Waiting on Jasmine and Blackberries

I remember once when the house was silent. When the mornings belonged to me. She would wake, her skin smelling of jasmine and blackberries, and she would fill my white bowl the moment the sun touched the edge of the kitchen rug. I noticed she was getting slower in the morning, whining to me how her back hurt now, but she couldn’t wait for River to be here.

​I don’t care much for rivers. I hate when she even gives me a bath. I groom myself perfectly fine, but my yowls in protest never got me very far.

​I would circle her legs, rubbing my scent once more before she left. She’d give the spare human a kiss, before making sure to pet me one more time—scratching the base of my tail with her long nails—and I’d sit in the window, waiting for her to return.

​My gray fur warmed in the sunlight, delightfully so. I would drift off to sleep, only to be woken by the sounds of birds and the slow rolling of the tractors. The spare would stay in his room, clicking and clacking. Sometimes—when I was bored enough—I would go in there. I’d allow him to pet me, sometimes even sit in his lap, but I would make sure he knew it was on my terms alone as I kneaded my sharp claws into his thighs.

​Once I was done with him—making sure to give him a nip in annoyance for stealing her from our peaceful, tranquil life—I would go back to my window. Patiently waiting for her to come home.

​A long chirping sound comes from the spare's room. I yowl loudly at him to make it stop. What if I miss her car pulling into the drive?

​“Faye,” I hear the spare say.

​I chirp. Jumping from my perch, I prance over to the doorway, rubbing against the archway.

​“Slow down,” he says, his voice wavering in confusion. “You said it would be a normal check-up?”

​I hear her frantic tone. I haven't heard her like that since before the spare—when the spare before him left for good.

​He quickly stands, rushing past me. I follow, my bell twinkling behind him.

​“Where’s the bag again?”

​He’s rushing around the house. I can hardly keep up, but… then he’s gone. The house is quiet, with only the sound of my water bowl bubbling in the kitchen.

​A few days go by and I don’t see her. I go around the house, yelling for her, but she never comes. I go to where all her scents live, walking along the edge of my nemesis—the bath. I sniff her bottles, jumping up to the sink to sniff even more. I notice the spare left his golden rings near the edge. I give them a pat, watching as they fall to the ground, a soft clink-clink along the marble floor. Jumping down, I do another walk around the house, but when she still isn’t home, I go to their room, curling up in a ball on her pillow.

​I stay there curled on her pillow, until I hear the familiar sound of tires in the driveway. I dash across the house just as the spare comes through the door and I greet him happily. My bowl is empty, and it’s way past my dinner time.

​“Hey, Josie,” he says calmly, scratching me on the head—it’s not my favorite, but I tolerate it because he smells like her. “I have something for you,” he says, dropping a bag to the floor. He unzips it and I excitedly rub against his hands as he digs through the bag, producing a white blanket.

​I sniff it. It smells like him and her at the same time, but different. Like stale air and antiseptic. I give it another sniff and my back arches in confusion at a new scent that is completely unfamiliar.

​“It’s River,” the spare says. “Mom said you had to get a good sniff of him before he comes home.”

​River? When she and I lived near the river, it didn’t smell like that. It smelled of grass and delicious fish.

​He stands, putting the blanket near my bed. I give the blanket one last suspicious sniff before deciding that if it’s in my bed, it belongs to me now, and I begin to knead it into submission, claiming it with my own scent… and wait.

​Restlessly wait.

​It isn’t until the next afternoon that I hear the familiar sound of tires on gravel. I trot out from the kitchen, my fluffy tail raised high as I prepare to reprimand her for feeding me so late. But the thought dies in my throat.

​The spare walks in first, carrying a heavy, awkward plastic shell. She follows behind him, but she doesn’t look like herself. She moves slowly, hunched over as if the air is too heavy. I dash over to her, weaving aggressively around her ankles, waiting for her to reach down and scratch the base of my tail with her nails.

​“Hey, Josephine,” she says sadly.

​I wait for her to lean down to pet me, but she shuffles to the sofa and sinks into the cushions, staring blankly at the ceiling. I hop onto the armrest to inspect her. She doesn’t smell like herself anymore. Instead, she smells like that blanket and dried sweat.

​The spare sets the plastic shell on the floor. A sudden, grating wail erupts from it. I jump back, my ears flattening against my skull.

​I peer over the edge of the shell. It is not a river. It is a hairless, red-faced, squirming creature. As the days go by, the creature yells louder and for longer, dismantling my perfectly ordered life. The sun touches the edge of the kitchen rug, sweeps across the floor, and disappears completely before the spare finally remembers to fill my bowl.

​There’s no quiet anymore, but the noise isn’t what bothers me the most. It’s her.

​She looks smaller, slipping away.

​I watch her from the top of the fridge as she washes things in the sink, her eyes red, swollen, and unfocused. When the spare tries to take the noisy creature to let her sleep, she paces the hallway as if she’s a trapped bird, wringing her hands. She doesn’t sit with me out in the sun anymore. She doesn’t throw her hair tie when I bring it to her. Sometimes, I find her standing over the creature’s bed, crying, the tears dripping off her chin.

​I try to correct her. I even yowl at the spare, demanding he fix whatever it is he broke in her. Nothing works. The dark, heavy shadows are only thickening around her, pressing her further into the floorboards.

​One night, the house is suffocatingly still. The creature is finally quiet, and the spare’s loud snoring echoes from the bedroom. I wander the dark halls until I find her. She is sitting on the floor of the nursery, hugging her knees to her chest. She is shaking, emitting a sound so broken and soft, it makes the fur along my spine twitch. I flick my tail to shake off the twitch.

​I don’t like this room. It smells of baby powder and intrusion, but I prance over to her anyway, the bell on my collar chiming faintly in the dark.

​She doesn’t look up. I don’t wait for permission. I step onto her thigh, wedging myself into the tight space between her chest and her arms. I close my eyes and start my motor, sending deep, rumbling vibrations straight into her chest.

​She stiffens at first, trying to pull away, but I knead my claws gently into her arm. A firm reminder that I am here and I am not moving. Slowly, the ragged edge of her breathing begins to smooth out.

​“Why do I feel like this?” she whispers, a tear landing on my coat. “I shouldn't feel like this… I love him so much, but I also feel… nothing. Then I feel guilty and I can't stop crying—” She pulls me closer, and I give a small protest before she loosens her grip. “I'm sorry, Josephine, I'm… I'm just so sad.”

​This time a loud sob bubbles out of her mouth, and her breath comes in short bursts. “I can't sleep. I can't eat. The weight of the water hitting my body in the shower exhausts me so much I can't move my arms. Sometimes, I slide down the wall in the shower and curl up and cry, not even caring when the water turns to ice, and I hope it numbs the hollowness in my chest. But it somehow feels larger. I think it's going to swallow me whole, Josie, and maybe that's better… Maybe I'll finally feel. Maybe the static will quiet if it swallows me, and I can sleep.”

​“Mrrrrr-meow.” I give her a long, strained yell, hoping she understands.

​Stay. Here. With me.

​I nuzzle into her chest, switching on my purr as loud as it can go, trying to heal her hurting heart.

​“I know,” she whispers. “I just want someone to hold me.”

​She and I sit together like that, but it doesn't last for long until the spare’s scent nears. I glare at him, but he pays no attention to me; instead, he wraps his arms tight around her.

​She tenses and I almost bite him, but she holds me tighter.

​He stays wrapped around the two of us for a long time, until his gravelly voice whispers, “Come on, you and Josie to bed now. I'll take care of River.”

​“No-no, I'll be fine…”

​I hiss at her and the spare scolds her, “No.”

​They both look at me in confusion, but I go back to nuzzling her.

​“See, the boss has spoken,” the spare says smugly. He gently pulls her to her feet, his arm wrapped tight around her waist while she keeps me clutched to her chest. He guides us to their room. He lays her down gently, and I go to curl up beside her. The spare gives me a long look, but I dare him to kick me out. Instead, he leans down, tucks her in, and kisses her on the forehead before giving me a soft pet.

​“Watch our girl for me, Josie,” he whispers.

​I chirp and snuggle in closer.

​She doesn't smell like jasmine and blackberries, and our life is far from tranquil, but as her heartbeat slows down to match the steady rhythm of my purring, I know she is finally coming back to me.