The Astonishing Thing

Mary’s Request

It is a few nights after the big holiday, and it has been snowing for hours. Someone left the back porch light on, and from the kitchen window I watch the snowflakes drift. Millions of them. It is very magical. I wish Mother were here to watch with me.

I am still a little stunned that Mother was here at all. I’m angry at myself for not letting her pet me. I miss her gentle caress, the way she was so careful around my whiskers. I feel like nothing in my life will be the same again. I wonder if she will at some point decide to come get me.

And, if that happens, I wonder if I will still want to go with her.

Mother and I were best friends. We spent all of our time together. I was as close to her as an animal could possibly be to a human. And yet . . .

The thought of leaving Father causes an unexpected pain in my heart. I know now that he cares for me. That changes everything. We share the same heartbreak and bring some comfort to each other.

It would be hard to leave this house, the only place I’ve ever known. And I hate the thought of leaving Father here, as lonely as he is.

I catch the sound of padded footsteps in my big ears. Someone is walking around upstairs. I leave the view and run up to investigate.

Father is sitting in bed, reading a book. The lamp by his side throws a golden glow over him in the dark room. It is very, very late.

He is still reading his books every night. Sometimes he holds his cross, says a few words, and puts it down.

Other nights he pulls the letter that Mother wrote to him out of where it is pressed between the pages of one of his big, thick books. He lies on his stomach and reads it over and over. I believe that he is not supposed to call her, and this letter is all he has. Still, it does not seem healthy that he reads it so often. Sometimes I climb right up on his back, and he lets me. I sit there like a big loaf of bread right out of the oven, warming him.

I wonder if the letter is short and to the point, or rambling and incoherent.

I wonder if the letter is kind, or cruel.

There is no way for me to know.

Tonight, when I walk in, I see that Father is reading a book that I think has something to do with toddlers, because there are pictures of little children on the cover. Mary stands by the bed, holding a big, fluffy stuffed creature. She asks if she can get in. Father says okay.

Mary pulls back the big comforter and climbs in. Father puts his book down, turns out the light so she can try to sleep, and lies back. He puts his hands under his head.

Mary is a big girl, taller than Mother now. She takes up a lot of room in the bed.

What she doesn’t know is that Father has something tucked under his pillow. Earlier he was looking through the closet, which is still full of Mother’s summer clothes. I know Mother has other important things to do right now. She has not come to get her things. Father has to look at her clothes every day. He absentmindedly ran his hands over the flimsy sundresses and thin shirts. Finally his hand caught hold of a soft, lightweight sweatshirt. He pulled it out and looked at it for a moment, and now it is under his pillow.

Just for safekeeping, I guess.

I jump up on the bed to join them. I love hunkering down between two humans. It’s extremely warm and cozy.

Mary’s head rests on Mother’s pillow and she stares at the ceiling, even though she’s in total darkness. It is easy for me to make out their words because they talk slowly and sleepily, with long pauses in-between. There is no wind to rattle the house tonight. It always feels warmer when it’s snowing out, as if we are cocooned in here.

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Is Ma with Robert now? Like, really with him?”

He sighs. “I guess.”

“Why . . .” She is very tired. “Why didn’t you and Jimmy tell me sooner?”

There is a silence as he thinks about it. “Because. We weren’t sure if it would last. If it was serious.”

I also think: Father and Jimmy hoped it wouldn’t last. But maybe they were kidding themselves.

Mary’s eyes flutter. She is fighting off sleep. “Robert is nice. I guess.”

“Yeah.” Father is also staring at the ceiling. “I guess.”

I wish I knew more about Robert. I did always think he was very kind to Mother. He does not seem like the type of human who would kidnap her and hold her against her will.

So how did I not see what was going on?

I was Mother’s best friend, after all. I should’ve known about this.

“You didn’t seem mad at him. You didn’t beat him up or anything.”

Father chuckles. “No, baby.” He scratches his ear. “Like you said, he’s nice. He’s nice to your mom. He’s taking care of her. She needs someone to look after her. I probably wasn’t the best person for that.”

Mary frowns. “Daddy?”

“Daddy, you know who else is nice?”

He pauses, drifting in and out of consciousness. “No. Who?”

I see her head turn a bit toward her dad. “Charlotte.”

Father turns away from her and faces the wall, shifting his weight.

Mary turns onto her side to face Father, talking to his back. “Did you hear me?”

“Yeah. She’s nice. I guess.”

Mary puts one hand under her head. “Yeah, Daddy, she is. She’s nice and smart and pretty.”

There is a long pause. “If you say so.”

“I do.” A little smile flickers over her face. “She’s good with Finn. You know, you don’t have to wear the same flannel shirt every time she comes over here. It’s a little embarrassing. She dresses up to come here.”

I see Father’s head pick up and he turns a bit toward her, puzzled. “What?”

“Daddy, come on.” She gives her stuffed creature a squeeze.

“What?”

“You know, you have some nice shirts. If you’d just wear them.”

He puts his head back down. I know he is thinking about what she is saying.

“I mean,” Mary continues, “you could make a little effort. To look nice.”

“I don’t look nice?”

“Yeah, you do, Daddy. But I’m just saying . . .” Mary squints and thinks about how to put it. “I’m saying it would be okay to make an effort. That I would be proud of you.”

“Oh, you would, huh?”

“Yeah.” Mary snuggles down deeper under the comforter. “I’m just saying it would be okay.”

“Okay, thanks. I guess.”

They are both quiet a long time. The snow continues to fall.

“Why did you change your mind? I thought . . .”

“Ohhhh,” Mary says in a breathy voice, “I don’t know. Jimmy was right. Charlotte’s okay. She’s got nothing to do with Ma.”

“Jimmy said that?”

“Yeah.” Mary sighs, in the same way Father does. I hear the furnace cycling on downstairs. This old house leaks heat, and the furnace is always trying to catch up. A minute goes by. My whiskers can sense the slight flow of warmer air starting to circulate in the room.

“I can’t sleep, Daddy.” I can hear it in Mary’s trembling voice: She is fighting off tears now.

“I can’t either.” Father scratches his ear again, and flips over to face her. “I haven’t slept in months. Between Finn waking up, and my head racing . . . or my heart beating too fast . . . it’s like I’m really anxious, but I don’t know what about. I’m not sure how to fix that.”

“I know, me too. That’s how I feel too. And Jimmy, he’s snoring the minute his head hits the pillow. It’s so unfair.” She sniffles. “Maybe you need a sleeping pill. You could ask the doctor.”

“No, Mare. No pills.”

Mary wipes her nose. “Okay. If you say so.” She’s pouting now. “When are you guys going to make a schedule?”

Father thinks about this. “A schedule? What kind of schedule?”

“You know . . .” Mary’s hand flutters in the air between them as she tries to explain it. “You know . . . For us. For me and Jimmy and Finn. To see Ma. On the weekends or something. Doesn’t she want to see us on the weekends?”

“Oh. Um . . . Yeah, sweetheart. Of course she does. It’s just that I haven’t had a chance to talk to her about that yet. We both want to make sure that everything is settled before we start that. We both just want what’s best for you guys.”

Even in the darkness, I can see that Mary is biting her lower lip. I’m not sure she believes him.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think that maybe once her medication gets really, really straightened out, and she feels really, really better, that she’s going to realize she wants to come back?”

Father shifts onto his back, and then away from Mary again. “No. She’s already better. Also, she wrote me a letter.”

“What?”

“No, sweetheart. I said no. It’s not just her medication. It’s everything. She wrote me a letter and told me . . . She told me that, uh, you know, all the ways I messed up. That she’s done here.” Father puts a hand up over his eyes.

Even in the dark, he must hide. I can see it was a mistake mentioning the letter. It’s all still too raw in his heart. He cannot let Mary see how much he suffers.

“You didn’t mess up.” Mary fiddles with one of the buttons on her pajama top. “C’mon, Daddy, it was—”

“No, sweetheart, I did. I did.”

Mary gives up on her questions. She senses something is wrong. She’s in over her head.

I know there is something Father needs to apologize to Mother for. There is something he hasn’t had the opportunity to say. But I haven’t seen him do anything wrong. They had many ordinary fights about ordinary things, but there’s something else I’m missing.

Mary knows where I am, nestled between her and Father, and her hand finds me without having to even look. Her strokes are kind and gentle, and my purring revs up. I can’t help it.

“Boo,” she whispers to me. “Good girl. You’re my best girl. My favorite girl. We girls have to stick together.”

Oh! I never thought of that before. Without me, Mary would have no other female companionship. Perhaps she needs me a little more than I realized.

We hear the clicky tick-tick of Jasper’s nails on the hardwood floor. He has just realized Mary is missing from bed, and he has come looking for her. Mary tells Father she’s going back to her room and leans over to kiss him good night and say “I love you” before dragging her large stuffed animal out with her. Jasper trots behind, on her heels.

I hope my purring will help Father sleep. And it seems to. He drifts off, his breathing slow and heavy.

I am still up half the night though. I wish I were large enough to guard the humans in this big house against the creatures outside. I want to help them—Father, Jimmy, Mary. Even the stupid baby. He is smaller and weaker than everyone else, like me, and he needs extra help.

I have made up my mind: I will not run away again. And if Mother comes back for me and wants to take me with her, I will not go. No matter what. I want to stay.

I have become something more than Mother’s personal companion. I am a member of this family, and I have responsibilities here. We all have faults, we all have weaknesses, and we all have insecurities. These humans are not perfect, and neither am I. But together we each get a little bit stronger.

Together, we can figure out a way forward.