on the bedroom door. “Guess it’s time.”

  So it was. I said goodbye – to Olive’s room, to the house, my green beach towel still hanging there on the porch railing, fluttering in the breeze.

  “That is…” Olive said.

  And Q said, “I know.”

  In the driveway was the most magnificent human vehicle I’d ever seen: boxy like a bus, but with an undeniable air of sophistication, a green stripe splashed across the side. We were gazing at the whole thing with reverence and awe.

  “Nineteen-sixty-nine Winnebago motorhome,” Q said, tapping the white panelling. “Camper of dreams. Bought her off Big Rick – you know, of Big Rick’s Crab Shack? Couldn’t stand to see a beauty like this just taking up space in a garage. Needs to be on the open highway, wind in her face.”

  “It looks like a fire hazard,” Norma said, popping up behind us. She was carrying an army-green rucksack, Stanley swishing his tail by her side. She stopped in front of Olive. “Two things. First, I don’t know why this means so much to you, but Q’s convinced me this is not a terrible idea. Second, we’re going to owe your mom one heck of an explanation. I’ve just left a voicemail on her phone, but start thinking of good apology presents now.”

  “So you are coming,” Q said.

  And Norma mumbled, “Yeah, yeah,” as she flung open the Winnebago’s side door, disappearing noisily inside.

  29

  There was something about a road trip, something uniquely alive. I couldn’t quite put my paw on it – why I felt so free, deep down – but suddenly we were cruising along a flat track of highway, and everything was humming: the air conditioning, the tyres, Norma. Before we’d even left Turtle Beach, Q had switched Johnny Cash on to the radio, and now Norma was mumbling along.

  “Careful!” Q said, a smile growing on his face. “Might just have to break out my ukulele.”

  Norma guffawed. “You know, I’ve never hurled myself out of a moving van, but heck, I’d give it a go. No ukuleles. No group singalongs. This isn’t that kind of road trip.”

  “Oh, I beg to differ,” Q said, tapping the steering wheel. “How about we let Leonard decide? Leonard! Singalongs, yay or nay?” He tracked my reflection in the rear-view mirror as I nodded, discreetly dipping my chin. Stanley also gave his seal of approval with a tender a-woo, his breath hot and smelling of salmon.

  Olive stroked his head. On her lap was an atlas of the United States, and she was hunched over it, eyes tracing our route. “I’m not seeing much,” she said above the music. Q had suggested that she find some roadside attractions, short stops to break up our journey, and the idea thrilled me – that I might encounter a greater slice of humanity; the best that Earth had to offer.

  “The world’s largest rocking chair?” Olive said. “No, that’s too far out of the way. Hmm … there’s just a lot of Walmart and – wait. There is a zoo. But Leonard and Stanley probably wouldn’t be allowed in. And it’s ten miles off the highway.”

  “Ten miles is nothing,” Norma said, swivelling in the passenger’s seat. “What’s the rush, sailor? We can spare a couple of hours.”

  To this, Olive said nothing. I understood why. From Turtle Beach to Yellowstone was 2,329 miles, give or take a few, which didn’t leave us with much wiggle room. If we travelled all day for three solid days, we’d make it just in time. No major stops. No extended bathroom breaks. It was a delicate balance; we’d have to rush without looking like we were rushing. Otherwise, Norma might start asking questions like: Why do we have to be there by June 30 at 9:01 a.m.? Already, the tension was building, and I couldn’t help but yawn, my tongue curled, hoping to relieve the pressure. At the beginning of the month, I’d travelled across the universe on a beam of light – and this was more stressful by far.

  It was also more enjoyable.

  Together, Olive and I explored the camper: we rolled back and forth on the springy bunk beds, searched the nooks and crannies for lost quarters, played cards at the small kitchen table. Well, Olive played cards – and I watched her flick the deck, so skilled with her human hands. Every two hours or so, we
’d stop at a gas station and stretch our legs, Q buying stale French fries, Olive sipping from a wild-cherry Slurpee. Norma was meticulous about scraping all the bugs from the windshield, and I – resting on the dashboard – observed the squeegee with intense interest. It left streaks like shooting stars.

  You could say that everything was going smoothly, according to plan.

  Until we reached Asheville, North Carolina, and Norma insisted that we stop for biscuits.

  “Not just any biscuits,” she said. “The best dang biscuits you’ve ever eaten. Turn left here.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait until Tennessee?” Olive suggested, trying to keep up the momentum. She offered Norma a bag of potato chips. “Here, I grabbed these for you at the last stop.”

  “Nuh-uh,” Norma said, adamant. “These biscuits are from the famous Tupelo Honey Café. They’re an educational experience. That’s what we’re doing here, right? Don’t be so worried about the time. A good biscuit’s worth waiting for.”

  No one contradicted her.

  So we turned off the highway, in the direction of breakfast pastry.

  Perhaps this would have been fine – if it didn’t happen again in the Nantahala National Forest, when Norma insisted that we take a long walk among the pines. “I’m not young like you,” she explained to Olive. “I’ve got to stretch my legs every once in a while.” Then, somewhere in East Tennessee, we lost half an hour to a farm stand, Norma picking over the fresh vegetables.

  “We don’t need cucumbers,” Olive whispered to me. “We need to be on the road.”

  I tried to reassure her with a headbutt to the shins, but the truth was, Norma’s dilly-dallying was making me shed. Maybe it was just a side-effect of summer, but by Tennessee, I was losing so much fur it appeared that I was cloning myself. A Leonard here, a Leonard there.

  “You can use my brush,” Olive said sympathetically, then unloaded our stuff.

  We stayed the night at a campground in Nashville – 590 miles from Turtle Beach. It had a small pool that glittered under the moon, and several barbeque pits that left a strong scent of meat products in the air. Next to the camper was a sun-bleached thicket of grass; in this, Q set up a circle of folding chairs – and whipped out his ukulele.

  Norma protested.

  Olive won.

  “I could use a good song right now,” she said, and who could argue with that? Jumping on a chair, I wrapped myself into a comfortable ball, my fur shimmering in the light breeze. So I had a front-row seat to what happened next: the way Q began strumming chords, how Olive started bobbing her head back and forth.

  “All summer,” Q said, “I’ve been thinking, you know what? Turtle Beach Aquarium needs a theme song. Absolutely it does. If tourists hear a catchy tune on TV, something good and cheesy, they’ll stop right in.” He was joking – you could tell by the playful grin on his face – but Olive caught on quickly.

  “Come by to Turtle Beach Aquarium,” she sang. “Where the sharks are cool, and the fish are—”

  “Scary-um,” Q added.

  Olive quirked her head. “Scary-um?”

  “I know they’re not scary, but just go with it,” he said, then sang in a deep-throated gurgle: “You’ll have a blast, and time flies fast—”

  “When you’re spending it with aquari … fun,” Olive finished.

  Everyone agreed that it was a dreadful song. But we were laughing. We were laughing under a moonlit sky. And in that moment, it was difficult to imagine anyone in the universe but us.

  30

  I fell asleep that night in the crook of Olive’s arm, half beneath a patchwork quilt. I dreamed of Turtle Beach. I dreamed we were on the sand again, with the sea turtles, leading them to the water. But in the foggy distance, I felt it – time slipping away.

  Only two days left, I woke up thinking. Two full days on Earth.

  Stress tumbled in my belly, and I realised I’d shed a good deal in the night; there was a fuzzy outline where I’d slept. My fur looked greatly the worse for wear, standing in pathetic tufts around my neck.

  Olive was beginning to stir as Norma rummaged for mugs in the kitchen, the musky smell of coffee filling the camper. “Is something wrong with Leonard?” Norma asked a minute later. She’d poured herself a strong cup, and was glancing at me with her head askew.

  Olive sat up on her elbows, grimacing at my fur. “He’s… I guess he’s tired?”

  “Whatever he is, it’s making him rough around the edges.” Norma said this between glugs of coffee. “You think he could be carsick? We could take longer breaks if he—”

  “No!” Olive responded, too quickly. She had to reel back the word. “I’m sorry. It’s just that Q and I were talking about travelling a lot today. Seven hundred and fifty miles.” With care, she smoothed the fur on my bib, where the tufts were spikiest. “Maybe we should take him to breakfast with us, though? Keep an eye on him?”

  “Bring him to the diner?” Norma asked, at the same time as Q popped out from the bathroom and said, “Sure, let’s take Stanley, too.”

  As the humans debated this, I took a moment to clean myself, trying to salvage the sleekness of my fur, and then we were off to the restaurant, a half mile from the campsite. It was a strange sort of earthly invention: a diner dedicated to the cowboy boot. Food delivered on cowboy-boot platters, cowboy boots pinned on the walls. What was the purpose of it all? And why was it so loud? The hostess gave Stanley and me a triple glance before leading us to a booth, where I was careful – very, very careful – not to scratch the vinyl seats.

  When the waitress came, she scrunched her nose, eyeing us up and down, as if searching for fleas. “Um, sorry. But, like, we don’t allow animals?”

  If that was indeed true, why was she phrasing it like a question?

  Q jumped in. “These aren’t just any animals. This is Leonard, King of Cats, Champion of the Aquarium. And this is Stanley, who might be the size of a bear, but is, in fact, not one.”

  “Yeah,” the waitress said, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  It was Norma who saved us with six simple words: “We’ll give you a huge tip.”

  The waitress rolled her eyes, but miraculously took our order. Olive selected pancakes for herself, half a scrambled egg for me; I rolled it in the smallness of my mouth, trying to enjoy the taste. Normally, I would have liked the egg: the savoury quality, the way it folded against my tongue. But my stomach continued to tumble.

  “Good thing I’m trained in the Heimlich,” Norma said, watching Olive scarf down her pancakes. “Slow down, sailor. You’ll hurt yourself.”

  “Sorry,” Olive said, talking around a mouthful of pancakes. “I planned about twenty-seven minutes for breakfast, and it’s already been eighteen.”

  From the floor, Stanley asked if anyone was going to finish those strips of turkey bacon. They smell delicious, he said. Unfortunately, I was the only one who heard him.

  Norma stuck a fork in her hash browns. “You know, in my day, everything was slower. We used to play games to pass the time on car trips. Now, I’m not a big games person, but I’d be willing to, this one time.” She sounded hopeful, actually. Grandmotherly.

  Olive considered this. “What kind of games?”

  “Anything.” Norma shrugged. “I-Spy. Twenty questions. Tic-tac-toe.”

  So, after we finished our meals and hurried back to the camper, Q suggested a game. “It’s called ‘Best Day on Earth’.”

  “Never heard of it,” said Norma.

  “That’s because I thought of it right now,” he said, backing out of the parking lot before gunning the gas. We jerked forward, pulling on to the highway with a plume of exhaust. “You have two options: you can tell us about your best day on Earth, or you make up what you’d want your best day to look like. Leonard, you start.” My eyes widened as he tossed a glance back at me. “Kidding,” he said. “I’m kidding! I’ll go.”

  “Well, hold on a second,” Norma said. “I’ve got one.”

  Outs
ide, the streets of Nashville were blurring, and the rush of the air-conditioner was flitting my fur back. I settled next to Olive on the built-in couch, listening. The world became very quiet, until all we could hear was the hum of the vents, the hush of tyres against road.

  Norma wrung her hands, turning to face Olive, Stanley and me. She seemed to be debating something, her eyes glassy and flickering. “This story,” she finally said to Olive, “is about your daddy. I guess I could say what I was going to say, which is some nonsense about riding my motorcycle to Canada, but I figure you deserve the truth.” She tilted her chin upward. “To start with, the shrimp industry in South Carolina was collapsing. It was chaos. The catches were too sparse, too inconsistent – and we couldn’t compete any more, not with the Gulf of Mexico. People were ditching their boats left and right. I was one of the last locals to hold on, in the water with my crew, just pulling up air.”

  Norma’s tone was grim, and Olive shifted uncomfortably beside me.

  Q cut in, “And this is your best day?”

  “Hold your horses,” Norma said. “I’m getting to it. Now, on the day before I sold my boat, your parents came to visit me, sailor. You’re too young to remember this – you were just a baby, a real little kid – but that’s when I met you for the first time. I was in a horrible mood. A kick-the-world mood. But seeing your face, well, it faded away just a touch. And we went out on the boat: got a tiny life jacket for you, took out the trawler with your parents. I’ve never seen your dad happier, out there on the cove. Calm waters. The sun setting over the pier. It was beautiful – picture sort of stuff. But he kept his eyes on you.” Norma’s throat trembled as she prodded the area right above her heart. It took her a moment to continue. “And that’s my best day on Earth.”

  I peered up at Olive. She had water in the corner of her eyes, and I could tell that words were failing her. She was breathing slowly, purposefully, like she was trying very hard to inflate her lungs. I wanted to console her, to breathe for her, because it was hitting me for the first time – hitting me in the most unexpected way – just how much Norma must miss her son. How much Olive must miss her father. All I could do was offer her a long, unblinking stare, my eyes half-slits. For cats, there is no greater gesture.