But suddenly feeling very rebellious, I took two cigarettes out of the pack, shoved them both into my mouth and lit them using her lighter. I handed one to her and took a big drag of the other.
She looked over at me as though I’d just lit up a huge Cheech and Chong sized joint. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I looked at her. “Uh, hello? Same thing you are. Don’t be such a hypocrite.”
“Um, hello: you’re pregnant!” she reminded me.
I hardly needed a reminder.
“Think about it, Zoë. Do you really think I need to worry about this baby?”
Zoë opened the window and tapped the ashes out the tiny slit. “Tsk. I guess not, but…”
“But what?” I asked, suddenly feeling very indignant. The last thing I needed was Zoë coming down on me. Dammit, I could smoke if I wanted to. I could drink and get drunk if I wanted to. And none of it mattered because the fate of the fetus inside me wasn’t changing. In just over a week, I wouldn’t have to worry about it at all.
Zoë took an angry drag of her cigarette. “I don’t know. I just…”
I was about to explode on her, thinking she was gearing up to give me a lecture on prenatal care and maybe why I should be keeping this baby. I mentally willed the bile out of my throat as I prepared to let loose.
“Alf and I are going through a rough patch.”
All of a sudden it wasn’t about me anymore. This wasn’t about me smoking and my ‘condition.’ This was about Zoë’s marriage. First-year psych came back to me in a rush as I realized Zoë was just projecting.
Relieved that we weren’t talking about me anymore, I probed my friend for some more information. “What’s wrong?”
Zoë snorted and shoved the cigarette between her fingers so she could swig from her coffee cup again. “Everything.”
“That’s perfectly nonspecific, Zoë,” I scolded.
“I don’t know, it’s just, you know.” She shrugged as she shook her head, searching for the words. “I don’t know: stale.”
I didn’t know. I had never known stale with Dave. Sure there were the odd nights when after a day of work together both of us were okay not talking and just took comfort in the television, but it was always together. And I never felt like we were disconnected. On the contrary, it was those nights through our silence that we did much of our reconnecting as a couple: cuddling together on the couch during an episode of Law and Order.
“Is it something big? Or are you just bored?” I was afraid of her answer; it was terribly selfish, but my own drama was about all I could handle. Add another divorce, and I was hurtling over the edge for sure.
She took a long, contemplative pull at the cigarette as I threw mine out the window (how did I ever enjoy smoking?).
Finally, she spoke. “Nah, I really don’t think it’s anything major. I guess we’re just bored.”
“That’s good.” I didn’t bother hiding my relief. “Maybe you need to spice it up a little,” I offered. If there were no really big issues, maybe some bedroom toys would do the trick.
“Yeah, I’m sure we do. It’s just the same old desperate housewives bullshit, you know, Vic?” she glanced over, looking for my validating nod. I delivered as any good friend would.
“I mean, I work in the day, pick up the kids, he comes home from work, and we eat. Then it’s homework time, clean the kitchen, send the kids to bed and I’m wiped, especially knowing I’m gonna have to do the same thing over again the next day and that doesn’t even count the nights I have to work or do the weekend open house bullshit, you know? I don’t feel sexy. I barely feel human most days.”
Before I realized what was happening, my good friend instinct took over. “You know what? Why don’t you and Alf drop the kids off Saturday night? I’ll look after them for an evening and you guys can have a date and some sexy alone time.”
Zoë almost rear-ended the car in front of us as she turned to look at me. Her eyes communicated her disbelief and a glimmer of hope at the same time. “Really? You would do that for us?”
I shrugged as the sudden regret landed like a rock in the pit of my stomach. Too late to back out now. “Sure. Maybe Kendra doesn’t have plans and she can help me.”
Zoë looked positively drunk. “Oh, Vicky, you have no idea how amazing that would be. It’s so hard to get a sitter and even then, it’s not like we can afford to go to a hotel to have sex. Oh God, thanks, Vic, you’re just the greatest.”
We pulled into the SPCA parking lot and I took the last swig of my cold coffee before getting out of the car. As I closed the car door behind me, Zoë came around and smothered me in a huge bear hug. “Thanks, really. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
I smiled, “No problem, but it’s okay, I get all my sex in night club men’s rooms. No babysitter necessary.”
My poor friend Zoë didn’t know whether I was joking or not. Quite frankly, neither did I. So after delivering me a withering look, she wordlessly turned and led me towards the front door of the humane society.
* * *
After I had moved into the new house completely unprepared for life on my own, you’d think I would have learned to prepare for things, but apparently my recent lack of judgment and forethought were becoming permanent themes in my life.
“Do you know what kind of food you want? Wet, dry, premium, grocery store brand?” Zoë seemed to really know what she was talking about. Leave it to good old Zoë, she may not be getting laid these days, but she sure knew everything there was to know about running a household, from what made a good furnace, right down to what cat food was the best quality at the best price.
I myself hadn’t even considered that with a cat comes some basic supplies, like a litter box, a scratching post, toys and of course, food.
It would have been helpful had she begun to ask me these questions before I was standing in front of rows of cages containing all manner of adoptable cats. However, as they say, better late than never.
I didn’t bother looking at her, my gaze on a brown tabby who was shoving his right paw through the bars at me. I resisted the urge to touch the paw, as the huge sign on the wall warned of how touching spreads disease. “Um, I hadn’t thought about it. Does the food really matter?”
“Is there a difference between processed chicken by-product nuggets and a grilled chicken breast?”
Zoë’s analogy was very convincing, making me realize I was completely clueless.
I stood up straight to look at my friend. And as she looked at me like I was twelve, I broke down into tears standing there in the bleachy-smelling, noisy hallway of the SPCA.
“Oh, hey, Vic, I’m sorry.” She put her arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “I didn’t mean it like that, I really didn’t. I just want to make sure you get everything you need.”
Thank God we were alone in the hallway. Remembering the Kleenex in my pocket, I stuffed my hand in, grabbing a few of the tissues. As I wiped my eyes, I felt excruciatingly foolish. “I’m sorry, Zoë, I must be PMSing or something.”
She frowned at me. I looked at her blankly until I burst into a fit of stupid laughter.
“You really are something,” Zoë announced, rolling her eyes.
“I’m something all right.” I shoved the damp Kleenex into my pocket and sniffed back the rest of my tears. “So, what do you think of this little guy?”
* * *
Always thinking, Zoë suggested we go to the big box pet store where I would stay in the car with the new cat and she’d run in and get everything I needed to get started. Knowing that this was the best way to expedite the process (especially since I was so clueless), I readily agreed, trusting my friend to get all I would require.
“So now I just have to figure out a name for you, little guy,” I said to the tiny paw poking out of the cardboard carrier. The lady at the SPCA had packed my new charge in the box after I had filled out the endless paperwork; Yes I will get him neutered, yes I promise to take him to the vet within forty-eight
hours for a checkup, no, I will not let him outdoors, yes I will love him for the rest of his (or my) life. Here’s my Visa, yes, I’d love to be on your mailing list.
“So what should I call you?” I asked out loud.
“Mreow,” the cat said.
“That’s hardly a good name.” I scolded in what sounded suspiciously like a motherly tone.
“What about…Farley? Nope. Simon? Nope.” I thought more about what this cat meant to me. He was my own. He was a signal of my independence, but hopefully not just a bandage for my pathetic loneliness. “I should name you Band-Aid,” I chuckled. “Or Divorce.”
Zoë got into the car, shoving several bags into the back beside the cardboard box containing my new precious cargo. “So that should get you started, I got all the essentials.”
“Thanks for everything Zoë, I really appreciate it.”
She waved me off as she shoved the keys into the ignition. “Don’t mention it. I do this for you and you’re going to babysit for me so I can get laid. It’s what friends are for.”
I snorted. “So what should I name him?” I told her about my ideas so far.
“Lame.” She thought for a moment while she pulled out the cigarettes. She offered me one, but I shook my head. “You should name him Ex.”
“What kind of name is that?” I asked.
“It’s what you get when you separate: an Ex.”
“You can’t name a cat Ex.” I protested.
Zoë lit her smoke and took a long drag before she turned to look at me. “Why the fuck not?”
Good point. So Ex it was.
* * *
I took the cat inside while Zoë brought up the rear with the equipment and the new supply of caffeinated beverages we were both in need of after such an eventful morning.
“Bring him down, but just leave him in there until we get the litter box set up,” Zoë said authoritatively as she walked straight downstairs to the laundry room where little Ex would be doing his business. She poured the litter into the plastic pan, smoothing it out with the perforated scoop.
She opened the box carefully so Ex would not bolt before she got a good hold on him. “Okay, little guy, this is where you go poop.”
The poor thing looked terrified as Zoë gently placed him in the center of the litter box. He hunched down for a second, looking from me back to Zoë before he took off to hide behind the furnace.
“That’s not good.” I looked to Zoë.
She was the epitome of calm. “Don’t worry about it. Just leave him be for a bit, he’ll do his exploring and will come seek you out when he’s ready.”
I had my doubts but didn’t want to terrorize the poor cat further, so we returned to the kitchen to prepare his food and water dishes before diving into our lattes.
* * *
I had imagined my second night in the new house would be much better than the first. For some reason, I had a fantasy of a warm cat on my lap watching TV with me after some more unpacking got done. And of course, my fantasy rounded out with an ample stock of groceries in the fridge.
None of that happened.
My afternoon was spent making as little noise as possible to allow Ex to settle in with as little drama as possible. Although I was agonizing over his stressful arrival, I forced myself to wait until he had been in the house for three solid hours before I tiptoed down the stairs to have a peek in the laundry room. He was still there, hunched down, making himself as small as possible between the furnace and the wall (I hoped to God the furnace was a completely closed unit) but was heartened to see that he had used the litter box. Trusting Zoë’s advice to leave him, no matter how hungry or thirsty I suspected he was, I left the room, letting him know I was just upstairs if he wanted to come join me for some food or water. I hoped the sound of my voice would soothe him, but it broke my heart that he was so terrified.
In the late afternoon, a knock at my door suddenly reminded me that I had invited my parents over for dinner. I jumped up to get the door before they inevitably rang the doorbell, a sound that I was sure would terrify the fur ball hiding behind my furnace.
As I swung open the door, I pasted a smile on my face to let them know they were welcome. They were both burdened with items, she with a stuffed garbage bag, and he with a huge slow cooker full of whatever it was she had decided to bring for dinner.
“Hi, come on in,” I said, holding the door open for them to pass through.
“What a quaint neighborhood,” Mom said as she kicked off her boots.
Dad nodded as I led him into the kitchen so he could put down the slow cooker.
Mom followed us in. “Oh Vicky, it’s so cute.”
I pulled the lid off the dish to see what was inside. Ugh. Meatballs. There was no way I’d be able to eat my mom’s sweet and sour beef meatballs without puking. Mindful also of Ex and my plans for him to have a quiet house to settle in, I came up with a great idea. “These smell great, Mom,” I lied, but it was worth the grin it put on her face. “But you know what? Since those are such a treat, why don’t I save them all for me and I’ll take you and Dad out for dinner?”
Mom and Dad exchanged glances.
Mom waved me off. “Oh, we couldn’t let you take us out for dinner, Vicky. You just bought a house and you’re single now…”
I never should have borrowed the sheets. They would just never believe I had money. And I wasn’t about to tell them that I probably had more cash in the bank than they did.
I rolled my eyes. “I have plenty of money. Let me take you two out. If you’re so concerned, we can go to Applebee’s.”
Mention of their favorite, yet economical restaurant served to seal the deal.
“If you insist, Vicky.” Dad then turned to Mom. “Marion, how can we not let her take us if she insists?”
Mom clucked but nodded. “Fine, but not before you show us the house.” She pushed the garbage bag at me. “You said two bedrooms so here’s two afghans for you.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome. And your father says I’m supposed to apologize for inviting Dave to Hanukah dinner and promise that I won’t do something like that again.”
I glanced at Dad, suppressing a smirk. “Dad says so, huh?” He winked.
She sighed. “Yes, so I suppose I am sorry and we will support you no matter what you decide to do with your life. We love you and just want you to be happy.”
It didn’t matter that it sounded like a canned speech, likely practiced on the ride over. I knew that she probably meant what she said and I thanked her with a big hug.
“Hey, can’t a guy get a hug around here or is it just for the ladies?” Dad pouted until I threw my arms around him too.
He whispered in my ear. “She means it, kiddo. We’re really proud of you.” But just before the tears began, he ended the hug and rubbed his belly. “C’mon, let’s start this tour, I’m starving!”
* * *
Finally, at ten, after turning off the TV, I poked my head into the furnace room again, but there was no change. So, with a heavy heart, I bid little Ex a good night and climbed up the stairs to my bedroom.
But in the stillness of predawn when I awoke with a full bladder, I realized there was a strange weight against my legs. As I reached down, I felt a warm and vibrating furry mass snuggled up to the back of my thighs. Suddenly unwilling to move I ignored the pressure in my bladder, infinitely comforted by the almost forgotten feeling of another warm body against mine.
Chapter 27
Unpacking was put off again in favor of taking my new charge to the vet for his preliminary checkup, one of the stipulations I had agreed to in the adoption agreement. Zoë had suggested I call her veterinarian’s office, highly recommending her own vet, a Dr. Eli Lewis, so I called first thing and was rewarded with a same-day appointment.
It looked as though Ex had eaten some of his kibble and had even used his box again, so I presumed that was a good sign. The vet’s office had asked for a stool sample (ug
h, but I consoled myself with the fact that it was still preferable to changing diapers) so reluctantly, I scooped the little turd out of the litter and into a Ziploc baggie.
It pained me to have to corral the cat and get him into the box but a terrified cat loose in the car was just not an option. So once I got the call that Zoë was en route (for some reason, she’s insisted on coming with me) I began the process of cornering Ex in the bathroom.
Once he was safely inside the box, I tended to the wounds on my arms, applying some liquid bandage to the shallow but painful scratches. Next time I needed to do that, I would be donning a parka and mittens.
I had time enough to put on my coat and grab my purse before Zoë honked in the driveway. As I picked up the carrier, Ex shifted his weight and mewed in protest, tugging again at my already taut heartstrings.
Once in the car, I was reminded again why Zoë was such a good friend. “God bless you,” I exhaled, reaching for the steaming paper cup waiting for me in the cup holder.
“No worries. Did you get him in the carrier okay?” Zoë asked, her hands wrapped around her own cup against the chill in the barely warmed-up car.
In answer, I pushed up the sleeves of my coat to show her my recent wounds.
“Ouch.” She cringed before putting the coffee into her cup holder. “Smoke?” She offered me the pack.
I waved her off. “Nah, I felt totally gross yesterday. You’ve gotta sublimate your lack of sex a different way; take up knitting or something.”
She looked down at the pack and frowned. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be doing this. If Alf finds out I’ve been smoking it’ll be divorce city. Forget about the no sex thing; smoking would seal the deal for sure.”
Life, Sideways Page 16
