MY HEAD IS THICK, HEAVY. When I finally open my eyes, I wish I hadn’t—they are swollen and scratchy.
Like I’ve been crying.
Why?
I get up, go to the bathroom, splash water on my face. There’s a red mark on my cheek, and I raise one hand, tentatively, to touch it. It’s sore, like I’ve banged my head into the door.
Or been hit.
I frown, but my memory of the day before won’t come, and then calm washes through me.
“Lara? You’re awake. Good. I’ve brought you some breakfast.”
Cepta stands in the doorway, and something makes me want to flinch, to step back, and her eyes widen and her smile falls away.
But then a wave of peace fills me inside, and when she comes close and holds out her hand, I reach forward with mine. She clasps it in her warm one and smiles.
“But first, before breakfast, come with me.”
She draws me into the lounge, pulls me to the ground to sit next to her, cross-legged. We breathe. In, out, in, out; still, calm. I feel the floor beneath me, the air as it flows in and out of my lungs, my heart as it beats.
There is a flush of heat inside me, and then the ache in my head and my cheek and my eyes goes away.
There now. Does that feel better? she asks.
Yes. Thank you. But why—
No questions. Come. We open our eyes, and she helps me to my feet.
There’s a plate of fruit, rolls, and cheese, and a flash of another plate much like this one flits through my mind—one I held up to the window? And gave to a boy who opened the door?
“What an imagination you have,” she says, and I see that it was a daydream—a wish for a friend in the window. But I don’t have any friends, do I?
Cepta has me follow her to the fields below Community to help there in the gardens—pulling weeds, thinning plants, cutting lettuce for dinner. All tasks I’ve done many times before, but this time, something is different.
Cepta stays close by. Watching.
By lunchtime she’s bored and has retreated to a shaded bench with a book. She could help; that’d give her something to do.
My back is aching from stooping over, and I adjust, kneel on the ground, when something soft brushes the back of my arm. Startled, I turn.
It’s a cat. A beautiful gray cat—and he’s huge. I reach out a tentative hand; he sniffs it, then rubs his head against it. I stroke his fur, and there’s a deep rumbling purr inside him. He flops by my feet.
I always wanted a cat. I couldn’t, because…because somebody was allergic to them. I frown. Who? Another thought flits through my head—an orange tabby, one that was mine. But no, that’s not right. I never had one. Did I?
This cat reaches out a paw to bat my hand until I stroke him some more, and his purr deepens.
Maybe, at last, I’ve got both a cat—and a friend.
When Cepta’s had enough boredom and calls me to go, like he knows it’s best, the cat follows behind, at a distance. When she leaves me in the house, I concentrate hard on the door as she shuts it.
I still can’t see the door, its outline or handle or anything at all about it. But I watched just exactly where it was, and now I reach out with my hands, eyes closed, and find the door handle. I turn it, open it a little, and look out.
Is he here?
He peeks through some trees, then runs over to the door. He winds around my legs and comes in.
I don’t leave the door wide open, just ajar. So I can still see it and this lovely cat can leave if he wants to. I know what it feels like to be kept and confined; I wouldn’t do that to him.
But I hope he stays.