Page 17 of Dear Pink

Giovanna rushes out of the kitchen. “Hey there. You’re late.”

My chest contracts and I wonder if this is how it feels when you have a stroke. “Who’s Tonya? What’s going on, and what am I late for tonight?”

Giovanna’s eyes dart back and forth from me to my mother. “Chill out, Gabe. Tonya’s a new neighbor of mine. I invited her to dinner. She never eats a home-cooked meal because she works awful hours as a pediatric nurse.”

Gina’s words taunt me. I should’ve jumped in my car and left as soon as the door opened. This is a blind date set-up for sure. Before I move a muscle, they each grab an arm so I can’t escape and lead me through the kitchen. If I shake them off, there will be casualties. They’ll hold on for dear life. I let them drag me into the dining room while I scope out an escape route. If Gina called to warn me, it must be bad.

The back-patio door is my one way out, but I’m distracted by a crazy sight. An unknown cat is nestled on Mom’s new silk fabric dining chair. It’s captured in a clear backpack. Poor animal has on a purple sweater and an orange fedora. I start to say something but stop. I must be seeing things. This is too weird.

While I ponder the situation, a tall lanky woman walks over and grabs the cat backpack. She also wears a purple sweater and an orange fedora. They match. This scene keeps getting weirder.

“Hi.” She extends her hand. “You must be the infamous Gabe.”

I ignore her hand and glance over at my sister and my mom. Are they serious? Are they blind? This woman’s nuts.

“This is Tonya,” Giovanna says because I am paralyzed and mute.

I clear my throat. “Uhh . . .” What else do you say to a person who coordinates her outfit with a cat and puts said cat into a clear backpack? What kind of self-respecting cat allows this to happen?

My mother’s face reddens. “Gabe?” She turns to Tonya. “He usually says more.”

Mom’s embarrassed by me? What about the crazy cat lady in our dining room?

“Gabe?” Giovanna stares at me.

I stare back. Whoever blinks first, loses. I am familiar with this game. I strain my eye muscles, forcing my lids open. She rests her hand on the top of the chair and opens her eyes wider, showing me who’s boss. I can’t let her win, but my eyes are dry from riding this afternoon. I must—keep—them—open. Nooooo.

I concede defeat. “Nice to meet you, Tonya.”

My mother’s shoulders relax, and she heads into the kitchen. Giovanna follows her. She understands it's safe to leave me alone with Tonya. I’m no sore loser.

I sit in my usual chair and motion to the one beside me. “Have a seat.”

Tonya pulls out the chair, inspects it, and sits. After a moment of moving the chair side to side, she hauls the dapper-looking feline out of his backpack. “This is Mr. Seymour Whiskers.” She holds him up, a shiny object for me to admire.

The cat doesn’t acknowledge me. He lays limp in her hands. Maybe the cat’s on Xanax? “Hello, Mr. Seymour.” I search his eyes for pupil dilation.

“Mr. Whiskers likes you,” Tonya says in a sing-song baby voice. “Don’t you, sweet boy?”

The cat peers at me. His eyes say, “Help me.” I use my subliminal powers to tell him I’m trapped here too. I pat him on the back, and Tonya secures him inside the backpack. He presses his face against the plastic, his mouth stretched into a creepy smile. Something is seriously wrong with this cat. I shiver a little.

“So, Tonya, you’re my sister’s neighbor?”

“Yes. I moved in on Wednesday.”

I choke a little. Giovanna doesn’t even know this woman.

“She told me you adore animals.” She spreads her arms out wide as if creatures fill the room.

“I do.”

She doesn’t pull her arms in, keeping them out wide. Maybe she’s waiting for applause? The room goes silent.

After an uncomfortable minute, I break the tension. “I see how well you care for Seymour.”

“Mr. Whiskers. Yes. I take him everywhere I go.”

“Must be hard working in a hospital.” She cocks her head at me in confusion. “I mean, it must be hard leaving Seymour at home while you work long hours.”

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