It Gets Better

CW: Grief

When my sister, Evy, hugs me, tells me time heals all wounds, and says it gets better, I don’t think she believes herself. When her husband passed, the light left her eyes, and I’ve watched her fight to get it back for years.

We both know that “it gets better” is a lie. I know there’s no fixing this. There is no “better.”

The sun beams over the graveyard as they lower Richard’s body into the ground. A soft breeze counters the sun’s heat. The clouds float pillowy and picturesque. The lush grass sways in the wind, dotted with dazzling wildflowers. It’s a beautiful day. 

My suit is stiff and uncomfortable. I’m on the verge of vomiting. I don’t think there will ever be a beautiful day ever again because any passing comment about the pleasant weather will forever be a reminder of the day I buried my child.

Evy invites me over for tea because I “shouldn’t be alone right now.” I thank her. I tell her she’s right. That it’ll be hard, but I’ll get through this. I’m tough. And yes, I’d like to catch up because we haven’t done that in far too long. 

A few hours later, a cup of oversteeped Earl Grey burns my tongue. We manage a pleasant conversation about her work, my work, her pets, memories from our childhood. We try to comfort ourselves with a semblance of normalcy. Whatever that means.

During a lull in the conversation, I feel my chest tighten. It’s hard to breathe. 

I stare blankly at Evy’s face. She’s reapplied her mascara and wiped away the black smudges that marred her cheeks a few hours ago. She notices my stare, smiles, and offers me another cup.

***

I decide to walk the three miles from my sister’s place to mine. I tell her I’m getting an Uber and pretend to compare my phone screen to the license plate of a Honda pulling up around the front of her apartment complex until she’s no longer watching through the window.

That’s when we meet.

A black cat emerges from beneath the complex’s dumpster. He stretches his lithe body on the warm concrete and eyes me through darkened slits set in iridescent green orbs. He saunters in my direction. I notice his tail drags along the ground, leaving a trail of liquid. His fur is wet, matted, and caked in some unidentifiable slimy substance. He reaches my legs and rubs his body against my pants. He’s cold too.

I bend down. The cat sticks his ears behind his head and growls. I reach to pet him anyway. I am not surprised when he bites my hand. Drops of red blood mix with slimy puddles on the sidewalk.

If Evy saw this, she’d certainly drive me to the hospital for a rabies treatment. I know if you start exhibiting symptoms for the disease, you’re beyond saving. But I like this cat. He tells the truth. I give him my other hand. He scratches me this time. The pain is honest.

He follows me home and nips at my heels. He climbs up the stairs to my one-bedroom apartment and coils in a ball on my ex-wife’s floral loveseat. Slime stains the cushions. 

***

I don’t leave my bed for a long time. I order groceries online and subscribe to new streaming services. I extend my bereavement leave as long as they’ll let me, but eventually I’m let go. I can live on savings for a while. 

I don’t name the cat. As honest as he is, the truth hurts. I give him a corner of my bedroom, but he wants the whole apartment. There’s not much one can do to stop a cat from exploring.

He grows a little bit larger every day. When I met him, he was just a kitten. Now he’s as big as a border collie. He’s messy and aggressive. He scratches the walls. He bites my feet when I try to sleep. He grows a bit heavier every morning too. I wake up with his full weight on my chest, claws pulsing into my skin like little knives. 

He doesn’t eat or sleep or use the restroom (despite his smell). If I leave him outside, he reappears in my living room by the time I’ve shut the door and turned around. 

I wonder if he’s invisible too because when Evy comes over to check on me, she doesn’t look at him. Not once. She does, of course, comment excessively on the scratches that rip up my arms and legs and the stench of my home. She says it’s been three months. She says I can’t live like this forever. She says I have to keep living, for Richard. 

His name widens the hole in my heart. The cat hisses.

***

Four months after the funeral, I decide maybe my sister is right. Maybe I should try living again.

I lock the cat in my bedroom. He’s the size of a mastiff and slimier than ever. 

I shower, I shave, I brush my teeth, I moisturize my face. 

The man in the mirror is an imitation of my former self, but I think he’ll do. His eyes might be bloodshot, and he may have lost some hair, but he can say he’s “doing better” somewhat convincingly. 

My dress shirt hangs oversized and loose on my malnourished frame. My tie chokes my neck. My jacket reminds me of the funeral. My pale legs stick out of plaid boxers. The interview’s on Zoom. 

I half-heartedly applied for the same kind of cubicle-dwelling position as my last job a week prior. They surprised me by asking for an interview a few days later. I’m not the same man who worked those jobs on my resume, but you don’t write that your son died on your resume.

A cheery woman greets me on my computer screen. We exchange pleasantries. 

I notice the cat’s slime pooling from beneath my bedroom door. I hear him thump his large body against the wall. He scratches and yowls. He’s frantic for attention.

She can’t seem to hear him from her side of the screen, but it’s hard to focus. Through the cat’s whines, I lie about my passion for data entry, where I see myself in five years, and my greatest strengths and weaknesses. 

The truth is I don’t know if I’ll feel passion again. I don’t know where I see myself in five weeks. My greatest strength is dead and my greatest weakness is the soggy beast clawing its way out of my bedroom.

“I see you have a couple months of unemployment here. Do you want to talk about how you left your previous job and what you’ve been up to in the meantime?”

“Um, yes. Yes, absolutely.” I brush over the period in broad strokes. “I had to take some leave from my last job for…um… yeah, it lasted…longer than I expected.”

“What did? The leave?”

“The leave, yes. There was a family emergency.”

The cat’s thumping matures into a pounding. It threatens to break the door down. 

“Yeah. Um, death in the family.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“My son died.”

“Oh. Oh, wow. I’m really sorry.”

“Yeah, uh.” The hinges rattle on my doorframe. Dust drifts from the ceiling. “Could you excuse me for one second?”

“Take your time.”

“Sorry, I don’t know if you can hear. My cat’s acting up.”

She laughs nervously. “I can’t hear it, but I understand. I’ve got a few fur babies myself.”

I turn off my camera, but I don’t stop the cat. He’ll do what he’ll do. I fall onto my couch and fold into a fetal position. Eventually, the cat breaks down the door and rushes me. He opens my scabs with his teeth and his claws and laps up my blood. I shiver because his body is freezing. He covers my dress clothes and bare legs in gooey filth.

When I eventually return to my laptop, the Zoom call has ended.

***

I have dinner at my sister’s house a few days later, finally ceding to her weekly invitations. The cat, of course, follows. He’s the size of a small tiger now.

I’m wondering how I’m going to stomach Evy’s lovely, home-cooked meal with the cat salivating on my neck when she says: “You’re wallowing.”

I’m taken aback by her directness. 

“I’m fine.”

“I can see him, you know.” She looks to the right of my face. Directly at the cat.

“And?”

“And you’re not special.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one should have to go through the loss of a child. Or any death for that matter. But they do. You’re not the only person who’s lost someone.”

I scoff. “I’m not acting like I’m the only person who’s lost someone.”

“I’m sorry. That came out wrong. What I mean is you can’t let this consume you.”

“What am I supposed to do? He follows me everywhere. He attacks me constantly. I don’t think he’ll leave me alone until I’m dead.”

“He won’t.”

“How do you know?”

She stands wordlessly and moves to her living room. I follow. She gestures at an empty sofa.

“What?”

“Look at it. Look.”

I do, and I see it. A shadowy panther stretched across the cushions. He’s massive and purring and I can’t believe I never noticed him before.

“I found him after George died. He hasn’t left me alone since.”

“How’d you tame him?”

“I didn’t.” She pulls up her sleeves, revealing deep, bloody gashes not unlike my own. “Some days he’s as aggressive as the first day I met him, and I don’t think he’ll ever stop growing. But I’m learning to live with him. Everyone has to eventually.”

***

The next day, I go to the grocery store for the first time in months. I see clearly.

The store is a zoo. Massive cats and dogs and bears and snakes trail behind pleasant-looking men, women, and children pushing their carts. The animals ooze and growl and bark and purr and pounce. 

I see an old woman surrounded by a pack of bloodthirsty wolves. She’s chatting with another woman as they bag produce. She’s telling a story—I can’t make out about what—and struggles to get through her sentences. She’s laughing too hard.

There’s a middle-aged man shopping alone, ears plugged with Airpods, a python wrapped tight around his neck. His head bobs pleasantly to his music as he examines the ripeness of an avocado.

There’s a boy, around Richard’s age, who holds his mother’s hand. A black cat, about the size of my own when I first met him, trails behind. 

If I’d seen these people a few months ago, I’d have thought they looked perfectly normal.

Maybe “normalcy” itself is just another falsehood. Everyone dies. Their grieved survivors make up the majority of the world’s population. So normalcy must be tragedy and pain and crying so hard you can’t breathe and your chest splits apart. But I guess this is normal too: grocery shopping with a friend, listening to music, holding your mom’s hand. 

Who am I to call that a lie?

I pet the head of the panther beside me. He growls softly. It almost sounds like a purr.