Nine Lives

by Wendy Corsi Staub

Bella may never have owned a cat, but she knows enough about them to be aware that they like to do things on their own terms. Which is fine when you’re talking about when to use the litter box and whether to eat your kibble. But when it comes to personal safety . . .

  “Look out!” she shouts as an eighteen-wheeler comes barreling around a curve in the opposite lane.

  The cat doesn’t budge, nor does it blink as the truck hurtles past just a few feet from where it’s sitting.

  “Crazy cat,” Bella mutters. She beeps the horn. “Move! You’re going to get run over!”

  “No! Don’t run her over, Mom!”

  “I’m not going to run her over. But somebody else will if she doesn’t get out of the way. Besides, it’s dangerous for us to be stalled in this lane,” she adds, glancing in the rearview mirror. The road is sharply curved behind them. If another car—or, God forbid, a truck—comes along, it might not be able to stop in time.

  Frustrated, she honks again.

  The cat stays put.

  “This is ridiculous,” she grumbles, pulling the car off the road onto the narrow shoulder. She shifts into park, turns on the hazards, and climbs out of the car. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?” Max asks worriedly.

  “To move our friend. We can’t just leave him there. He’s a sitting duck.”

  “He’s not a duck. He’s a cat. And he’s a she, remember?”

  She grins, leaving Mr. Literal-Minded securely strapped into the back seat. She darts a look to the left to make sure there are no cars coming before stepping into the road and wonders what she’d do if she did see one. And what would the cat do?

  Surely it would run away—unless it’s injured. Maybe that’s why it’s not moving. Maybe it can’t.

  “It’s okay, kitty,” Bella says, hurrying toward it and noticing that it certainly looks like the doorstep cat from yesterday. But gray tabbies are a dime a dozen, she reminds herself. They all look alike: tiger ticking; wide, green eyes; even that M-shaped marking on their furry foreheads, and . . .

  And plenty of cats have red collars, too, she decides, noticing that this one happens to be wearing one, just like the doorstep kitty.

  “What’s the matter, fella? Are you hurt?” Casting another glance at the highway, reassured to see that it’s still empty behind them, she bends over to give the cat a pat.

  No sooner does her hand graze its furry head than it promptly falls backward.

  For a moment, she’s certain she’s going to see blood, a broken leg, something, something . . .

  She sees something all right.

  The cat isn’t hurt; she’s purring and rolling languidly onto her back, stretching and arching her neck and then her belly to be rubbed.

  “You’re not a fella, are you?” she asks dryly.

  This cat, like its candy-cane-tailed counterpart, is decidedly female—and equally pregnant.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, the first fat raindrop splats onto the windshield as she turns off Route 60 onto a tree-lined country road.

  “Is this where the kitty doctor is, Mom?” Max asks from the back seat.

  “Somewhere around here, yes.”

  After manhandling the cat off the road and into the back seat, she was glad to see that her phone got Internet reception even in the middle of nowhere. She was going to search for local animal control but then thought better of it. Kill shelters still exist in some areas, and she doesn’t want their pregnant furry friend to end up in one. Instead, she looked up veterinarians, which seemed like the most humane option.

  She heard after-hours recordings on the first three numbers she called and wasn’t sure what she’d do if the fourth and final one resulted in the same. But a harried-sounding man picked up.

  “Lakeview Animal Hospital.”

  “Hi, I . . . I found a pregnant cat in the middle of the road and I—”

  “Is she injured?”

  “I don’t think so. She wasn’t moving, so I picked her up and she seems—”

  “And she’s a stray?”

  “She’s wearing a collar, but it doesn’t have identification. I don’t know where—”

  “Bring her in. I’ll scan her. Do you know where we are?”

  I don’t even know where I am, Bella thought.

  She glances from the road ahead to the ever-darkening western sky through the driver’s side window to the back seat. Somewhere along the way, the cat wound up curled in her son’s lap, its loud purring punctuated by the occasional rumble of thunder.

  Max remains convinced that this is the same cat from their yard back home, and she gave up trying to argue with him. In five-year-old logic, it makes about as much sense that a cat would find its way on foot across the state and wind up precisely in their path—well off the beaten one—as it does that there would be identical pregnant cats living four hundred miles apart.

  Bella hits the brakes as the navigational system’s robotic voice announces, “Arriving . . . at . . . destination.”

  Looking around for a medical facility, she sees nothing but woods. “Where is it?” she wonders aloud.

  “We don’t know,” Max replies, and she notes that somehow, in the space of fifteen minutes, he and the cat seem to have transformed into a “we.”

  Off to the side of the road, she spots a tiny wooden sign alongside a barely discernible dirt lane leading through the trees.

  Lakeview Animal Hospital and Rescue

  After a moment’s hesitation, she turns the car in that direction and they bump-rattle along until they reach a small clapboard structure. It’s not a house, exactly, though it has a pitched roof and a low concrete stoop with a silver wrought iron railing. It’s more like a cross between a cottage and a shed.

  Getting out of the car, she notes that the air feels markedly cooler, and the maple leaves overhead are stirring, turning over. She’d better make this quick, then find the campsite before the sky opens up. The service station can wait until morning.

  She grabs a hoodie from the front seat. Emblazoned with a New York Yankees logo, it was Sam’s. He left it on the bed before his final trip to the hospital.

  Even now, her husband’s familiar scent seems to envelop her as she throws it on.

  It’s going to be okay, she reminds herself. You’ve got this. One thing at a time: cat, then campsite, then car . . .

  She cautiously opens the back door. “Don’t you run away, kitty. We don’t have time to chase you down.”

  Lounging across Max’s lap as he strokes her fat, furry belly with its double row of fat pink nipples, the cat offers Bella a languid stare as if to say, Don’t worry, darling. I wouldn’t dream of it.

  No amount of coaxing will get the animal out of the car. Bella is forced to gently drag her across the seat and carry her onto the small porch, trailed by Max.

  He tries to open the door for them as she shifts the squirming cat in her arms. “It’s locked.”

  “Turn the knob harder. Maybe the other direction.”

  He tries. Nope. “What does that sign say, Mommy?”

  “It says they closed at five. But there’s a light on in there, and the vet answered the phone when we called. Can you knock, please, sweetie?”

  He does, timidly and then louder, at her urging, as the cat somersaults in her arms.

  At last, movement from within. A man in a lab coat opens the door. He’s tall, with brown hair, broad shoulders, and brown eyes behind a pair of glasses.

  “I . . . I’m Isabella Jordan.” Her voice cracks a bit. “I called a few minutes ago. Are you the person I talked to?”

  “Yes. I’m Doctor Bailey.” His scrutiny flicks from her to Max to the cat and settles on Max again. “And you are?”

  “I’m Max, and this is—”

  “No need for animal introductions, Max,” he cuts in brusquely. “I see you’ve brought your pet pig, Penelope, for her daily weigh-in.”

  Startled, Bella double-takes on the man’s gaze and spot
s a gleam amid the sternness.

  “She isn’t a pig,” Max contradicts, “and she isn’t a duck either, even though my mom thought she was.”

  “Young man, I don’t know who you’re trying to fool, but I believe I’m the animal expert here, and I know a pig when I see one.” Doctor Bailey is deadpan.

  “She’s a cat!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes! Plus she’s got more cats in her belly.”

  “Is that so? Then it appears you’re the expert here. What should we do next? Have a look at her?”

  “Yes!”

  “All right, come on in, and can you please be sure to lock the door behind you, Max? Otherwise, we’ll have all kinds of critters trying to sneak past reception now that my assistant is gone for the day. I hate when that happens.”

  “Does that really happen?” Max whispers to Bella, wide-eyed, as they follow Doctor Bailey over the threshold.

  He answers the question before Bella can: “All the time, Max. I used to leave a clipboard on the desk overnight with the paperwork so that they could sign themselves in properly. The cats were very efficient, as were the unicorns, but the kangaroos were too jumpy, and the skunks . . . don’t even get me started on the skunks.” He pinches his nose with his fingers, and Max laughs. Bella finds herself smiling, too.

  The waiting room is small, with a creaky wooden floor covered in a threadbare runner. The reception desk is slightly battered, with papers stacked tidily on its top and a wooden chair neatly rolled beneath it. The only other furniture in the room is a park bench with a wooden slatted seat and wrought iron arms. Above it is a bulletin board topped by a sign that reads, Happy Tails, and is covered in photos of smiling people clutching furry creatures.

  Definitely not a sophisticated operation, but a friendly one.

  Doctor Bailey flips on the light in an exam room the size of a small walk-in closet. All business again, he looks at his watch and then at Bella, gesturing at a chair. “Here, sit and hold her. I only have a couple of minutes. I’ve got a puppy in the next room about to wake up from anesthesia after emergency surgery, and I can’t leave her alone for long.”

  “What happened to the puppy?” Max wants to know.

  “Someone found him in the woods and brought him to me a little while ago. His leg was badly hurt.”

  “How?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Whose puppy is it?”

  “I’m not sure,” Doctor Bailey says again, unperturbed by the questions but clearly focused on the cat now.

  He kneels beside Bella—so close she can smell his soapy scent—and gives the cat a brief once-over, which mostly seems to consist of patting her here and there and letting her nuzzle his hand.

  “She’s pregnant all right.”

  “How many kittens are in there?” Max asks.

  “Quite a few. And they’re due pretty soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “I’d say within the next week or so. But other than that, she seems perfectly fine. Here, I’ll scan her.”

  “We’ll leave the room,” Bella says quickly. The word scan brings to mind futile, difficult days seeing specialists with Sam. He endured endless CAT scans and PET scans and bone scans, with progressively bleak results.

  “No, you can stay. It only takes a few seconds.” He picks up an electronic wand and waves it along the cat’s head. “See? All done. She has a chip.”

  “A chip?” Bella echoes. “A bone chip?”

  “Maybe a chocolate chip,” Max suggests. “I like chocolate chip ice cream.”

  Doctor Bailey smiles at him and then, for the first time, directly at Bella. “She has a microchip. In her ear. That’s what I was scanning for. Whenever someone brings in a stray, I check for one. Most pet owners have them implanted in their pets’ ears so that they can be traced if they wander. Which is what our gal here must have done.” He reaches into a plastic container, grabs a handful of kibble, and holds it out to the cat, who nibbles greedily from his hand.

  “So you know who the owner is?”

  “I have the microchip number. I’ll see where it traces. Be right back. You can be on treat duty, Max.” He hands over the container and disappears.

  Max looks at Bella. “Should I feed her some of these?”

  “Sure. She’s eating for two. Or maybe for five or six . . . or more.”

  “How many babies do cats have at once time?”

  “A lot.”

  “Like a hundred?”

  She laughs. “No, not that many.”

  “Twenty seven?”

  “Not that many either,” she says, sensing that they’re on the cusp of a conversation where he’ll throw out arbitrary numbers until she agrees with one of them.

  She changes the subject back to ice cream until Doctor Bailey returns a few minutes later, harried. “I have to get back to the dog. She’s regaining consciousness.”

  “What about—”

  “Here you go.” He holds out a piece of paper. “Her name is Chance.”

  “Chance the Cat,” Max says.

  “Exactly.” Doctor Bailey flicks a glance at Max and hesitates, as though he wants to say something, but doesn’t. “She belongs to someone named Leona Gatto. I tried to call her, but it bounced into an electronic recording that the voicemail box is full. That’s her address—she’s over in the Dale—so you can just bring the cat there.”

  “To . . . the Dale, did you say?”

  “Lily Dale.”

  “Is that a town?”

  Something flickers in his eyes. “You’ve never heard of it? Where did you say you live?”

  She didn’t. He never asked.

  “We don’t live anywhere anymore,” Max informs him. “We have to sleep in a tent because my dad is dead and my mom lost her job and we don’t have a house and we don’t have any money and we—”

  “Max!”

  “Is that true?” Doctor Bailey asks Bella.

  It is, but . . .

  “We’re in the process of moving,” she explains, avoiding his gaze, “and we’re making a little vacation out of it, so we’re going to camp out tonight over at Summer Pines. That reminds me—”

  “Where?”

  “What?”

  “Where are you camping?”

  “Oh. Summer Pines. The campground. It’s right near here.”

  “It can’t be.”

  “Why can’t it?”

  “Because I’ve never heard of it.”

  Resisting the urge to remind him that he can’t possibly know everything about . . . well, everything, she plucks the piece of paper from his hand. She was about to ask him about service stations, but forget it. She’ll ask Leona Gatto.

  “How far is Lily Dale from here?”

  “Only about twenty, twenty-five minutes. I’d take her myself, but I don’t like the looks of my puppy pal in the next room.” He rakes a worried hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end above his forehead much like Max’s cowlick, and Bella forgives his arrogance.

  “I’m sorry,” he adds. “But I’m pretty sure I’m not going to be leaving here tonight.”

  “It’s okay. We’ll take her. Let’s go, Max.”

  “Can I carry Chance the Cat?”

  “Sure, but be gentle.”

  Max hoists her into his arms. “Come on, Chance the Cat. You get to go home now.”

  His wistful tone tugs at Bella’s heart. Is he wishing he could keep the cat or wishing he, too, were going home?

  Following him to the door, she turns back belatedly to ask Doctor Bailey, “How much do we owe you?”

  “Not a cent. You did a good thing. Most people would have driven right by her.”

  Bella gives a tight laugh. “Yeah, well, she kind of wouldn’t let us. Thank you, Doctor. Good luck with the puppy.”

  “You, too. Good luck with . . . everything.”

  Chapter Three

  The rain started falling twenty minutes after they left the animal hospital. This
little detour to drop off Chance the Cat, as Max insists on calling her, means they’ll be pitching a tent on muddy ground tonight. But at least the car sounds better after its brief rest, and according to a sign, Lily Dale is just a mile ahead.

  The road winds past rustic homes to the right and Cassadaga Lake to the left, bordered by a narrow grassy strip with an occasional weathered private pier. The opposite shore, hilly and wooded, isn’t far off.

  In the back seat, Chance is curled up on Max’s lap again. They’re such a contented pair that Bella aches every time she glances into the rearview mirror.

  Maybe she’ll be able to get a cat for Max when they’re settled. She only wishes it could have been this one.

  There’s something special about Chance. She’s dignified yet affectionate, and though she’s delicate in her fragile feminine state, she radiates a quiet strength. Bella is reluctant to part ways with her, but when she thinks of her mother-in-law’s sterile apartment, she knows there’s no other option.

  Maybe if the campsite is affordable, they can put off getting to Chicago for another day or two. This is such a picturesque area, and she wouldn’t mind exploring a bit—as long as they’re at Millicent’s before the weekend, so that Max can see the fireworks at Navy Pier . . .

  Sam used tell Max and Bella about the incredible Independence Day displays over Lake Michigan. He promised they’d make the trip now that Max was older.

  “There are so many things I want to show him,” he told Bella last spring, when he first started feeling sick. “I think we should do a road trip this summer.”

  He wanted to take his son to a Cubs game and the Lincoln Park Zoo. He wanted him to taste deep-dish pizza. He wanted to sit him high on his shoulders at the crowded Navy Pier beneath the rockets’ red glare on the Fourth of July . . .

  The only thing that stopped them was the prospect of spending a precious holiday in his mother’s company. Bella wanted to go anyway and not tell her, but Sam pointed out she’d be hurt if she ever found out.

  “I don’t know why she insists on our staying with her when she obviously doesn’t enjoy company,” Bella grumbled.

  Max had been a toddler on their last Chicago visit. She and Sam spent the entire time worrying that he’d hurt himself in the apartment Millicent refused to childproof. Millicent fretted about the disruption and scolded her grandson every time he tried to touch—well, anything.