Frankie
I wake up disoriented.
This isn’t the first time in recent months that I’ve fallen asleep in the massive California king Richard and I used to share,
then opened my eyes in the morning to find myself surrounded by popcorn that’s spilled from the bowl I took to bed with me
to consume while watching episodes of House Hunters International.
But this is the first time I’ve woken amidst spilled popcorn to find someone sleeping with me.
Something warm and heavy is lying across my right arm, and for a few bewildering seconds, I think the weight belongs to Ash.
This makes no sense whatsoever, nor does the fact that in my hypnopompic state between sleeping and waking, the idea that
Ash might have made his way into my house and crawled into bed with me doesn’t upset me like it would if I were fully conscious.
In fact, I kind of like it. He feels good there beside me, warm and heavy and reassuring . . .
Alarmed, I open my eyes and am jolted into full wakefulness when I see not Ash’s face across the pillow a few inches from mine, but a furry black face, its eyes tightly closed, but its whiskers twitching—
That’s when I sit up with a jerk, disturbing not only the cat who has been sleeping so peacefully beside me, but the bowl
of popcorn I’d made for dinner, which overturns onto my duvet.
The cat, irritated at being woken in such a violent manner, utters a single annoyed “Meow?” then settles back down into the
warm sheets, wrapping a paw over her eyes to block out the sunlight trickling in from the sides of my blackout curtains.
Then I remember how I made popcorn for dinner and took it into my room along with my laptop in order to finish checking West
Harbor’s Lost and Found Pets page. No cat matching Daisy’s description was listed, so I posted a photo of her and asked if
anyone was missing her. No response (except a few earnest cat lovers to say how sweet she looks).
I was finishing up some patient notes when I heard the loudest, most heart-rending feline yowl I’ve ever heard in my life,
coming from the laundry room. All the cat rescue sites said to leave the feral cat you’ve trapped in a small, secure room,
away from people, for a few days until she becomes more comfortable with you and her new surroundings.
None of them said what to do if the cat begins making a sound so loud you think she’s probably being eaten alive by a coyote,
so you throw open the door and rush into the room in alarm, only to have the cat you’ve just rescued look at you with an expression
that can only be described as smug because she’s managed to trick you into thinking she’s hurt when she’s not.
Then she darts past you, making a beeline for your bedroom.
It was there, once she was finished thoroughly sniffing everything, that Daisy leaped onto the bed as familiarly as if she’d
slept on it every night of her life, and began to eat the popcorn.
This was miraculous. All the websites warned it could be days before a feral cat did anything but hiss at their rescuer. Cats
don’t understand that when you bring them inside, you’re only trying to protect them.
But Daisy seemed to understand, and a part of me couldn’t help wondering if Ash Merit had something to do with it.
Naturally there’s no such thing as a cat whisperer, let alone anyone who attracts “lost things.” No one is born with an innate
“superpower,” as Ash likes to call it. Sure, we may have genetic propensities to be better at some things than others, but
a lot of that is due to exposure.
So there’s a completely rational explanation for how Ash managed to capture this cat: he’s simply had more experience at it
than I have. But I’m determined to catch up.
“Hi, Daisy,” I’d said to her as I slowly lowered myself onto the bed beside her. “Good girl, Daisy.” I was careful to use
her name frequently to get her used to hearing it, because all of the rescue sites suggested doing that, too. “Yes, that’s
popcorn, Daisy. You’re going to see a lot of it if you decide to stay here with me. But popcorn isn’t for cats. It’s people
food. You have your own food in the laundry room—hey!”
The hey was because Daisy had stuffed her entire head into the bowl and begun chowing down as if popcorn was her favorite food. And
this was after having eaten two entire cans of tuna-and-shrimp cat food and about half a bowl of kibble (I’d checked the bowls back in the
laundry room).
That’s when I realized Ash was right: this cat wasn’t feral. She was probably lost, lost from a home in which she’d evidently shared snacks with an owner who, like myself, loved cats and didn’t mind sharing her popcorn with one of them.
“Aw,” I said to Daisy. “Did you get lost? I’ll try to find your real owner for you, I promise.”
Though I’m not sure it’s a promise I’ll be able to keep. If her former owner was so great, why didn’t she spay Daisy so she
wouldn’t get knocked up? And why isn’t she responding to any of my posts about having found her?
This was the point at which the cat lifted her head from the popcorn bowl, looked at me, and said, “Meep,” in a satisfied
tone.
Then she curled up beside me and began to clean herself as contentedly as if it were part of her nightly routine. This is
how we’d fallen asleep together. And that’s how I woke after dreaming all night of Ash Merit, with her body draped across
mine.
This isn’t a bad way to wake up. Daisy has rolled over onto her back, revealing the belly Ash suspected might be full of babies.
I’m not that familiar with how a pregnant cat’s belly is supposed to look, but Daisy’s is quite large considering how tiny
the rest of her is, and her nipples are very visible through her white tummy fur. I’ll have to take her to the vet later to
be sure—also to check her for a microchip—but it seems likely to me that Ash Merit is right.
Damn him.
I succeed in gathering most of the spilled popcorn without waking the cat, then pad out into the kitchen to have breakfast
before heading out onto the back deck to grab my swimsuit and go for my swim.
After yesterday’s unexpected storm, my suit—which I use daily and then drape over the back railing to dry in the sun—is still a little damp.
The rain seems to have ushered in fall weather.
There’s a distinct chill in the air that wasn’t there yesterday, and the leaves in the trees seem finally to be turning.
Nothing too dramatic, but I can definitely see a few spots of gold in the leafy green canopy overhead.
Something else is different, too. Ash’s pickup truck is still in his driveway. There’s no sign of the man himself—it’s only
seven in the morning, after all.
But I can see that the shades in what I’m pretty certain is his bedroom—or his boss’s bedroom, I guess—are down.
Yep. He’s still there. Great.
As I head down the steep wooden steps from my back deck to the lake, my flip-flops clacking, my bathing suit clinging damply
to my skin, and my towel and water bottle in my hands, I see yet another change.
The surface of Walker Lake is covered in an eerie white fog.
I’ve seen this phenomenon a few times before. Occasionally the difference in temperature between the water in the lake and
the air around creates a kind of marine layer. Steam is rising off the water like the lake is a giant cup of hot tea, the
water is so much warmer than the air above it. It doesn’t rise more than a foot or two off the surface of the water, and generally
disappears before noon.
But this time, the marine layer is so thick, I can’t even see the shore of Center Island, and it’s less than half a mile away.
I know because I swim from my dock to its shore and back again every single morning, and my fitness tracker tells me the exact
distance I’ve gone.
Still, just because it’s a little foggy doesn’t mean I’m going to forego my swim.
Nothing clears my head faster than hitting the water.
It’s always depressing when the cold weather settles in and I have to switch to running.
I love a good run, but there’s something about the motion of my arms slicing through the water that makes me feel powerful and as if all is right with the world.
The lake water seems to be welcoming me, cradling my body and gently guiding me exactly where I want to go, even on those rare mornings when the lake is crowded early with Summer People, and Jet Skis and boaters cross my path, often nearly running me over.
That’s why most days, like today, I’m in the water before eight, too early to encounter any of them. The lake is quiet and
still, with the exception of the curly tendrils of steam rising from it.
So I dive in, concentrating on how lusciously warm the water feels compared with the cool air above it. I know I won’t be
able to swim in the lake for much longer. Winter will soon be here.
For now, though, I intend to enjoy it. This is my best thinking time when no one can text or call me. Today I intend to think
about Daisy as I swim, and what I’m going to say to the vet’s office when I call them after they open at nine that will get
them to schedule the emergency appointment I need. Shouldn’t a pregnant cat be a priority, even though she’s a stray?
But for some reason, Daisy keeps drifting from my mind, and all I can think about is Ash Merit.
Thoughts of Ash Merit have certainly fueled my workouts before, only then it was because I was so angry with him for installing
outdoor speakers, or driving such a loud truck, or refusing to give refunds to old ladies who got robbed while staying in
his place. I hadn’t actually met him.
Now that I have, I can’t stop thinking about him . . . everything from his stupidly handsome face to his belief in ghosts, which somehow isn’t the turnoff I would expect it to be, possibly because he’s also just so attractive and . . . nice.
I’m not used to genuinely nice guys, only guys like Richard, who started out seemingly sweet and caring, but as the years
went by, grew into a bitter, pretentious asshole. By the time I realized this was his true nature and not a symptom of some
kind of mental health crisis or physical illness, it was too late: not only were we married, we’d purchased a house together.
Since there’s never been a divorce before in my family—as my very Catholic mother is only too pleased to tell anyone who will
listen—and also because I didn’t want to have to sell my amazing new house, I was determined to make it work. I kept telling
myself it wasn’t Richard’s fault: you have to have a little bit of a God complex in order to be successful in the medical field.
That might be at least part of the reason why Richard reacted so negatively to whatever he saw at the courthouse. Because
he believes he knows everything, encountering something out of the scope of his knowledge and experience completely traumatized
him.
Would it be mentally healthier to believe, like Ash and Mrs. Baumgarten, that supernatural phenomena could exist than to be
so firmly convinced they don’t that you have a mental breakdown when faced with one, like Richard?
I don’t know. But I have a feeling that might be part of why I can’t stop thinking about my extremely odd neighbor.
Not that I want to pursue a relationship with him. I do not.
Although Mark is right: I do need to get laid.
And it’s always better when you live in a small town to get laid by strangers and not someone you’re going to run into while buying coffee at 7-Eleven at six in the morning. This is why Rochelle always gets so excited when the Fire Department Instructors Conference comes to New Haven.
Ash Merit isn’t exactly a stranger, but he’s only staying in West Harbor until he’s cleaned up the mess next door. He doesn’t
even own that house. He’ll be heading back to the city soon, hopefully never to return after all of this unpleasantness with
the break-in.
Which is good. I don’t need that kind of distraction in my life right now. Things are finally starting to go my way again.
Richard is completely gone; I own the house of my dreams; my family is healthy, and my patients are doing well (enough); I
got Mrs. Baumgarten her refund; and I have a new, possibly pregnant cat to take care of. That is more than enough.
Hopefully Ash will get into his truck and drive away today, and I won’t have to see or interact with him again until next
summer.
But this might turn out to be easier said than done, because, as I climb from the water after my swim, leaving the marine
layer behind, then wrap my towel around my dripping body and start up the steep steps from the dock to my house, I happen
to glance over toward Ash’s place.
That’s when I see it: something—or someone—is creeping around underneath his deck.
At first I think it’s only a deer. There are so many roaming the nature preserve, you basically can’t go anywhere without
seeing them, especially now, during rutting season.
But when I look more closely, I realize the pale thing I see moving around beneath Ash’s deck isn’t a deer but a human being.
Specifically, it’s a very dirty, very small young woman.
And she’s crouched in front of that same basement window, trying to pry it open so she can slip inside.
Again.
“Hey!”
The word slips out because I’m so startled. The girl hears my exclamation and glances my way. Though we’re separated by more
than a dozen yards of lawn and hill and trees, I’m certain I see her eyes widen. . . .
Then, just as suddenly, I see those same eyes close, and the girl slumps over into the dirt beneath Ash’s deck.