Хелен Браун - Cleo

“You’re ready to move back into your bedroom, Rob?”

“Somebody has to look after Cleo at night.”

Ensconced in his new/old bedroom that night, Rob looked almost as disoriented as his new kitten. The smell of fresh paint spiked our nostrils. The bedcover had an almost neon glow. The new sheets were crisp and cold.

Adding to the uncomfortable sense of newness was the acid-dipped bathroom door that had been delivered and fitted back in its frame that afternoon. Even though the house was piecing itself together around us, we in no way shared its confidence for the future.

Certain favorite bedtime stories had to be avoided these days. Green Eggs and Ham was out because of the character Sam I Am. I couldn’t face The Digging-est Dog because it featured a boy named Sam Brown who was devoted to his dog. With Cleo curled between us we settled for One Fish Two Fish , so familiar and comforting in its rhythms I could recite it pretty much from memory.

As we reached the last page, I could sense Rob’s anxiety swelling like a wave on the horizon. “Are you sure there are no monsters in here?” he asked, glancing anxiously under the bed.

“Absolutely.” It didn’t seem the right time to tell him where the worst monsters hide. They conceal themselves cleverly inside our heads and wait for the moments we’re at our most vulnerable—bedtime, or when we’re sick or anxious.

“Will you check for me?”

“I looked under the bed before.”

“Can you look again?”

“Okay,” I said, bending to reexamine the battalion of fluff balls in hiding from the vacuum cleaner.

“What about behind the curtains?”

Picking up Cleo—why did I make excuses to hold her all the time?—I peeled back a corner of the curtains. For the first time I detected a glint of hope in the city’s sparkling lights. Or was it? More likely, they were playing a cruel trick, laughing at us for even wondering if tonight might be a little easier.

“No monsters,” I said, tugging the curtains firmly shut. “Now, good night, darling boy.” I stroked his hair and kissed his forehead, savoring the delectable smell of his skin. Strange how every child is born with a distinctive aroma, complex, intoxicating and immediately recognizable to the mother. I wondered if he had any inkling how much my life depended on his at that moment. Without the example of his courage and his need for me the lure of brandy and several bottles of sleeping pills would have been too strong.

“Did you look in the wardrobe?”

“Nothing but soccer balls and raincoats in there.”

“Can I have Cleo now?”

The kitten. Rob’s kitten officially. As I lowered the furry bundle into the crook of his left arm Rob sighed and raised his thumb to his lips. He and Cleo had a lot in common. When a wife loses a husband she becomes a widow. Children are called orphans when their parents die. As far as I knew there was no word for someone grieving for a sister or brother. If there was such a word it would have described both boy and kitten. Since birth their lives had overflowed with clumsy hugs, play fights, the noise and physical warmth of their siblings. Now brutally brotherless, they were both lost and frightened. Yet they were so brave and full of life. The only option for them was to snuggle into the night together and trust that tomorrow would sort itself out.

I switched the light out and ran the day’s events across a screen of darkness in my mind. The relentless ache of living without Sam permeated everything. Nevertheless, I realized with a sense of guilt, almost, that the past twenty-four hours hadn’t been entirely bleak.

Steve would still need to be convinced, of course, but Cleo, as kittens went, was proving remarkably civilized.

Awakening

A kitten knows joy is more important than self-pity.

“Oooow! Help!”

I woke with my hair pinned painfully to the pillow. A wild beast was attacking my scalp, clawing my hair and making dangerous chomping noises. It had to be a tiger or a lion escaped from a television wildlife show. Whatever it was had mistaken me for an antelope that needed eating. Emitting a stifling odor of fish breath, it obviously had a taste for marine mammals as well.

“It’s only Cleo,” Rob giggled.

Cleo? How could a kitten morph into a woman-eating panther in a matter of hours?

“Get it off!” I yelled.

“She’s not an ‘it,’” he said, disentangling the kitten from my hair and placing her gently on the floor. Her legs barely touched the carpet before she sprang back on the bed for a fresh lunge at my hair. I wailed in agony. The kitten’s purr of satisfaction reverberated through my eardrum. Is this the last sound a cat’s prey hears?

The moment I disengaged the animal from my head and set her on the floor, she bounced up on the bed again. How anything that small could leap several times her height was beyond me. She was like an Olympic pole-vaulter minus the pole. Maybe she’d had springs surgically implanted in her hind legs. I sighed and plonked her back on the floor. Eyes gleaming like neon signs, ears huge as moth wings, she bounced up again. She seemed to think it was a game. The animal had no respect for the fact we were engulfed in a grieving process so overwhelming we had little chance of recovering.

“Noooo!” I whimpered, using the pillow as a shield. Cleo was jubilant and hugely pleased with herself. Anyone would think she was the first creature on earth to invent the hair-attack-jumping-back-on-the-bed game. Come to think of it, she probably was. The pillow offered no protection: Cleo simply burrowed under it. I put her on the floor again . She jumped up. Down. Up. Down. Up. This dance routine was going to last all morning if I didn’t do something.

If Steve had been home I might’ve been able to employ him as a human shield. But he hadn’t officially agreed to having a kitten in the house, let alone one that ate humans. Cleo was just an idea of a kitten to him. Over the phone I’d described to him her every curve. “You’re going to love her!” I’d said. Even with my best marketing job, he sounded less than keen. I wasn’t looking forward to his reaction when he arrived home from sea. He was as likely to warm to Cleo as the Pope was to Buddhism.

Rolling reluctantly out of bed I slid into my dressing gown. As I stomped semiconscious towards the kitchen, I experienced a tugging sensation. Looking down I saw Cleo hanging from the belt of my gown like Tarzan from a vine.

“Naughty kitty!” I said, peeling her off my belt and putting her on the floor. The moment I tried to reclaim the belt and loop it around my waist she sprang at my thighs, dug her claws into my flesh and, with her tail swinging wildly, snared the belt between her teeth. I wailed painfully for the second time that morning.

Removing the kitten from my thigh inflicted more pain than the world’s worst Brazilian wax. Obviously there was only one way to deal with this young cat: firmness. I wrapped the belt around my waist, tied a knot and proceeded forwards with all the dignity it was possible to muster. Cleo raced ahead and flicked swiftly between my ankles, before suddenly skidding to a halt. In a single slow-motion movement I tripped over the hump of her spine and sailed through the air, only just managing to grab hold of a wall hanging to stop myself landing on top of her.

Clinging to the macramé tassels, I froze in a position worthy of an advanced yogi and apologized. The kitten rolled on her back, raised a bent paw and fixed me with a wounded expression. I felt terrible for hurting her.

Just as I bent to pick her up, the furry ball exploded to life, sprang to its feet and lunged away from me. Relieved, I followed—until she bounced to a halt and tripped me up again. And again !