As if in a daze, I nod, then make my way to the blue bathroom. I’m sure this is a dream now. But I hope it will continue long enough for me to see the bubbles filling the tub. I must hurry before everything goes up in a poof and disappears and I am back on the street again.
The weird part is how it feels as though I am at home. Not home like where my mother lives, but home where I belong, like somebody really wants me.
I hope it’s not just my mind playing tricks on me.
chapter TWENTY
Bubbles and Bones
It is very strange to remove my clothes. It has been so long that it feels as if I’m peeling off layers of my own skin, but I keep telling myself, no, these are just clothes and dirty clothes at that. I drop them into a sodden heap, then out of respect, I bend down and neatly fold them, stacking one thing on top of another. They are not much, I know, just filthy blue jeans and several various-size T-shirts that I have collected, along with my original sweatshirt and the coat from the Tweedles and my threadbare red slippers that Betty gave me. Still, they are all I have.
The claw-foot tub is full of hot water and bubbles now. Faye had included a box of bubbling bath salts in my plastic bag. The label on the box reads “April Violets,” and it’s sort of an old lady fragrance, but I think I like it anyway. Besides, it helps to cover up the ammonia smell of dirty cat boxes. I have counted them. There are six. I hope no kitties need to use the facilities while I’m in here because I locked the door.
The steamy bathroom has lots of framed pictures of cats hung haphazardly on the walls. They are the kind of pictures that come from calendars. I begin to imagine that I am going to be swimming with all those cats. Maybe they are catfish and I am a mermaid. The mirror is so foggy that I can see only a blurred image of myself. I am thankful for this.
I try not to look at my bony rib cage as I lower myself into the steaming water. It is so hot that it stings my flesh, and I get goose bumps from the heat. Funny how the body reacts the same way to both hot and cold. I wonder what this means. Although I don’t like it, I have become somewhat accustomed to the cold lately. But being hot, now that is something altogether new to me. I’m not even sure I like it at first.
Slowly something comes over me, and I begin to relax a little—another new sensation. I lean my head into the back of the tub and slowly exhale. My tangled hair is trailing down into the water, floating around my shoulders like a fur collar. I try not to think about anything. I try to tune out the voices that are nattering away in the back of my brain. Even though they are quieter than usual right now, it’s a real challenge not to listen. But I focus my whole attention on the rhythm of my breathing, watching the luminescent bubbles as they rise and fall like the tide above my chest. My only goal is to absorb the warmth and the smell of violets as I allow myself to melt and meld into the silky water. Is this what it felt like to be in my mother’s womb? And what if I could stay like this forever? I think that I would.
I’m not sure how long I have stayed in the water, but my hands and feet are shriveled and pale, and the water has cooled into a dirty lukewarm pool that is about the same shade of gray as the Willamette River on a cloudy December day. For a moment I wonder if I am really in the chilly river, but then I decide that I’m not. I think I should climb out before it’s completely cold. I dry myself off with a scratchy yellow towel that feels as if it’s been dried on a clothesline. I rub and rub, hoping to remove the last layers of crusty dirt that have become embedded in my body during the past few—what?—days, weeks, months, years? I cannot even remember.
Then I reach back into the plastic bag provided by Faye. Earlier I noticed what appeared to be a nightgown, and I pull it out to discover it is pale pink and flannel. Obviously worn, for it is soft and supple. I slip it over my head and marvel at the texture. It is better than the finest cashmere. I wonder if Faye would like to adopt me and keep me for good.
I pick up my plastic bag and the folded pile of smelly clothes and tiptoe out into the hallway. I hear music playing. It sounds like something old-fashioned, like those big bands that were popular during World War II. I pretend that I have stepped back into time and that I am really someone else. What a luxury that would be.
“Ready for some cocoa, dear?” she calls as I come into the kitchen.
“Where shall I …” I stand there in the yellow light of the kitchen, barefoot and wet headed as I hold my small pile of earthly possessions.
“Your room is down the hallway, first door on the right, beyond the bathroom. I tried to clear it out a little for you. I don’t know why I’m such a pack rat.”
I tiptoe back down the dimly lit hallway. I’m not sure why I’m tiptoeing, but it feels like the right thing to do. I turn on the light to discover a peach-colored room. An old-fashioned four-poster bed takes up most of the space, with boxes and piles of things all around it. It looks like a storage room with a bed in the center, and yet it reminds me of something. Then I remember how I had used my packing boxes to protect my bed. Yes, I think I will be safe here. I set my clothes bundle on a chair by the door and return to the kitchen.
Faye is standing over the stove now, stirring a saucepan filled with milk that’s just starting to steam.
“What’s that?” I ask, thinking she is fixing something for her cats.
“This is the milk for our cocoa.” She turns off the burner and removes the pan.
“You use real milk?”
She laughs. “Yes, I don’t believe that cocoa is really cocoa if you make it out of a package.” Then she opens up one of those old-fashioned tins of Hershey’s cocoa, the kind that are brown and silver, just like the candy bars. She adds several spoonfuls and then some sugar and a smidgen of vanilla. I watch with amazement as she stirs it with a big wooden spoon.
“I never saw anyone do that before,” I tell her.
“Yes, I am often accused of being hopelessly out-of-date. But it’s just the way I am.” She nods to a cupboard behind me. “Can you get us down some cups?”
I open the cupboard to see an interesting selection of mismatched flowery china. “Which ones?” I ask.
“Pick a cup you like, dear. I’ll take the one with the pink roses.”
I choose a cup with violets, thinking this goes well with my bath, and I take down another with dainty pink roses. I set these on the counter by the sink and watch as she skillfully pours from the pan, spilling only a few drops.
“There you go, dear.” She sets the pan in the sink and fills it with water, then we take our cocoa to the living room where the music is playing.
“Who is that?” I ask. “I mean the music.”
She sighs with a happy smile. “That’s Glenn Miller.”
I nod. I think I’ve heard of him.
“This was George’s favorite song. ‘String of Pearls.’ ” She gets a dreamy look. “I can remember dancing with him in the Twilight Room just before he went off to Korea that winter.”
“Was that your husband?”
She shakes her head. “No. My fiancé. We would’ve married first, but there wasn’t time for the kind of wedding we both wanted. I was planning the wedding while he was overseas. But he never made it home.”
I frown. “That’s too bad.”
She nods. “I just couldn’t find it in me to marry anyone else after losing my dear George. In my heart we are married, always will be. But I’ve been happy on my own like this. I had my job at the post office for years and years. Then I have my cats and my pension. The good Lord has been kind to me.”
I wonder about this but see no reason to doubt her. She certainly seems content enough to me, and I know I would be happy if I were in her place. I think her life seems just about perfect. Like a fairy tale.
“I like your house,” I tell her.
She laughs. “Well, not many people would agree with you there. Most folks think I’m a batty old woman. They come in here and see too many cats. And, of course, the cat hair is everywhere. It’s so hard to keep it cleaned u
p. And, well, I know it smells a little catty, but I am so used to it that I don’t even notice.”
“I think it’s nice.”
“I do too. And my cats are good company.”
“I appreciate your letting me stay with you tonight.” I look down at my cocoa and swallow. “I think you’re the kindest person I’ve ever met.”
She smiles now. “Well, you’re a sweet little girl. I’m glad you and your Cheshire cat stopped by to visit.”
We listen to the music and drink our cocoa, and for the first time in a very long time I am almost normal. I barely remember what normal feels like, but I imagine it is something like this. I just wish that it would stick around for a while.
Finally it is time for bed, and I desperately hope that I’ll be able to sleep. Even if I can’t, I am determined to stay in the bed and remain quiet. I don’t want to walk around the house and frighten Faye. I want to be a good houseguest. I take Cheshire and his little box and say good night.
“Sleep well, dear.”
I slip into the bed and breathe in the clean smell of the sheets. Oh, I’m sure anyone else would think they smell catty too, but to me they are nothing but lovely. Once again I wonder if this is real. I wonder if perhaps I really did jump from the bridge and perhaps I am simply dead and in heaven now. This certainly feels like heaven to me. But then I am a bit surprised to think that God would actually let me in. Maybe I missed something.
I try to remember the words Faye used when she prayed to God. It reminded me of some of the things I heard at the mission. I think about how Faye called God “Father.” I wonder if God would ever want me to call him that. But then I think of my own father, and I shudder. I am afraid that God is probably just like him.
So I try not to think about God as I tell myself to shut up and go to sleep. I try to block out the voices by counting backward from a thousand. I imagine myself to be sleeping, and, amazingly, I think it is actually working.
chapter TWENTY-ONE
Through the Looking Glass
I am still living in the Cat Lady’s house, although I call her Faye. It’s been three days now, and I am amazed that she has not thrown me out yet. Not that I’ve been bad, mind you. I’ve tried to be on my best behavior, but then there are some things I can’t seem to help or control. Like the talking out loud sometimes, especially when I’m telling the voices to go away and leave me alone.
Fortunately, Faye does not seem the least troubled by this. She just smiles and shakes her head as if I’m slightly eccentric, and maybe I am. Still I am worried about having stayed here three whole days. I know it’s been that long because she said so herself just this morning. That’s when I remembered something my mother used to say about company and fish and how they both become stinky after three days. But then I was stinky when I got here, and I’ve been keeping myself pretty clean ever since.
Still, I worry that Faye might be thinking I’m crazy, especially like today when I was saying something grumpy to Amelia. I can’t recall exactly what it was now, but I know I was pretty irritated with her. I just wish she would leave me alone. Instead she persists in slandering the “Cat Lady”—that’s what Amelia calls her. But I think that’s disrespectful.
“Get out of here,” Amelia demanded as I got out of bed this morning. As usual, she was sitting on the chair, arms folded across her chest and scowling darkly. “You can’t trust the Cat Lady. She’s onto you, Alice. Get out of here while you still can.”
“Leave me alone,” I muttered without looking her in the eye. I’ve thought about pretending that I can’t see or hear her. I wonder how she would respond to that.
One time Faye told me that she sometimes talks to herself too. Although I think she was probably trying to make me feel better. I wanted to ask her if she hears voices as well, but I thought better of this. I don’t want to frighten her too much. I feel I am a living time bomb, my days here are numbered, and it’s just a matter of time before I blow up, shatter into a thousand pieces, and then get tossed out with last week’s kitty litter. Sometimes I wish I were a cat because then I could probably stay here forever.
I do try to make myself useful, but I know that my scrambled brain sometimes makes me mess up. Like when I tried to wash the dishes by myself and ended up putting them in the refrigerator instead of the cupboard when I was finished. Now, really, I know better than that.
But Faye is patient with me. Sometimes I think she really likes me, although it could be that she simply feels sorry for Cheshire, and I just happen to be part of that package. But Cheshire is getting better each day. I’m a little worried that he will become so healthy that there’ll be no need for the two of us to remain here in the cat house any longer.
This frightens me more than I care to admit, but I know I should face up to the possibility. According to Amelia, it’s completely inevitable, and the sooner I make the break, the better it will be for everyone. But I wonder what I will do, where I will go. I wish I could come up with a plan besides the streets. I got so weary of being cold and scared all the time, and I’m sure that it’s even worse now since the temperatures have dropped down to freezing the last couple of days.
Cheshire sits in my lap most of the time. I think he knows I saved his life. Well, with Faye’s help, of course. I’m afraid I will have to abandon him when I leave this place—for his own good. I am afraid that despite his good progress, he would not be able to survive on the cold winter streets. Will I?
This afternoon I sit in Faye’s living room and look out her front window and watch as the world outside grows dusky. It gets dark so early now. I think it’s only around four o’clock, and yet it is already a deep foggy blue outside. I wonder if it’s always been like this, or if the world is changing. Sort of like global warming, only perhaps this is a global dimming. It seems possible.
Faye is listening to the four o’clock news on her old-fashioned radio (she has no television) as she knits a tiny red sweater for Juliet because Juliet’s fur has gotten so thin and patchy lately. Faye is worried that she is cold.
I notice how the glass in her big front window is becoming reflective like a mirror now. I can see everything in the room behind me as if it’s really in front of me, as if it’s out the window, outside and beyond. It’s as though I’m watching something in another world. I see Faye comfortably seated in her overstuffed chair, a red ball of yarn in her lap that Oliver is tapping with one paw. I can see it’s just a matter of time before he gets it down on the floor and gives it a good bat. This is a game they like to play, and I am usually the one who must retrieve the ball and roll it neatly back up. But I don’t mind. I like to make myself useful.
Still it is strange seeing this tidy little world in front of me, out the window. I see the cats and the pictures on the wall, the braided rug, and the shabby but comfortable furnishings. I see the soft golden glow of the lamp beside Faye’s chair. I see her mustard gold sweater and her pastel flowered pants, and I like how the colors clash and collide with each other. At the same time, I think it all seems so very far away, removed from me, like something I can never really belong to or fully participate in. I am cut off and separated from that world by this big sheet of unforgiving hard glass—or something that’s just as cold and invisible as that.
I wonder if this is how Alice felt in Through the Looking Glass. Oh, I know she claims to have been bored and looking for some kind of adventure, or so the story goes, but perhaps she simply felt out of sorts with the rest of the world. Perhaps, like me, she just didn’t fit in. Maybe it seemed that only the looking glass separated her from everything that was real and alive and healthy.
“What are you doing, dear?”
I realize that I am standing right in front of the window now; my breath has made a cloudy splotch right in front of my face. I think I was actually going to walk through the window and try to enter this comforting world. Surprised, I turn around to see that the exact same world is right behind me, only clearer and brighter and probably warmer tha
n the one I’ve been looking at. Of course everything is backward now, or maybe it’s just me. Still, the whole thing confuses me, and for a moment I wonder which side is real.
“Are you all right, Alice?”
I nod and look down at the floor. Oliver has succeeded in getting the yarn ball from her lap, and I stoop to pick it up. It must’ve been down there for a while, because I can see that he’s managed to make quite a twisted mess of it.
“Silly cat,” scolds Faye. I can tell she doesn’t really mind too much.
I sit down on the footstool next to her and try to untangle this mess, but it only proceeds to get worse, with the knots tightening and the yarn stubbornly snarling the more I tug and pull on it.
“Don’t worry, dear.” Faye hands me her little brass scissors that look like a stork. “We can just cut that snarl and tie the two ends back together.”
I’m not sure what she means by this, so I simply hold the scissors and stare at the wad of twisted red strands. What am I supposed to do? I look at the stork and open his long beak and wonder if he can tell me.
“Here, let me show you.” She smiles as she takes the stork and the tangled wad of wool. Then she allows the stork to bite one end of the yarn, snip, and then again on the other, snip. She hands a snarled bunch of yarn back to me, then ties off the two freshly cut ends and trims them. “See?” She holds up the ball now neatly attached to her knitting project and smiles as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
I am thoroughly impressed. I wish I could fix my life so easily. I wish she could use her stork on me to completely remove the snarled piece of my life and then neatly tie the two ends back together, but I suspect this is impossible with people. And so I sit here with my wad of yarn. I continue my futile attempt to unravel it, thinking I can perhaps salvage it. But it only gets worse.
Finally I hear her calling me to come in the kitchen and help her to set the table. I am relieved as I toss my knotted yarn in the trash beneath the sink. Like me, it is useless. I open the utensil drawer and hope I can remember where the forks and spoons go on the table tonight. So far I haven’t been able to get it perfectly straight without her help.
Finding Alice Page 14
