Cleo

by Helen Brown

  Watching sun ripple against the wallpaper I wondered why we’d been in such a rush to fix up the house. What was so offensive about the wallpaper? If it stayed attached to the walls long enough the frenzy of black floral arrangements against a white background might become fashionable again. Even the shaggy carpet didn’t get on my nerves much anymore. Pregnant euphoria ensured everything could wait.

  Steve’s reaction was the opposite. Every room reeked of fresh paint. Ladders leaned at drunken angles all over the house. Plunging into feverish activity, he finished renovating the bathroom. He hauled out the peeling blue bath with its tasteless gold taps and dumped it on the lawn in front of the house. I was so hormoned-out I wasn’t bothered when grass grew tall around its edges.

  When I wondered aloud to Ginny if she thought he’d ever take the bath away she suggested we turn it into a lily pond with goldfish. God, I loved that woman.

  Cleo and I developed a taste for Mozart, not just because of the theory that babies could hear through the walls of the womb and classical music helped their brain cells grow. Cleo seemed to genuinely appreciate the composer’s soothing music, particularly the second movement of the Clarinet Concerto in A. As the clarinet pulled notes of liquid gold from the air, Cleo’s eyes narrowed to silver slits. Rainbows of sunlight danced across her fur. Nestling snugly around my belly, she purred accompaniment while Mozart resolved life’s heartache in one exquisite movement. Listening to that piece I was assured even the most profound sadness can be transformed into beauty.

  Replacement

  A cat listens carefully to every story, whether she has heard it before or not.

  “It’s a boy!” every cell in my body shouted. There was an unmistakable masculinity in the way his feet ricocheted off my ribs. The tiny fists that pummeled my bladder in the middle of the night had the force of a miniature boxing champion. My feet marched “boy, boy” down the darkened hall to the bathroom for the third time in as many hours.

  I sewed a tiny baby’s gown and embroidered the neck with blue daisies. We talked about names. Joshua, maybe. Certainly not Samuel, though perhaps as a middle name.

  Not a replacement for Sam, I explained to anyone who was interested. The new baby would have his own personality, with just a touch of Sam’s roguish sense of humor, the same shaped eyes, maybe, perhaps even a similar grassy smell to his skin. He wouldn’t be Sam, of course. I’d respect the baby’s individuality. However much he did or didn’t resemble Sam, the baby would make us a family of four again. I’d tell Joshua Samuel everything about the brother he never knew. A thread of continuity would be woven into our lives.

  Steve allowed himself to smile more often. To think all this hope was blossoming against the odds because of a surgeon with a microscope and clever fingers! For the last two babies Steve had scrounged a secondhand bassinet from the For Sale columns of the local newspaper. Certain there’d be no more babies, he’d quickly disposed of it after we’d moved Rob to a larger cot.

  This time he went out and bought a brand-new bassinet trimmed with yellow satin ribbon, a tactfully asexual color. Peeling away its shiny wrapping, he assembled it in our bedroom. With a net canopy draped over its sides, the cradle was fit for a prince. I smoothed sheets the size of tea towels over the mattress.

  Running my hand over the yellow ribbon, I wondered how people handled raising girls. All that tulle and Barbie doll stuff would be complicated. I knew how boys worked. Looking after them involves a lot of physical energy—chasing, mostly, and yelling. Boys are emotionally straightforward. They have special bonds with their mothers. Sam and I had a Kissing Game, a sort of tag, we used to play. The winner was whoever planted the last kiss on the other’s face, and it always ended with both of us purple with laughter.

  Yes, I thought, examining the latest styles in blue booties and cuddly rugs, I’d teach the new baby the secret Kissing Game, even though it had belonged exclusively to Sam and me. I wondered if Joshua would like Sam’s old wooden train set, and if there was anything else of Sam’s he’d like. Not that I was in any way planning to replicate what we had. Was I?

  Rata was overjoyed when Mum’s Japanese hatchback slowed to a halt at the top of the zigzag. It was a car the retriever associated with jaunts to the beach, farms and other happy places. Mum had come to “help out” before the baby arrived. The length of her stay was unspecified, but if it was like any other it probably wouldn’t be more than a couple of nights. Mum and I loved each other dearly, but we both had strong personalities and were prone to amateur dramatics. We usually rubbed each other the wrong way after a few nights.

  As Mum emerged from the driver’s door Rata sprang on her hind legs, plonked a paw on each of the old woman’s shoulders and swiped her cheek with a sloppy lick. Staggering slightly under Rata’s weight, Mum smiled broadly. She’d always been a dog person, and Rata was her favorite dog on earth.

  After being showered with saliva, Mum patiently lowered each of Rata’s paws. Rob ran forward and wrapped his arms around her waist. Tail waving a welcome banner, Rata led us in procession down the zigzag. Second to Rob, there was no one now who Rata adored more than Mum.

  Unpacking her bag in the spare room she presented me with her pièce de résistance—a shawl she’d knitted in wool so fine and needles so tiny the entire thing could be passed through her wedding ring. Dazzling white, with scalloped edges and a web of intricate stitches, it was the Ultimate Baby Shawl.

  Since Dad’s death, Mum passed her nights in front of a flickering screen with only knitting needles for company. Most of the time she created blankets and big bulky rugs made from carpet wool she bought direct from the factory. This baby shawl was in a different league, knitted with such love and attention to detail it glowed with some sort of energy. It was a shawl that might be filled with protective spells to become a magic cloak.

  “It’s beautiful!” I said, admiring her handiwork. “He’ll love it.”

  “How do you know it’s a boy?” she asked.

  “I just feel it.” But Mum was already onto another topic.

  “Well, back in the twenties cousin Eve, that’s my first cousin, which would make her your second cousin or something along those lines…She’s the one who went to the Sorbonne and had the fling with the married hairdresser until the family found out and stopped her allowance. She arrived back in New Zealand wearing a fur coat and lipstick. Everyone thought she’d had her lips tattooed…”

  Poor Mum. What she missed most these days, she often said, was having someone to talk to. Sadly, this inflicted her with the lonely person’s disease—she talked too much. As a result, some of her oldest friends had withdrawn to become occupied with bridge, charity work or grandchildren. I couldn’t blame them. Some of her stories were amusing, like this one about cousin Eve (which interested me the first time she told it. I was intrigued a family not known for glamorous and wicked women could have produced someone as wonderful as Eve). But Mum was a heavy-duty talker. It demanded great loyalty and affection to endure a barrage of words with a noticeable absence of polite questions about health and weather offered in return. As Mum launched into yet another monologue, smiles would set like raspberry jam, faces went flat as piecrusts. When the listener retreated into a private world of shopping lists and which underwear really should be thrown out, Mum would suddenly startle them with a loud “You’re not listening, are you?”

  Even though we lived four hundred kilometers apart, Mum and I had always been emotionally close. Listening to her on the phone several times a week, I longed to ease her loneliness. She invariably mentioned the other widows in her community of concrete block townhouses and how lucky they were to have regular visits from their families. The guilt missile hit bulls-eye every time. If we’d lived closer I could have been one of those responsible daughters who, every Sunday, arrived on their aging mother’s doorstep nursing a warm casserole dish.

  “Let’s see how it looks on the bassinet,” I said, leading her and Rob into our bedroom, where the baby�
�s bed waited, a semitranslucent cocoon.

  Flourishing the shawl, I prepared to spread it over the miniscule mattress.

  “Wait!” Mum yelled.

  I froze mid-swoosh. Curled up inside the bassinet was the unmistakable silhouette of a sleeping cat princess. Cleo flicked an ear, and opened a lazy eye to examine us in a bored way.

  Our cat had obviously recognized the bassinet for what it was. Her subjects had finally got around to understanding her regal status and provided the level of comfort she was entitled to.

  Mum ran forwards, bent over the bassinet and boomed “Shooooo!” Cleo flattened her ears and hissed back. I watched helpless while two of the most powerful females in my life declared war on each other.

  “It’s okay, Nana,” Rob said. “Cleo’s just trying out the baby’s bed. She wants to make sure it’s comfortable.”

  “There’s only one place cats belong,” Mum proclaimed, grabbing Cleo around the belly and marching her to the front door. “Outside!”

  After her abrupt landing on the veranda Cleo shook her self in disbelief. Why on earth had the giant grandmother woman tossed her out of her bed?

  Back in the kitchen, Mum filled the electric kettle while Rata sat devotedly at her feet.

  “That cat will smother the baby,” she said.

  Through the window I saw Cleo licking herself all over with long comforting strokes. No doubt she was hatching a plan.

  “Cats and babies don’t go together,” Mum continued. “They drop fur everywhere. Have you seen? It’s all over Rob’s pillowcase. The whole house is covered in cat fur. It gives babies asthma. And the claws. Cats have no patience. They lash out and scratch babies on the face. Cats aren’t like dogs, are they, Rata? They get jealous…”

  “Cleo’s not jealous,” Rob said.

  “Just wait till the baby’s here,” said Mum.

  “Cleo’s looking forward to the baby,” said Rob. “She says it’s a blessing.”

  Mum’s hand froze on the kettle’s handle. She shot me a worried look.

  “What do you mean says?” she asked Rob. “You think the cat’s talking to you?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “He just had a couple of dreams about Cleo. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. You know what kids are like.”

  “He’s been through an awful lot,” she said to me under her breath. “You don’t think he’s going a bit strange, do you?”

  “He’s fine,” I said firmly, arranging mugs on a tray.

  “Frankly, I don’t know why you’ve bothered with a cat when most people would give anything to have a dog like Rata,” she continued. “Rata’s practically…a human being. She’s like having another person around.”

  I’d forgotten what a dyed-in-the-wool dog person Mum was. Rata thumped her tail amiably on the floor. Mum was right: Rata was the most lovable dog in the world.

  “Whenever Rata stays with me she keeps me company at night. I never feel scared because she always barks at strangers. She’s a wonderful guard dog. Her fur’s so silky. Don’t you love the way it feels? And the best thing about her is the way she listens. Haven’t you noticed the way Rata listens to everything I say?”

  My heart stopped. How had a woman who’d once been so strong and forceful suddenly grown into an old lady with wavy grey hair and bifocals? The once regulation stiletto heels and pointy toes had surrendered to sensible shoes made of soft leather and with toes rounded enough not to trouble her bunions.

  But she was giving decrepitude a run for its money. With her fashion flair (vibrant jackets with shoulder pads highlighted with chunky jewelry) and a lifelong commitment to coral lipstick, she was at the stylish end of the late seventies age group. Nevertheless, she looked more fragile than before. And for the first time she was actually asking me for something. She wanted company, protection, someone to give and receive love, and most importantly a pair of attentive ears.

  As I poured the tea Mum wandered down the hall towards our bedroom with Rata at her heels. Compared to hers, my life was brimming with adults, children and animals. And now there was the baby to look forward to. Mum wanted more than television and knitting needles. She needed healing as much, if not more, than we did. A grandparent’s grief is a double dose—grief for the lost grandchild and empathy for the unhappy adult child whose dream of family has unraveled.

  “I don’t believe it!” Mum yelled.

  I followed her voice into our bedroom. Cleo had ensconced herself in the bassinet again. She and Mum were locked in a mutual glower.

  “How did you get back inside?” she growled at the cat.

  Cleo raised herself on all fours, curved her tail down to look like an old-fashioned pump handle and growled back.

  “Through a window, probably,” I answered.

  “That cat’s a liability!” Mum snapped, scooping Cleo up and putting her firmly outside again. “You’re going to have to keep your bedroom door shut.”

  The Battle of the Bassinet went on day after day. Even though I tried to keep our bedroom door shut, it constantly seemed to glide open. Cleo never missed an opportunity to reinstate herself in her new bed, and Mum was constantly at the ready to toss her out.

  My attempts to call a truce between two determined females were pointless. Tensions between cat and grandmother were driving me crazy. Unable to sleep one night, I climbed out of bed around midnight, went under the house and fumbled in the dark for the hand mower. Mowing the lawn by moonlight calmed me down for a bit (and probably provided Mrs. Sommerville with entertainment).

  “Getting restless, are you?” said Mum the next morning. “It’s a sign the baby can’t be far away. You’d better get rid of that cat.”

  I gave up trying to fix things. Mum announced her departure, early as usual. Good-byes were always clumsy. Our family wasn’t big on displays of affection. As she stowed her bag into her hatchback, she looked suddenly frail again, a lonely old woman in a brown coat. We hugged briefly while Rata looked on, her tail at half-mast.

  “Take care,” I whispered.

  “You too,” Mum said, her vein-roped hand on the driver’s door.

  The drive ahead would take her five solitary hours, after which there’d be toast and scrambled eggs in front of the television and more knitting. Around eleven p.m. she’d have a mug of tea and a biscuit or two before heading off to bed—all of which added up to twelve hours of not talking to anyone. For someone who needed to talk, the prospect must’ve been torture. But Mum never complained.

  “Would you like Rata to stay with you for a while?” I asked. “I’ve talked with Rob and Steve, and they’re okay with it.”

  Mum suddenly straightened her back and shed ten years.

  “I think we’d get on very well together, wouldn’t we, girl?” she said without hesitation.

  Rata looked adoringly up at her with an expression of absolute devotion and barked happily. It’d been a long time since Mum had been the focus of such adulation.

  “Just a minute,” she said, looking young and pretty again. She reached into the backseat and produced one of her green knitted rugs, which she smoothed over the front seat. Tail flying, Rata leapt gleefully onto the seat and waited for the engine to start.

  If animals are healers, Mum needed one as much as anyone else. The silver-haired woman and the golden-haired dog looked a perfect match as they drove off up the street.

  Raising my arm to wave good-bye, I felt a pang—strange, yet familiar. Exciting and frightening at the same time. A new person was about to arrive on planet Earth.

  Rebirth

  Love, for cats and people, can be painful.

  A mother cat is rightfully called a Queen. Personally, I think it would be great if pregnant women were also called Queens. If the gay community protested too much we might possibly accept Baroness, Duchess or Fairy Princess. Anything instead of those glamour-sapping medical terms Gravida, Multigravida and the dreaded Geriatric Multigravida.

  Cats arrange to have four or five babies in one
hit. If humans did the same the number of months a woman spends gazing into a toilet bowl would be dramatically reduced. She’d have to buy only one set of hideous maternity clothes in her entire life. Children’s clothes would be bought in bulk. Deals could be made with baby gear manufacturers and schools. (Five educations for the price of four?)

  Restlessness is a surefire sign that a female cat is going into labor. It’s the same with humans. I’d been wrong to assume the Battle of the Bassinet was responsible for my moonlight escapade with the hand mower. I should have realized it was primal instinct telling my body to rev up for a big one.

  “Hello? Is that the hospital? Look, I think I might be going into labor. Contractions? Well, they’re not all that strong—maybe five minutes apart…What do you mean try and get some sleep? How can I go to sleep when I’m having a baby?…You want me to calm down and take a pill? Are you joking? So what if your beds are all full? I’ll give birth in the broom closet.”

  “Who does that stupid nurse think she is, turning me away from the hospital like that?”

  “Here’s the pill,” Steve said. “Try and get a good night’s sleep.”

  “I think we should call Ginny. She’ll know what to do.”

  “I did. The babysitter answered. They’re at some rock music awards.”

  “Rock music awards?”

  “It’s okay. They’ll finish around midnight. Ginny will meet us at the hospital, if we end up going there. Try and get some sleep.”