Frankie
Don’t turn around.
That’s what I tell myself.
Keep walking right into the house and shut the door. Don’t turn around for one last look. A last look would ruin a truly epic
exit, a total mic-drop moment.
I’m not accepting new patients at this time.
That conversation went so fantastically well, better than I could ever even have imagined. When I obliterated him with the
photos of the footprints? And hit him with the definition of hypnagogic? I couldn’t have asked for a better reaction.
So why can’t I leave it at that?
Because I’m physically incapable of doing so. It’s my genetic destiny: no Giovanni can ever leave anything well enough alone.
So as I pull open the front door, I turn my head slightly—just slightly—to see how Ash Merit is taking my rejection . . .
And I see the cat rolling over on its back in front of him, begging for belly rubs.
What the—
I’ve been trying to get that cat to come out and ask me for belly rubs—or any kind of recognition at all—for weeks. And instead it comes out for Ash Merit?
No. No way.
“I don’t believe this.” I’m already stomping back down the porch steps. Well, not stomping exactly, because I don’t want to
scare the cat back into its hidey-hole. But I’m walking very firmly. “How did you—”
“I told you.” Ash doesn’t look surprised to see me back in the yard. If anything, he looks pleased. And who wouldn’t with
a sweet little cat fawning all over him? “I’m a cat whisperer.”
“A what?”
“A cat whisperer. You know, like a horse whisperer, only with cats. They love me.”
“You did not tell me that. You told me lost things always find you.”
“Well, that’s part of it. Only I don’t think this little girl is lost. She seems to be right where she wants to be.”
I’m too stunned to make words. The cat isn’t scared. It isn’t crying or trying to claw him. It’s butting its head against
him, its yellow eyes wide, probably because it’s as startled as I am by its sudden capitulation.
Then it looks at me . . . and opens its mouth to utter a single high-pitched inquisitive meow, as if asking me the exact same
question I’m asking myself: What the hell is going on?
I stare back at it speechlessly, because I have no idea.
“What a good girl,” Ash says, now sitting cross-legged in my yard, the tiny cat stretched out in the dirt before him, its tail curled like a question mark. “What are you going to name her?”
“Name her?” I can’t believe any of this is happening—the cat, the approaching storm, Ash Merit having some kind of secret
superpower over cats. Where is this storm even coming from?
It hasn’t rained for weeks but it’s getting ready to do so now, at the exact moment the cat I’ve been attempting to catch has finally come out—for Ash Merit?
Ash Merit, who suddenly thinks he’s an expert on feline behavior and anatomy? “How do you know it’s a girl?”
“Look at that belly. That’s a pregnant cat belly if I ever saw one.” And then he puts his hand on the cat’s belly and gently
rubs it—and the cat doesn’t object.
If a stranger had done that to Violet, she’d have degloved him. This cat squirms happily in the dirt, asking for more belly rubs, and purring.
I’ve never seen anything like this.
“Are you knocked up?” Ash is talking to the cat, but not in the high-pitched voice many of us—myself included—use when speaking
to animals, because studies have shown that cats, at least, respond better to a baby voice. It’s his normal voice, but the
cat is paying rapt attention anyway. “You look like all you need is a few good meals and a decent roof over your head. And
I’m pretty sure this nice lady here is going to give you all of that.” He smiles up at me, as innocently happy as the cat
he’s petting. “You are, aren’t you? You’re not going to dump her off at the shelter.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“Never.”
But again, I’m not about to admit the whole truth to Ash Merit: that I’ve had my laundry room set up for weeks for this cat, complete with a brand-new litter box and food bowls, in the hope I might be able to lure her inside.
Oh, and that I already have a name picked out for her: Daisy. That’s how much of a dork I am. I’ve already named the stray
cat that’s been living under my porch, and I didn’t even know she was female, let alone possibly pregnant. I chose “Daisy”
because flower-themed names were always my dad’s favorite—he wanted to call me Violetta, but thankfully Mom wouldn’t let him,
so I called my last cat Violet in his honor.
And this little tuxedo cat, whom I’ve spotted playfully chasing butterflies through my yard many times, seems like a Daisy,
fresh and full of sunshine.
Kittens, though? I never imagined kittens.
“I’d love her to come live with me.” I’m trying to keep my mind on the cat and not the man. This is the only reason I go to kneel in the dirt beside Ash. I don’t care about him. It’s all about Daisy. Up close, I can see she is mostly
black but has a white throat and a round little belly that could—or could not—be filled with kittens.
I also can’t help noticing Ash needs a shave. I have no explanation for why this discovery causes a surge of desire to shoot
through me, except that Mark is right: it’s been a long time since I got laid.
“But I have to take her to the vet to make sure she’s not microchipped,” I go on in my most professional voice. “She isn’t
feral.”
Not only is she not feral, she’s still energetically butting Ash’s hands with her head, while steadfastly ignoring me, the
person who has been feeding her for weeks.
I know I should turn around, go inside, and forget all about my new neighbor and this stupid, ungrateful cat. I always tell my patients to be wary of codependent relationships where they find themselves
giving and giving while getting nothing emotionally in return (obviously this doesn’t include pets or children, who have no
choice but to be dependent on others, as they are not capable or old enough to drive, earn their own income, or even operate
a stove to feed themselves).
But just as I’m about to attempt a second dramatic exit from the scene, the sun disappears behind the mountain of clouds looming
overhead, and the air in my yard turns ten degrees cooler. I can hear Mrs. DeLong down on her dock by the lake, shouting to
her kayaking grandchildren to “paddle in” since it’s about to rain.
I hesitate.
All of the storms we’ve been getting lately have turned out to be a lot of noise with no substance . . . nothing but heat
lightning. That’s why, the meteorologists insist, the leaves on the trees haven’t even begun to change, even though the first
day of autumn has come and gone. It’s been too hot and dry for trees to get the message winter is on its way.
These clouds seem serious, however: a fat plop of rain lands on my cheek. What kind of person would I be if I went inside
now and let Daisy get soaked, especially in her (alleged) condition?
“She could be lost,” I say finally. “She could belong to someone who’s looking for her.”
“Oh, she’s definitely not lost.” Ash looks—and sounds—as cheerfully confident as one of my nieces right before a gymnastics
meet. “And she does belong to someone.”
When I look at him questioningly, he says, “You.”
No sooner has the word you left his lips than lightning flashes.
Then a roar of thunder shakes the earth below us. A second later, the heavens split open, and heavy, cooling rain pours down
on West Harbor for the first time in months.