Jacob showed up less than eight hours later, shortly after ten a.m., wearing a filthy-looking John Deere ball cap. “It’s my lucky director’s hat. It can never be washed.”

Ugh.

My dad was heading out for one of his epic runs and Mom was off to a yoga class. “I always knew our cats had star quality,” she said when she heard the idea. “I’m happy to help when I get back.”

I handed Dad his reflective vest and Mom her rape whistle. “Don’t forget to use my Christmas gifts.” They gave each other a look. “I saw that. Better safe than sorry.”

After they left, Jacob showed me his digital camera. It was small and lightweight, a gift from his parents. “I guess we should talk about sets,” he said.

“Actually, I started working on something last night.” My mind had been abuzz with ideas for a cat-sized version of Catherine’s bedroom at Wuthering Heights. Finally I’d given up on sleep altogether and padded down to our storage locker, careful to put my own rape whistle around my neck first. I’d rummaged around until I found three big boxes of my old crafting supplies, untouched since our move.

It took three separate trips to lug it all back upstairs. Everything was in those boxes, from paint to pipe cleaners. I even found the old bonnets Rachel and I had made during our Little House on the Prairie phase, and because no one could see me, I’d worn mine while I worked.

I took Jacob to my room and showed him what I’d created so far. It was a three-walled set made from a large cardboard box I’d found next to the recycling bins and decontaminated with Lysol, which gave it a faint lemony scent. I’d cut out a big window and hung fabric for curtains. I’d made miniature books and placed them on the windowsill as stand-ins for the books Lockwood needed to discover. Then I’d painted the walls ocher, to add to the moody, desolate feel of Wuthering Heights. I’d also dashed off a few drawings of cats in period costume and hung them around the room as portraits. “I still need to make the bed,” I said. “But it’s big enough that we could probably fit one of the cat beds in.”

Jacob whistled. “Wow, Petula. Did you get any sleep at all?”

“A bit. Not much.”

“You’re really good.”

I let myself smile.

“Do you think we could get the cats to wear costumes?” Jacob asked.

“We can try. One of those boxes has a pile of dolls’ clothes I made when I was younger.”

Jacob started rooting through the box, pulling out things he thought might be useful, while I put the finishing touches on the set. “Hey. Is this Rachel?”

He held up a handmade mosaic frame with a photo of Rachel and me from a couple of years ago. We’d just taken a batik course, and we were wearing matching batik dresses and grinning from ear to ear. Maxine and Owen sat on our laps in batik T-shirts. Rachel still had thick, long dirty-blond hair.

I took the photo from Jacob and placed it back in the box, facedown.

“What happened between you two?”

I didn’t answer.

“Did she pull away after Maxine died?”

I shook my head.

“So?”

“So, none of your business.”

“Okay. You’re protecting your friend. I respect that.”

I looked away, too gutless to tell him I was protecting myself.

—

When my parents got home, Jacob enlisted their help. He made Mom our casting director/cat wrangler. She cast Ferdinand as Lockwood and Anne of Green Gables as Catherine, “because they’re by far the most placid and malleable.” Alice was given the role of Heathcliff, and Stanley, the maid. My dad agreed to voice both Heathcliff and Lockwood, which he did with a cheesy English accent. I voiced the women.

We had to shoot two scenes. The first was manageable: Lockwood gets led to the never-used room by the maid. We had to get the two cats to walk side by side down a hall, Stanley wearing a maid’s cap and Ferdinand a bow tie. It took an hour, but eventually Jacob got what he needed.

The second scene had a lot of parts. Lockwood lies in bed reading Catherine’s diaries and drifts off to sleep. A branch bangs on the window, and when he tries to adjust it, Catherine’s ghost hand grabs his wrist. Lockwood’s screams bring Heathcliff running. When he hears of the apparition he goes to the window and begs ghost-Catherine to return.

It took us the rest of the day to film. We were literally herding cats. Ferdinand kept clawing his nightshirt off and Anne of Green Gables took a stealth poop on the prop bed. All the cats wandered out of frame. We spent two hours on the final shots alone, because Alice did not want to wear her nightcap or look out the window. Eventually we fired her and replaced her with Moominmamma.

When we were finally done filming it was past six o’clock. Jacob started packing up to go home.

“Hang on,” said my dad. He walked over to the crammed floor-to-ceiling shelves and started searching through his records. He handed Jacob an album. “In case you need some music. It’s actually called ‘Wuthering Heights.’ It was released as a single in 1978. A song from Catherine’s perspective. Kate Bush was only eighteen when she wrote it.”

Then my dad did something he hadn’t done in two years.

He put the album on the record player and dropped the needle.

We all listened to the haunting song.

—

That night at supper the three of us went over every second of the day. Dad didn’t jump up from the table immediately after he’d finished eating. We didn’t lapse into awkward silences.

I was feeling something I hadn’t felt in a long time. So long, in fact, that it took me a while to figure out what it was.

Happiness.