Epilogue
Leo was, technically, a certified therapy cat.
The certification had taken three months. Leo had passed with what the evaluator described as exceptional temperament and unusual tolerance for chaos, which I had found deeply funny and Nathan had found deeply accurate.
So now it was a Tuesday afternoon in March. I was in full Wardens gear in the common room of a group home in Dorchester with twenty-three kids between the ages of six and fourteen. Leo was in his certified therapy cat harness—navy blue, Nathan had chosen it. It suits him, he’d said.
"Okay," I said, to the room, to the twenty-three kids who were looking at me like they had been told a hockey player was coming and weren't entirely sure what to do with that information yet. "Who knows what the Morr Roar is?"
Six hands went up. Then three more, kids who had been waiting to see if it was a trick.
"Nine of you," I said. "We can work with that." I looked at the other fourteen. "Okay so. Here's how it goes."
I demonstrated. The arms first, wide, committed, no half measures, and then the paws, which were the crucial part, the fingers curved just right, and the sound, which had to come from the chest rather than the throat or it just sounded like someone clearing something.
The room tried it back at me.
Not bad. Ragged, enthusiastic. Leo watched from the table.
"Again," said the missing-tooth girl in the front.
We went again.
Better.
A boy near the back, maybe eight, Wardens hoodie two sizes too big, the sleeves rolled up the way kids rolled sleeves when they wanted to look like they knew what they were doing, pointed across the room.
"How come that one isn't doing it?"
Twenty-three heads swiveled toward the doorway.
Nathan, who had been standing there with his arms at his sides and his tie straight and his expression of a man observing a situation and taking notes, became aware that he was now the subject of the situation.
"That one," I said, "can be a little shy."
"I am not shy," Nathan said, from the doorway, with dignity.
"He's a little shy," I said, to the room, in a stage whisper.
"I am standing right here," Nathan said.
"He can hear really well though," I said. "That part's good."
The boy in the too-big hoodie was still pointing. "He has to do the paws, too."
"He really does," the missing-tooth girl agreed, with the conviction of someone establishing a rule.
A small chorus of agreement moved through the room.
Nathan looked at me.
I looked at Nathan.
I said nothing. I did not assist him. I waited.
Nathan straightened his tie.
He raised his arms.
And Nathan Cross did the Morr Roar.
Not enthusiastically. Not with the full Morrison commitment.
But completely, because Nathan Cross did nothing halfway when he decided to do it.
His arms went up, his fingers curved into the approximation of paws, and he made a sound that was quieter than mine and more precise and utterly, completely Nathan.
The room erupted.
Kids losing their minds. The missing-tooth girl doing a full victory lap around her chair. The boy in the too-big hoodie pointing at Nathan with the energy of someone who had known this was possible and had been right.
Leo stood up on the table, looked at Nathan, and sat back down.
Nathan lowered his arms.
Straightened his tie again.
Met my eyes across the room.
I was smiling so hard it hurt.
"Good," the missing-tooth girl said, with the authority of someone closing a case. "Now you're part of it."
Something happened on his face that I was going to be thinking about for a very long time.
He was smiling. A real, full smile.
"Yes," he said. "I suppose I am."
Nathan Cross had never once asked me to perform anything. Everyone else got the Morrison experience. Nathan got the actual thing. And he stayed.
Nathan crossed the room.
He stood next to me, which was where he stood now, next to me, shoulder to mine, Leo between us on the table accepting the attention of twenty-three children like a certified professional.
A small boy, maybe six, round face, very serious expression, had been watching Nathan since the paws. He planted himself directly in front of him now.
"Are you his friend?" he said, pointing at me.
Nathan looked at the boy. Then at me. Then back at the boy.
"No," he said. With complete certainty. "I'm his husband."
The boy's eyes went wide.
"Wooooow," he said.
"And," I said, because I couldn't help it, "he's Leo's dad."
The boy turned immediately to Leo.
"The cat has a dad?"
"The cat has two dads," I confirmed.
"Does the cat know?"
"The cat," Nathan said, "knows everything."
Leo chose this moment to step off the table directly onto the nearest child, which happened to be the missing-tooth girl, who received him with the pure joy of someone who had been waiting for exactly this.
Within thirty seconds there was a line. Orderly, self-organized, the kids taking turns petting Leo with a seriousness that suggested they understood something important was happening.
Nathan watched while I handed out the keychains, little gold lions with my number on them, one for each kid. The missing-tooth girl examined hers. "Is this worth money?"
"Some people think so," I said.
"Cool," she said, and pocketed it.
The serious-faced boy was last. He took the keychain and looked at Nathan. "Does the husband get one?"
"The husband," Nathan said, "already has one."
He did. I had given it to him early on. I had pressed it into his hand after a game and said for luck and he had looked at it for a long moment and put it in his coat pocket without saying anything, which was Nathan's version of keeping something forever.
The boy nodded, satisfied, and went back to the furniture hockey formation that had evolved in my absence.
That night, late, Leo on my head and Nathan reading beside me with the lamp on his side, I thought about all of my foster placements and the Morrison house bedroom with hockey posters I'd picked out myself.
I thought about fifteen thousand people doing the Morr Roar and the guy in the red jacket in section 214 and Rob Morrison on his feet in the stands since I was eight years old.
"Hey," I said.
"Mm," he said. Not looking up from the book.
"You did the paws today."
A pause. The page turned.
"The situation called for it," he said.
Leo adjusted on my head and purred.
I looked at the ceiling of our apartment, the one with the coffee maker on the counter and the hook system in the hallway and the navy therapy cat harness hanging by the door, and thought:
My last place.
Home.
Thank you for reading!