The Year of the Buttered Cat

by Susan Haas

  I flipped around, burying my face in Mom’s shoulder. She kissed the top of my head.

  “We better get home and see what your brother is up to,” she said, and she carried me back out in the sunshine.

  CHAPTER 13

  Age 13, 18 hours until surgery

  I open one eye, and as soon as I do, Gus licks my face. My throat hurts, I’m thirsty, and I need to pee. I flail a little, and Mom leans over my gurney.

  “Welcome back! You’ve been asleep for nearly two hours.”

  I motion towards my throat.

  Mom guesses right and uses a straw to take juice from a cup to my mouth. Best. Juice. Ever. A few more sips and I feel my body springing back to life.

  I’m kinda foggy about what happened after they turned on my IV. Once that stuff hits a vein, it works fast. Mom says anesthesia always makes me pass out quick and wake up slow.

  When I finally woke up from my last MRI—the one this spring—the nurse was slapping my cheeks, and I think the janitor was vacuuming up for the night. I’m kidding about the janitor, but I really did find a cold washcloth on my forehead and a nurse patting my face. After that MRI, we hadn’t even left the recovery room when Brian called Mom’s cell and told us to come up to neurology as soon as we could. He had found something unusual on the images he wanted to show us.

  The memory makes me shudder.

  “Are you cold?” Mom asks.

  Ggguuhhh. I don’t want to think about that day right now. I open my mouth wide.

  “Starving?”

  Tongue out.

  Trouble is, I have so many wires sticking out of me I look like the backside of a home entertainment center. I’m pretty sure I could pick up HBO and Cartoon Network with my setup.

  The nurse peels the EKG stickers from my chest and back. She presses gauze on my hand. I grimace as she slips out the IV.

  As Mom takes me to the restroom and changes me back into my clothes, Dad fills out hospital paperwork.

  When Mom opens my curtain, I see the kid from the MRI. She’s walking out holding the hand of someone I think must be her mom. She turns and gives me a little wave. I try for a thumb’s up.

  It’s finally time to eat. In the hospital cafeteria Dad grabs two trays.

  “Do you want pizza or chicken fingers?”

  Mom asks. “Yeah!” I say.

  “That’s not a yes or no question.”

  “Yeah!”

  She gets the message and puts both on the tray, along with milk, a cup of fruit, and chocolate cake.

  In the checkout line, Gus has shifted back to Walmart greeter and catches the eye of the woman in front of us.

  “You’re very cute, but you’re a service dog so I can’t pet you,” she says.

  “Gus, you’re working,” says Dad.

  Gus turns to Dad and smiles as if to say, “But look how cute I am!”

  Dad makes him sit beside my chair. “Sorry. Her ADD service dog loves attention.”

  “Oh, interesting,” the woman says. “I didn’t know they had service dogs for ADD.”

  Dad smiles. “Yeah, I don’t think they do.”

  At our table, Mom quickly cuts my food. She holds my head steady with one hand and shovels in lunch as fast as I can chew and swallow. She pours milk in my water bottle and squirts some in my mouth.

  I can’t use a straw—can’t get the coordination to close my lips and suck up liquid. It’s one of the things I hope to get from this surgery, because lip closure comes in super handy for talking.

  And for not dribbling stuff down your front. Mom is mopping up the milk trickling down my chin. Her phone rings.

  “Yes, this is Lexi’s mom.” She looks at Dad and mouths, “It’s the lab,” then says, “We’re just finishing lunch in the cafeteria. Can you tell me which test needs repeating?” She sighs and shakes her head. “Okay, we’ll be down shortly.”

  “Sorry, Lex, but we have to go to the lab. One test from this morning wasn’t normal. They want to repeat it.”

  I groan. Another needle?

  “Which one? What was wrong with it?” Dad asks.

  He sounds concerned, which worries me. My right arm flails. Gus leans on it until it stops.

  Please don’t let it postpone surgery. I can’t take another last day. The sinkhole beneath me grows. The scaffolding shakes, sending me skidding to the edge.

  “They wouldn’t tell me over the phone,” Mom says.

  “Want me to come too?” Dad asks.

  Mom shakes her head. “Take Gus back to the house for some water and a rest, then we can meet up after.”

  My thoughts shift to the Ronald McDonald House and my sinkhole shrinks, just a tiny bit, but enough.

  The house across the street is an amazing home base. After tomorrow, I’ll be inpatient. I think the thing I’ll miss the most about the outside world is the smell of fresh-made brownies as we roll in after a long day.

  Dad and Gus walk with us until we reach the lab entrance. Before they leave, Gus jumps up and hits the handicap access button. As Mom rolls me inside, I hear Dad’s phone ping—the Facebook message ping. This has to be them.

  I screech, and everyone in the waiting room looks up.

  Dad says, “Your message will be waiting for you when you get done.”

  I screech again. The lady behind the desk looks up and frowns.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t read it without you,” Dad says.

  Mom signs us in, and we sit down. To wait. Again.

  Deep breath in. My story. Breath out.

  CHAPTER 14

  Age 5, The Year of the Buttered Cat

  Homeschool was now back in full swing. I was so busy with classes and homework I had no time to search for missing things. When we arrived at Ms. Joann’s for my second French class, I promised myself that today there would be no fooling around. I would stay focused on finding my gifts.

  The plan started smoothly. Mom remembered to sit between Anna and Elle. Before Ms. Joann said her prayer, I sent her telepathic messages asking her to pray for my gifts to show up. She didn’t technically say that, but she did pray for my health, happiness, and knowledge, so I counted that as a win.

  But after that, out of the blue, Ms. Joann announced she would be dividing us in équipes or teams. She pointed to me, Anna, and Elle and said, “Équipe 1.”

  And just like that, my plan crashed. I had been included with the other kids. For the first time ever, I was part of a team. Team 1. My focus melted.

  Ms. Joann made a T sign with her hands. “English.”

  The shuffling of book bags and shifting of chairs stopped.

  “Today, your team will write and perform a skit for the class. We’ll start outside—Avery sit down—and you may sit wherever you want, other than in the ditch.”

  Avery and Marc stopped high-fiving each other and slumped back into their chairs.

  “You can work out your plan in English, but once you start writing, everything must be en français. Comprenez-vous?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Allez-y!” She pointed towards the back door.

  “Let’s sit over there!” Anna said, pointing to the big oak tree in the front yard.

  While Anna and Elle pulled out their notebooks, Mom arranged me on her lap.

  “Can we write a play about our bunny?” Elle asked.

  I stuck out my tongue.

  “Yeah! He could be a magic bunny that talks!” Anna said.

  “He talks in French, but only when you feed him carrots!” Elle shouted.

  Watching them throw ideas back and forth was like watching them play Miss Mary Mack. I couldn’t keep up. I wanted to tell them that the bunny should talk in French when he eats French green beans, but it was all moving so fast. My arms flailed.

  Mom cleared her throat. “I think Lexi has an idea too.”

  “Oh, right! Sorry, Lexi,” Elle said.

  Mom took my cookie sheet from my bag. She brought it to every class, but I had never used it. Classroom discussi
ons moved too fast.

  As I dragged letters, Anna said, “That’s cool, Lexi.”

  “Are you picking letters yourself?” Elle asked.

  Mom nodded. “She’s been spelling on this since she was a baby.”

  The girls watched until my board read haricots verts “Haricot verts?” Elle asked.

  “I think she means the bunny should eat haricots verts,” Mom said.

  “French green beans to speak French! Oui!” Elle said. She took out her notebook and wrote:

  Le Lapin Magique (The Magic Bunny)

  Par Anna, Elle, et Lexi.

  Below that, she wrote Setting.

  “Any ideas?” she asked, tapping her notebook with her pen.

  “Maybe it can be your house,” Mom offered.

  “Non, non, non,” Anna said, “en français.”

  She was right. Now that we were moving on to writing, we had to speak French.

  Mom took a deep breath. “Okay … Les chevaux … doivent être à votre château?”

  Anna and Elle snorted. I bit my lip.

  “What did I say?” Mom whispered.

  Anna leaned over. “The horse should be at your castle.”

  Mom flushed.

  “Do you want us to—”

  “Non, non,” Mom said, holding up a finger. She cleared her throat. “Le cornichon est au cours du lavage.”

  Anna and Elle rolled onto their backs. I shrieked so loud, Martine, Alexa, and McRae, who were sitting all the way on the porch steps, turned to look.

  I didn’t want to laugh. I mean, I knew how she felt, trying her best to be understood and getting it all wrong. But this was so wrong.

  “Worse?” Mom guessed, her face scrunched.

  Anna couldn’t talk, but she nodded.

  “The pickle …” Elle began. She wiped a tear from her cheek. “The pickle is in the wash.”

  We all lost it, including Mom.

  “Mrs. Haas, no offense, but your French is terrible,” Anna said.

  “Anna!” Elle gasped.

  “No, it’s fine,” Mom said. “It is.”

  “Maybe we should just talk directly with Lexi,” Elle suggested. “We’ll ask her questions, and you can just be her … assistant.”

  We all agreed. After that, our writing went smoothly. The girls asked me what color the bunny should be, and I spelled, blanc et violet

  A white and purple bunny was the most magical. Obviously. They asked more questions. When I flailed, Mom helped me spell out my questions. Elle wrote the whole skit in her notebook.

  Just as we were finishing, Ms. Joann came striding up the hill, dragging two muddy boys behind her.

  She pointed toward the house and called to the class, “La maison.”

  The skits were fantastic! Martine, Alexa, and McRae were French poodles at a pet salon. Remy, Adam, and Trevor did one about a transformer named Pierre.

  Finally, it was our turn.

  Elle was narrator. She held her notebook and cleared her throat. “Nous présentons ‘Le Lapin Magique’.”

  She pointed to me, Anna, and Mom, who was holding me on the floor. I was the magic bunny, and in our opening scene, Anna was feeding me carrots. She made a little heart with her hands and said, “J’aime mon lapin!”

  Since regular bunnies mostly just sit quietly and wiggle their noses, I nailed it. But when Anna ran out of carrots and told the audience she would have to feed me haricots verts, I needed to speak. Thankfully, we had a plan.

  As Anna fed me make-believe beans, Elle held up construction paper cut in the shape of a speech bubble. Inside she had written my line.

  She pointed to the words, then to the class, and they all said together, “Ces haricots verts sont fantastiques!”

  Then Anna pretend fainted. Everyone laughed. It was epic.

  The speech bubbles were my idea, and they worked great. Our audience never missed a beat. At the end, Elle held up one last card: La Fin. Everyone clapped and cheered.

  When the skits were done, Ms. Joann said, “Fantastique! Au revoir, classe!”

  Everyone jumped from their seats and bolted for the door, nearly knocking over Ms. Trejo, who was headed in to help clean up. I watched Anna and Elle through the window as they ran down the hill.

  Mom held me with one hand and stuffed my workbooks into my book bag with her other hand.

  Ms. Joann squeezed Mom’s arm. “Great job today, but are you okay? I’m sure sitting on the floor with her isn’t easy.”

  Non! En français! Ms. Joann had broken her own rule! I jumped hard at the breach.

  I don’t remember falling or hearing the thud as my head hit the floor. When the room came back into focus, I had a bag of frozen peas on my forehead. Ms. Joann and Ms. Trejo were both kneeling beside me.

  Mom was cradling me with shaky hands. “I can’t believe I dropped her.”

  She peeked under the peas and winced.

  Ms. Trejo patted Mom’s shoulder. “It’s just a bruise. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  Tears blossomed in the corners of Mom’s eyes. She tried to blot them, but they poured over her fingers and onto my shoulder. I arched, but she held me tighter. I could feel her heart pounding. Why? She had seen worse. Tucker split open a body part nearly every week. If this was just a bruise, why was she so upset?

  I arched harder. Mom took in a deep breath like she was trying to suck all that emotion right back up through her nose and into her belly. She struggled to her feet.

  “Maybe you should go to the ER or urgent care, just to be on the safe side,” Ms. Joann said, walking us to the door.

  Mom shook her head and squeezed me tighter.

  “I know it’s hard, but maybe you should consider getting her a wheel—”

  “Thanks so much for class today,” Mom interrupted. “I’ll let you know if we have questions about homework.”

  That night, I lay awake in bed, my forehead pulsing with my heartbeat. I could hear the low hum of my parents’ conversation on the other side of the wall.

  As I focused in, Mom’s voice became clear. “You were right. Lexi was robbed. We were all robbed. We have to try to get some of it back.”

  “Yes! Exactly!” It was Dad, although his voice was higher pitched than usual. “Lou Lattimore can help. If you’ll just wait for—”

  “I’m not waiting for someone to swoop in and save the day, Ken. This is real life. Her life. I need to do this.”

  There was a long silence. Finally, Dad sighed. “Go ahead. Do your research. But we can’t get it back, Susan. It’s gone. We need to move forward. It’s what’s best for her. It’s what’s best for all of us.”

  The conversation stopped. I let out my breath, long and slow.

  Robbed? When were we—when was I—robbed?

  There was so much missing. My body. My gifts. Even The Cat. What had the thief taken? Whatever it was, Lou Lattimore, real life superhero, was on the case. Lou was gonna try and get it back. Unless Mom beat him to it.

  This was spinning out of control. I had to find out what had been stolen.

  CHAPTER 15

  Age 5, The Year of the Buttered Cat

  The day after my fall, Mom was in a terrible mood. She snapped at Tucker for not sitting upright in his chair and brushed off Hannah when she asked for algebra advice. Instead of working with me, she plunked me on my beanbag in front of a DVD and disappeared into her office.

  When Hannah finished her math, she asked if I wanted to spell with her. I stuck out my tongue.

  “Mad Libs or Hangman?” she asked.

  Ggguuhhh.

  “Do you have something you want to say?”

  Tongue out.

  She pulled over my cookie sheet.

  I wrote: When were we robbed

  “What do you mean? We’ve never been robbed.”

  Ggguuhhh!

  I pulled down three more letters: SHH

  “Did you just shush me?”

  Tongue out. If Mom heard us, she would know I had been eavesdropping
and that would be the end of my main source of information in this house.

  I spelled, I heard Mom say it

  “No, you didn’t.”

  I rapped the words with my fist.

  “Maybe you misheard her. You do mishear sometimes.”

  Ggguuhhh.

  I dragged more letters. What about The Cat

  Hannah laughed. “What about him? If anyone stole him they’d bring him right back and probably throw in flowers and a sympathy card.”

  I glared at her. She was about as useful as a paper pool float.

  “If you really want to know, you should ask Mom yourself. Now Mad Libs or Hangman?”

  I did not ask. There was no way I was giving up my information source that easily.

  A month passed.

  French class was turning out to be loads of fun. Mom always sat between Anna and Elle, which meant Ms. Joann usually teamed us up for class activities. Mom always brought my cookie sheet, so the girls asked me the questions.

  The rest of my life wasn’t going nearly as well. My gift quest had stalled. On top of that, The Cat was still missing. Occasionally, my sisters loaded me in my stroller and searched the neighborhood, but no cat or gifts came of it.

  There was also no more talk of the robbery or Lou Lattimore. Well, at least no overheard talk. Every night, I settled my breathing and stared at my wall. If magic turned out to be one of my gifts, I’d make that wall melt like warm chocolate. Or I’d get Extendable Ears from the Weasleys’ joke shop in Diagon Alley. Eavesdropping would be a breeze with those.

  As it was, all I overheard were Dad’s tunes and an ongoing debate about “supportive seating.”

  Dad said I needed a chair where I could see the world. Mom said I could see the world fine from her arms.

  Dad said it was just a chair. That had wheels. No big deal.

  Mom sobbed. It was a wheelchair.

  There was a nightly discussion. I was on Dad’s side. Mom was being dramatic. What was the big deal about getting me a rolling chair?

  Dad finally won. An equipment guy came to therapy, and I lay on the floor while he and my physical therapist, Gail, measured my legs, then torso, then hips.

  I watched Mom watching us. She paced. Her arms crossed, then uncrossed. She shoved her hands in her pockets then pulled them out. She smoothed her hair. It was like her empty arms had no idea what they were supposed to do now.