Page 10 of Fragments of the Past

Paul was a senior cat when I adopted him during one of those events where the overflowing shelter waived the fees to place animals into new homes. I felt awful for Paul. The family he loved his entire life chose not to care for him in his old age.

I’d harbor less resentment and have more sympathy if it weren’t for two reasons. The name on his cubby was “Cinnamon”, which made me wonder if that was his original name at all or what the shelter volunteers picked for him. Reason number two was Paul was lethargic having just had his balls lobbed off. There’s no accounting for how many litters Paul sired.

Talking about responsible pet ownership turns me into one of those Sally Struthers commercials on television when I was a little kid. Since Paul has been gone, I can practically hear Sarah McLachlan singing between my ears. My taut heartstrings are in danger of snapping.

I’m certain the heightened aggravation, believing humanity could do so much more for creatures who depend on them, is because I can’t sense Paul at all. I don’t know if he’s living his best kitty afterlife. It makes me as normal as anyone else. The kind of ordinary I dream of. Yet, grieving like this is a hard pill to swallow.

I take a spoonful of cereal and pick up a smooth blue rock from the plastic snap case I sort stones into. The variegated blues with light swirls make me feel good. Good is a good feeling. Life isn’t easy. You should take in the good whenever you can. It rolls into my palm. I wrap my fingers around the coolness and succumb to the pleasure of its weight, soaking in the joy beauty brings.

Setting it on the tray next to the silver wire and the pliers, I scoop another bite. A knock interrupts the spoon’s flight to my mouth. My attention flies to the door, where I stored the leftover cat supplies until I could bring them to the shelter. Alongside, I donated the entire fee from Brighton PD in Paul’s memory. Although I haven’t seen a dime yet, and with the cost of his last veterinary visit, I might wind up short this month.

“Come in,” I call.

A cascade of wavy brown hair precedes Layla’s face when she pops her head into my loft. “How d’you know it’s me?”

“Sixth sense,” I say wryly. Layla and I have this conversation a lot. Her next remark will be along the lines of—

“What if I were an ax murderer?”

I roll my eyes, laughing. “Ax murderers rarely knock on my door at ten in the morning during the middle of the week.”

Layla’s visits are like clockwork on the days she doesn’t work at Paisley’s Boutique on the cute little main drag downtown. She and her fiancé, Julian, are my landlords. They live in the largest apartment. It takes up most of the ground floor. Their front door is the original entrance. The ornately carved banisters in the foyer lead up to the bedrooms. She has access to the neat bits of an old mansion that get taken for granted, like dumbwaiters and the corridor that leads to servant quarters.

That’s what my loft is, the former housekeeper’s digs. The lengthy room is bare bones in comparison. My kitchenette has an old spindly legged enamel sink with the built-in drainboard in garish contrast to the modern refrigerator. But I couldn’t love the dousing rainwater head when I shower in the bathroom’s clawfoot tub with the wraparound curtain any less.

Layla closes the door and comes over to sit at the small round table. “How are you doing?” Her head tilts to the right where Paul used to nap in a ray of sunshine whenever I took out my jewelry making supplies.

“Sad but otherwise good,” I answer directly.

“Yay, going out helped! Julian saw you dancing.” She waggles her brows.

When Layla found out Paul crossed the rainbow bridge, she’d told Julian. He manages the talent at Sweet Caroline’s and, weeks earlier, had mentioned the lineup at the concert hall. I replied how I enjoyed several of them, and the one playing that night in particular. Later, I got a text from Julian saying, if I was up to go out, all I needed to do was drop his name at the door. The bouncer in turn asked my name, checked a list, told me to enjoy the show, and moved aside so that I could pass.

I’m a one-trick pony. The gal friends call to amuse themselves with my cool parlor tricks. Oftentimes, I’ll hear nothing for months, until someone picks up the phone to call because they are grieving and need closure with a loved one. Don’t get me wrong, in those instances, I want to help. However, the support Layla and Julian gave me, listening to what I needed and acknowledging that I grieve too, is rare.

Layla and Julian are also aware that I’ve stopped volunteering my services. The toll past readings have taken on my body is immense. But when the referral came from someone who knew Angeline, refusing was difficult. As a matter of fact, I’d agreed without a second thought. Within hours, Paul’s health declined. Losing my companion right as I needed to shift my mindset and prepare to meet Pearl’s mother was horrible timing.

My lips vibrate as I blow a breath out of the side of my mouth. “Yes, going out helped me relax. Except, I sort of did something I shouldn’t have and blew it all to hell.” I slump, my shoulder blades hitting the hard chair back.

“Something or someone?”

“The guy I sent the picture of me with was Anson Ames, the detective who called me to consult on that cold case.” I study the painted-over cracks in the ceiling. “I sort of gave him a fake name, and now he doesn’t believe anything I said during the investigation.”

Layla’s jaw hits the floor. “And here all I was wondering was if any ghosts followed you home.”

Yes. But it’s moot to mention since the dead haven’t stayed. Out of desperation, I learned to keep barriers in place. I tell them they aren’t welcome, and most of them go back to where they came from.

“I assume you…” I grab Layla’s hands to stop her from making the lewd gesture. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

My cheeks flame. “Yes.”

“Did he do a thorough investigation and make sure you got yours?”

“Yes!” I roll my eyes, laughing at Layla’s directness.

She’s the nearest thing I have to a confidant. A best friend. But on closer examination, it feels weird because Layla’s an extrovert. Since moving to Brighton, she’s made a million close associations through her boss, Paisley, who is engaged to Jake, Julian’s boss and the owner of Sweet Caroline’s. I hate leaching off of people or using up their energy because it’s no fun to have an oddball loner dependent on their kindness. Still, I’m grateful Layla visits me so often.

“The man came to you about this case. Whenever anyone has begged you to do a reading there are always shallow non-believers nitpickers, or jerks who show up acting as if the open-minded friends who invited them are stupid. So who cares what Detective Ames thinks? If he thinks none of the information you gave him was any good, if he follows a lead and disproves it, then it’s on him to report everything to his boss, not you

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