“Are you lost?”
He seems quite certain that he isn’t, looking up at her as if he belongs here.
He doesn’t, of course. The landlord has a strict no-pets policy. That’s always been fine with Bella, whose last apartment came with a neighbor’s dog that barked twenty-four-seven. Besides, Sam is severely allergic to dander.
She expects the cat to bolt as she steps around him and dumps the broken glass into the metal garbage can, but he doesn’t even flinch at the clattering din. Impulsively bending to pet him, she’s rewarded with loud purring.
Hmm. He’s wearing a red collar, so he’s not a stray.
“Mommy?” Max calls from the kitchen.
“Out here.”
“Can I watch TV?”
“Nope. You know the rule.” Only an hour a day, and only in the early morning or before bed, unless it’s raining.
“Then can we play Candyland?” he asks.
She sighs. Playing the interminable game is questionable anytime. But now?
Sam would have dropped everything to play Candyland with Max.
“I was an only child, too. I get it,” he’d say.
Bella had been an only child as well, and of course, she got it, too. But she and Sam each had their forte when it came to occupying their son. Books and puzzles were her department; board games and anything involving wheels or a ball were Sam’s.
Now it’s all up to me, and how the heck am I supposed to squeeze playtime into this crazy day?
“Maybe we can play later,” she tells Max as he appears in the doorway with the Candyland box and a hopeful expression.
He’s still barefoot and wearing the pajamas she’d told him to change earlier this morning. A five-year-old version of his late father, he has the same sandy brown cowlick above his forehead and the same solemn brown eyes behind his glasses. Now they widen when he sees the cat.
“Where did he come from?”
“I’m not sure. You have to get dressed, Max. It’s almost noon.”
“I will.” He crouches beside the kitty. “Can we keep him?”
The timing of the question is so ludicrous, it’s a wonder Bella manages to keep from blurting, Are you nuts?
Instead, she counts to three before gently reminding her son, “We’re leaving tomorrow, and I’m sure he already has a home.” Lucky him.
“But Doctor Lex said that I should get a pet, remember? And the only reason we couldn’t was because it was against the rules. Now that we’re moving, we don’t have any rules.”
“Oh, sweetie.” She stands and wraps her arms around him. “I’m sorry.”
Doctor Lex is the child psychologist Max started seeing last winter. The kindly man did, indeed, mention that a pet might provide effective grief therapy for a child who’s too shy—around other kids, anyway—to have made any kindergarten friends of his own. His teacher had suggested that Bella set up some play dates for him, but Sam’s illness enveloped her. She didn’t have the heart, or the time or energy, to reach out to other parents who would ask painful questions. She’d distanced herself from even her own friends during those dark days.
In the aftermath, she realized too late that Max wasn’t the only one who was lonely and isolated. Doctor Lex was right. Her grieving son sorely needed companionship. The landlord’s zero-tolerance no-pet policy was the only thing that stopped Bella from acting on the suggestion to at least get him a parakeet or goldfish. But now . . .
“He can come with us to Grandma’s,” Max says as the cat brushes against their bare legs, purring to show them how darned lovable he is. “Please?”
Again, Bella chooses her words carefully: “Grandma is allergic, just like Daddy was.”
She doesn’t know that for a fact, but as it is, her mother-in-law probably isn’t thrilled about welcoming into her perfect household her son’s imperfect widow and a child prone to scattering crumbs, Matchbox cars, and Lego pieces. There’s no way they can add an animal to the mix.
Still purring, the cat stretches and takes a leisurely stroll down the back steps. Bella admires his markings aloud to Max, pointing out the angled stripes that form an M above his eyes, the hallmark of a mackerel tabby. Even his tail is striped, standing straight up with the tip curved over.
“If it was red and white, it would look just like a candy cane,” Max observes. “I love him. We have to keep him, Mom.”
“He already has a home,” she repeats.
“But how do you know that?”
“Because stray cats don’t wear collars, so he’s someone’s pet and he—”
She breaks off as the cat stops walking, lies down on the walkway, and rolls over onto his back, arching to expose his belly as if inviting them to rub it.
“And he what?” Max prompts as she raises an eyebrow.
“And he isn’t a he; he’s a she,” Bella informs her son with a smile, “and she’s about to become a mommy.”
“How do you know that?”
She indicates the parallel rows of exposed pink nipples like buttons on a double-breasted suit and offers a simplified explanation of how mother nature is preparing the cat to nurse her impending litter—a sizable one and due any second, judging by her bulging stomach.
She rests a hand on Max’s shoulder to steer him back into the house as the mother-to-be stretches lazily in the sun.
“Come on, kiddo. Let’s let her rest. She’s going to need it.”
* * *
A little over twenty-four hours later, Bella’s sneakered footsteps echo across the hardwood floors of the home where fate catapulted her from bride to wife to mother to widow.
Ever since she realized she’d have to move, she’s been trying to focus on what lies ahead, not behind. Now, however, she allows herself one last look to make sure she didn’t forget anything. There are plenty of nooks and cubbies to check: closets within closets and cabinets within cabinets, cupboards beside the fireplace, compartments under the stairs and concealed beneath window seats . . .
Sam’s voice echoes back over the years. “I don’t want to live in a boring box in the city,” he said when they were apartment hunting before the wedding. “Promise me that we’ll find a cozy place that has character, and a backyard with lots of trees.”
They did. These sun-flooded rooms radiate old-fashioned charm, with high ceilings and original woodwork. A leafy backyard beckons beyond the paned windows.
Too bad her mother-in-law’s Chicago neighborhood is a boring old maze of monochromatic rectangles in the sky.
“Don’t worry, Sam,” she whispers around a lump in her throat. “Wherever Max and I wind up after we get back on our feet, I promise you it will be just like this—cozy with character, in a real house with a yard. And I promise you . . . I promise . . .”
Those same two words were the last she ever said to him, holding both his hands in a hospital room. Her sturdy husband had grown so frail and exhausted, but he wouldn’t let go. Not until she’d promised to move on without him.
“You’ve always been so strong.”
“Because I have you. We’re strong together.”
He shook his head. “You can do anything.”
“Not this. Not alone.”
“You have Max. You have . . . me.” He was fading; every word was labored. “I’ll be with you, even when . . .”
“Sam . . .”
“Promise me you’ll . . . stay . . . strong . . .”
“I promise.”
Swallowing hard, she pushes away the memory. It’s time to go.
There’s just one more place for her to check: the hidden compartment under the second to the bottom tread on an old servant’s staircase that leads to nowhere. The top was boarded over years ago, probably when the house was transformed to apartments.
This is where Sam always left little gifts for her. He’d send her an e-mail or text telling her to check “our spot,” and when she did, she’d find something sweet: a box of her favorite chocolates, a book she’d been wanting to read,
a piece of jewelry . . .
“I wanted to give you that pendant for Christmas,” he told her, near the end, and she didn’t have to ask what he meant.
She thinks about the pendant they’d found browsing in a jewelry store last spring, when they’d spent a glorious sunny Saturday in quaint Port Jefferson. Max was exhilarated by the ferry ride across the Long Island Sound, and Sam was still healthy then, not a care in the world other than the hefty price tag on the delicate blue tourmaline pendant. He said the gemstone matched her eyes exactly and wanted to buy it for her on the spot, but she wouldn’t let him.
“That’s a crazy amount of money to spend on a piece of jewelry, Sam. We have a million other things we need to buy right now.”
“Maybe right now,” he agreed, before adding with his dark eyes twinkling, “but you just wait. The necklace was meant to be yours, and it will be—when you least expect it.”
In December, near the end, he told her he’d planned on buying it for her for Christmas. “I really . . . wanted you to have it.” His voice was weak, his pale face clenched in pain.
“Next Christmas,” she said fervently, clasping his hand. “You can get it for me next Christmas.”
But she knew. They both knew. There would be no next Christmas for Sam—or even this Christmas. He passed away just a few days before.
The necklace was meant to be yours, and it will be—when you least expect it.
Those words haunt her now as she opens the stairway compartment. It’s empty, of course. She knew it would be. She checked it countless times since Sam passed away, hoping irrationally that she might discover some forgotten gift he’d left there for her—the tourmaline pendant, perhaps. But there are no miracles even today, the last day.
She closes the hinged stair tread and walks slowly to the door. As she steps over the threshold for the final time, she remembers how Sam carried her in the opposite direction a decade ago, champagne-giddy and tripping over the train of her wedding gown.
Oh, Sam. I never thought I’d be leaving here without you. I never thought we’d be leaving here at all.
She wipes her eyes, locks the door, and leaves the keys under the mat for the new owner.
As she crosses the grass to the waiting car, its passenger seat stacked high with everything that wouldn’t fit into the trunk, Max waves at her from the back seat.
When she sees the tears that have slid past the frames of his glasses to trickle down his little boy cheeks, a monstrous sob wells in her throat.
No. No, she can’t let herself cry in front of her son. She has to stay strong for him, for Sam. She promised.
She pastes on a smile, jauntily jangling the car keys as she slides behind the wheel.
“Here we go,” she says gaily, as if they’ve just lowered the lap bar on a ride at Disney World. “All set?”
For a moment, there’s only silence from the back seat.
Then Max pipes up: “Yes.”
Just one word—one tiny, tremendously brave word.
“Good.” She turns the ignition key with a trembling hand, shifts the car, and presses the gas pedal.
Too late, she realizes that she forgot to take one last look at the house before it fell away in the rearview mirror.
Chapter Two
The drive across New York State was surprisingly pleasant, carrying Bella and Max past majestic mountains, endless acres of farms and pastures, old industrial cities, and picturesque villages.
Seven hours into the journey, though, she detects a faint rattling sound coming from the engine. It isn’t steady, but every once in a while, it kicks in. Maybe she should get the car checked out at a service station—and pray it’s nothing she can’t afford to fix.
Which is pretty much everything.
Who cares about a car? Who cares about things? All that matters is the people you love.
People? There’s only one person left who matters in Bella’s world.
And I’m going to make sure he has a cozy, happy home again, she vows fiercely.
She swallows hard and clears her throat. “Should we find a place to spend the night now, Max?”
Surprised, he asks, “We’re already in Ohio?”
“No, I thought we’d stop earlier than we planned. I can’t wait to camp out. How about you?”
She packed sleeping bags and the two-man tent she and Sam used only once, when they discovered they hated camping.
But this is a fresh start. Maybe it’ll be better this time around.
Come on. Nothing is better without Sam.
“I guess,” Max says. “I wish we could sleep inside, though.”
So do I.
But she can’t even afford a budget motel. Not with gas prices as high as they are and the car acting up. She doesn’t have a choice about the camping—or the fresh start—so she might as well make the best of things for Max’s sake.
And really, after what she’s been through, this is nothing. Camping out? Driving halfway across the country to visit Maleficent with a messy kid and all their worldly belongings on board?
I’ve totally got this.
Or does she? The sky, now rapidly gathering purple-black clouds, was sunny and blue until five minutes ago. She’d expected it to stay that way until dusk, which—this far west and on the cusp the summer solstice—shouldn’t descend until after nine o’clock. But she recognizes an impending thunderstorm when she sees one.
“How are we going to camp if it rains, Mommy?” Max wants to know.
“I’m sure we’ll stay dry in the tent.” She isn’t at all sure about that, and a glance into the rearview mirror reveals that Max isn’t either. He sits pensively wiggling his loose bottom tooth with his thumb.
“I don’t really want to sleep in the tent anymore.”
“It’ll be okay, sweetie. Besides, maybe the storm will pass.” The remark is underscored by a rumble of thunder, and she continues almost without missing a beat, “Then again, maybe it won’t. Let’s look for an exit with a campsite.”
The response is a high-pitched, “I really think we should just get a hotel!”
Oh, Max. Hang in there, kiddo.
“I really wish we could,” she manages to say evenly, “but we just can’t.”
Max wants to know why not and where they’ll camp, and he’s worried about mud and lightning and bears and a host of other potential nature-related calamities that he catalogs for her as she nervously listens to the engine rattle.
Then—yes!—she spots a billboard.
Summer Pines Campground: Next Exit.
Wow. Talk about luck.
“That looks nice, doesn’t it?” She points at the enormous photo of tents pitched on the grassy shore of a sapphire lake beneath a picture perfect summer sky that has nothing in common with the one looming ahead. “Should we check it out?”
“I guess,” he says gamely.
As they rattle north onto Route 60, she checks the odometer. According to that billboard, the turnoff for the campground is ten miles up the road.
She keeps an eye out for a service station. But the two-lane highway runs through hilly, rural farmland. Pastures, livestock, silos—there are few other cars even traveling this stretch. To occupy Max—and keep him from asking more questions she doesn’t want to answer—she challenges him to count the grazing cows on either side of the road and promises him an ice cream cone for dessert later if he can count twenty.
“Can it be chocolate chip?”
“Sure.”
“Can it be two scoops? With sprinkles?”
“Sure—if you can count twenty-five cows.”
That he accomplishes in short order, noting that most of them are lying down.
“That’s because they know it’s going to rain.”
“How do they know?”
“I guess they’re psychic,” she says absently, checking the odometer and then the mile marker at the side of the highway. Six more to go.
Rattle . . . rattle . . .
“What�
�s psychic?”
“It’s . . . when you can predict the future.”
“Cows can predict the future?”
She smiles, imagining a Guernsey with a crystal ball. “Well, I wouldn’t put it that way. But some animals can be superintuitive.”
“What’s intuitive?”
“It’s knowing something that you can’t really know.”
“That doesn’t make sense. If you can’t know it, then how do you know it?”
“Because you don’t just rely on your five senses to—” She hits the brakes, spotting something ahead in the road as they round a curve.
The car stops just inches from a small animal. For a moment, she assumes that it’s roadkill—a dead possum or raccoon. Then she realizes that it’s a cat—a gray tabby—and it’s very much alive, staring at the car. She waits for it to scuttle off into the tall purple wildflowers along the narrow shoulder, but it doesn’t move.
“Look, Mom! He followed us all the way here!”
“What?”
“The kitty from home! The one with the candy cane tail!”
Indeed, this cat’s tail is similarly striped, standing straight up and hooked into a curve, and its markings are strikingly similar to the one who showed up on their doorstep yesterday.
“Max, he didn’t follow us. And he was a she, by the way, remember? And this cat isn’t the same—”
“Oh, yeah!” In the rearview mirror, she sees him slap his cheek. “He was a she because she was going to have babies, and she didn’t follow us because she got here first. She’s the leader. We followed her.”
Bella can’t help but laugh. “Whatever you say, kiddo. But she—or he—had better move, because she’s going to get hurt if she stays there.”
“I don’t think she wants to move.”
Max is right. The cat just sits calmly staring at the car.
Bella rolls down the window and leans her head out, noticing the chill in the air. Suddenly, the tank top and cut-off denim shorts she donned this morning feel as though they belong to a different season.
“Hey, kitty!” she calls. “You have to get out of the road!”
Nope.
Nine Lives Page 2