Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Spencer
“What are you staring at?” Through one slitted eye, I faced my demon.
Well, my rescue cat Moses.
Who, for the record, I hadn’t named.
I always felt obliged to explain that to people. Not just because I didn’t want them to think I was religious—because I wasn’t. But also because I didn’t want folks thinking he was more special than he was.
Indolently, he licked his paw.
He’s a legend in his own mind.
I scratched behind his ear.
He nuzzled against my hand and started to purr.
The sound vibrated down my arm and into my chest—or so it felt. Calm enveloped me—or that’s what I told myself.
Moses had been discovered next to his dead mother and three siblings in an abandoned lot. No way should he have made it. Hence the rescue agency naming him Moses and nursing him back to health.
I’d read about the biblical Moses and couldn’t find the thread between that and this guy’s impossible odds survival, but whatever. He was ten weeks old when he was finally healthy enough to be adopted.
Happenstance.
Pike’s memorial service had been on a Thursday and I went into the animal-rescue shelter on a Friday, and Moses had come home with me on a Saturday. From death to resurrection in three days.
Because I had no doubt Pike lived and breathed in this demon cat I’d rescued.
I’d been led to believe he was quiet, unassuming, and loved snuggles.
Right.
Nope.
He was destructive, mouthy, and had massive attitude.
Also, with him being my first cat, I couldn’t tell if I’d been hoodwinked by the rescue shelter or if he’d hoodwinked them. Somehow, this demonic force wasn’t the bill of goods I’d been sold.
And yet I’d never considered returning him.
Even when he peed on my favorite shoes the morning of an important conference.
He’d been neutered, of course. But that didn’t stop him from randomly peeing on things—usually when he felt neglected. Which meant I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to ensure he didn’t feel neglected.
I’d even watched videos of this woman who had trained her cat to talk.
Well, the cat had fifty buttons to push expressing different things—from objects to emotions and everything in between. The lady’s cat spoke to her. No question. I watched those videos, and I saw a cat who understood how to express her needs.
My cat liked to chase laser pointers and dig up potted plants.
The ten buttons I’d bought for him to attempt communication with me were mothballed in my closet.
“You want food?”
He just blinked at me. As if saying, duh.
I always want food. What a stupid question.
No matter how much I fed him, he never put on weight.
He was still scrappy and scrawny. The vet assured me that he was perfectly healthy and I didn’t need to worry.
I trusted her. I also wanted a substantive cat who didn’t look like a breath of wind might knock him over.
When guests came to visit, I always found myself explaining about his history—lest people think I was starving him.
I gazed at the clock radio.
Six-thirty.
I tested my head.
Not great.
Not bad.
Just…not great.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Wait…six-thirty in the morning or evening?
I replayed what I could remember.
Malik.
And…?
Bonnie shoving me into a cab during a rainstorm and telling me to hunker down until the storm passed.
I checked my bladder.
Yeah, I had to piss.
Still not having a clue whether I was still living through Friday or if we’d tipped over into Saturday morning, I rolled out of bed and staggered to the bathroom.
Never so grateful to have the nightlight, I pissed and tried to orient myself. This time of year, six-thirty meant dark. The blackout drapes in my bedroom ensured no crack of light came into the space. I had the clock radio on dim, a nightlight in that room, and a nightlight in here.
I flushed the toilet, washed my hands, and then splashed cold water on my face.
Nope, still clueless.
Because you took the heavy-duty drugs.
I cursed. Several great new migraine prevention drugs had come onto the market in recent years—and I was allergic to one of the ingredients. A bad reaction after trying the med had landed me in the hospital, and all my hopes of relief had been dashed.
Fucking migraines.
I’d had them since childhood. Had memories of my parents dragging me to protests while suffering from them. Being handed a pill, a bottle of water, and a pair of sunglasses.
My parents who cared so much about the planet and the fate of civilization kind of didn’t really care about their own child.
That’s not fair. They were obsessed with…the bigger picture.
Well, I was never going to be like that.
What, and neglect your cat? It’s not like you’re ever going to have a kid to neglect.
Sometimes I hated the fucking voice in my head.
If I were a woman, it would be haranguing me about my biological clock.
Ship’s sailed. I’m on the other side of forty now.
Not that people in their forties couldn’t have children. They most certainly could.
I just wasn’t going to be one of them. I’d had my chance to prioritize family over career—and I hadn’t taken it. Nope. I’d chosen my job. I’d believed I was fighting for the greater good.
Jesus, how fucking na?ve were you?
Good question.
A corporate lawyer working for a corporation.
I’d understood about profit margins. About the almighty dollar. I’d believed the company I worked for was different.
Again, Jesus, how fucking na?ve were you?
Well, at least I’d walked away when I found them falsifying research to obtain further government funding.
After turning them in, of course.
Which begged the question how fucking na?ve they’d been—thinking I wasn’t going to do the right thing. That I’d just turn a blind eye to fraud.
Ha, more fool them.
My phone buzzed.
Okay, six-thirty in the evening.
Probably.
I made my way over to my nightstand as the phone buzzed again. I held the thing at a distance where I could read it. Should’ve grabbed my reading glasses. Oh well. Then the name on the call display registered.
Mom.
Fuck.
I swiped to accept the call as I dropped onto the side of the bed. “Hello, Mother.”
“Hello, Spencer. We need to talk.”
I tried to suppress the yawn. Yep, in the evening. I’d only had a couple hours’ rest. “About what?”
“About your appearance on CNC last night.”
More confirmation. This time, I let the yawn happen. Man, I was going to sleep tonight.
“Am I boring you?”
“Of course not, Mother. Just…I had a bad migraine earlier today, and I’m still recovering and—”
“Did you try those essential oils my naturopath recommended?”
I rolled my eyes. I was all for alternative medicines, and I held naturopaths in great respect.
The exception being my mother’s. That guy was just a quack. With several complaints lodged against him. To Mother, that was a badge of honor—that the establishment was pushing him to conform and he was resisting the order to change his ways.
I saw the well-founded complaints as a sign that the guy really shouldn’t be practicing medicine. Of any kind. “I didn’t get an opportunity.”
She clucked her tongue. “Spencer, if these things are as bad as you claim, you really should be trying his remedies. They work—”
“If they are as bad as I claim?” I held in the annoyance—but barely. “Mother, they’re debilitating. And since that’s not why you called, why don’t you get to the point so I can move on with my life?”
“Is that any way to speak to your mother?”
I thought I’d been quite polite. Given how angry she was making me. “Yes, Mother.”
“You were very harsh and rude to Malik.”
I pressed a hand to my forehead. “I spoke the truth, Mother. You taught me to always be honest.”
“That boy was making a point. He was willing to risk himself. When have you ever done anything so daring? When your father and I were protesting Reagan…”
This, too, shall pass. She’ll eventually wear herself out. You just have to—
“Are you listening?”
“Yes, Mother. Ballistic missiles and submarines.”
Which made me think of Sean Connery in The Hunt for Red October.
Yummy.
“I’m just saying that Malik’s heart is in the right place.”
“If you say so.” I flashed to the angry man in my office this morning.
Was it really just this morning? And how my body had reacted in a way I hadn’t expected.
I’d known the man was attractive. I just hadn’t predicted how the up-close and personal would actually feel.
Then, of course, my body betrayed me and I got the migraine.
“I do say so. You should use him more often. He should be your front man.”
“He’s already the front man for a band—I think that’s enough exposure.”
“There’s no such thing as too much publicity. You listen to me. We ensured Canada didn’t acquire nuclear weapons. Have you seen the shitshow going on in the world?”
Of course I do. I watch the news every night and despair of our world. That’s why I keep fighting. “The world is in a bad place.”
“It’s a good thing you don’t have children—because what kind of world would you be leaving to them? On the other hand, perhaps if you had children, you might work harder to make things better.”
That familiar knife in my chest twisted.
The ache in my heart increased. Let it go.
It’s not going to happen, and dwelling over it will only make you feel worse.
“I’ll continue fighting, Mother. Whether or not I have children, I still believe in a cause greater than myself and my creature comforts.
” There. That should shut her up. For now, at least.
“Well, that’s good. You do better, all right? And call Malik. Ask him to be more involved—not less.”
“I will—”
The line went dead.
Ha! I’d been about to say that I’d consider it. Now I’d left her with the impression I actually would make the phone call. Well, her problem. If she had time to call and lecture, but not enough of her precious time to properly say goodbye, then that wasn’t my issue.
Moses meowed.
His orange fur glowed in the illumination cast by the nightlight.
“I’ll feed you, buddy. You were very patient.”
He didn’t like my parents. Well, I couldn’t be certain he liked very many people as I rarely had people over.
My parents had made the effort almost a year ago.
After a very painful visit that lasted less than an hour, they’d departed and Moses had finally made an appearance.
Smart cat. I’d have hidden if I could’ve.
You’re forty years old, and you still haven’t dealt with your parents or your issues surrounding them. You need therapy.
Well, probably that notion was a bit extreme. At the very least, I needed to stop trying to obtain their approval. Their praise. Even leaving my corporate job and moving to the nonprofit sector had little effect. Hadn’t even moved the needle.
I snagged my dressing gown and shrugged it on over my pajamas. At least I’d managed to undress when I got home. Waking up after having slept in jeans and a button-down shirt was never fun—but I’d done it more times than I could count.
Moses ambled behind me as I made my way to the kitchen.
Yeah, we’re going to be okay.
I never did get around to calling Malik Forestal.