Serendipity and Me (9781101602805) (6 page)

 

Serendipity has scrambled eggs

for breakfast

this first morning.

 

She is a miracle cure.

I feel well enough for eggs myself.

 

Well enough to eat

at the kitchen table with Dad

while we watch Serendipity

nibble near the fridge.

 

She pats her eggs like they're

dead mice,

like she wishes

they'd get up and run.

 

Then she chomps them down

and licks her bowl.

 

Just like you used to. . . .

Remember?

Dad says

his voice holding memories

of high chairs and laughter.

 

His hand opens soft

like he's letting

something

go.

 

 

 

As soon as she's finished eating

Serendipity comes close

and looks skyward at me.

She gazes with such innocence—

a baby with one blue

and one green eye.

My brain tells me to leave her there

out of Dad's view.

My heart tells me to pick her up.

I follow my heart.

 

Dad stares at the fluffy kitten

washing herself on my lap

and his eyes close.

He crumples his napkin

before he's finished eating

and stands.

 

I can tell he's ready

to be tough.

 

I can tell he's ready

to break my heart

 

by taking her away.

 

I start talking

as quick

as I can.

 

 

 

I called Taylor last night,
I begin

and I tell him how she might

be able to take Serendipity in a week.

That's okay, isn't it?
I ask

We can keep her that long, right?

 

Dad's face closes up.

Sara, we talked about this.

The cat goes today.

 

But she could have a home.

My voice is squeaking.

I grab at a statistic I read once.

Seventy percent of cats

in shelters
die
, Dad.

 

Dad clears his throat.

And what happens if Taylor

can't take her?

It'll be even harder for you

to let her go after a week.

 

I—I'll put up posters, too.

The first person who wants her

can have her.

I'll find someone—she's so sweet

someone will want her.

Dad,
I croak out the plea,

she needs a family.

 

 

 

Dad looks like I gutted him

with the word
family.

Or maybe with the word
die.

Now I know what writers mean

when they say
hollow eyes.

 

His eyes are like the deep craggy holes

in broken trees

 

and they're pointed

right at me.

 

I feel my lip start to tremble             again.

 

I think he's going to say No.

I think he's going to break my heart

with his own crushed one

 

but he puts his hand on his mouth.

 

He stands up             I think

so he won't have to look at me.

 

Then he kisses the top of my head

like a surrender.

 

You're not playing fair, Sara.

He tries for a laugh.

I'll bet you got the flu on purpose.

 

He doesn't wait to see if I smile.

 

 

 

Dad can't say Yes to a cat

but he also didn't say No.

That's as good as a Yes for now.

 

My heart starts to lift

until I remember

the dark in his eyes.

 

And when Dad leaves the room

it feels like

something left the very air

of the kitchen.

 

The smell of eggs

still lingers

but it's an empty smell.

 

On the sun-spattered floor

where Serendipity has jumped down

to chase shadows

 

there is depth

and texture

and warmth.

 

But here in this breathing space

where Dad left

 

there is nothing.

 

 

 

I peek around the corner

and find him at his sad place

staring at the bookshelves

poets ordered by alphabet.

Are we going to church this morning?

I ask softly

just to say something.

 

He doesn't turn around.

One more day to recover.

You can go to school tomorrow.

 

Then he reaches out his finger

and taps the binding of a slender book

hooks the book and levers it down

like a drawbridge

returning

to its resting place.

 

I feel fine now,
I say

wanting to move him

in a different direction

like he's moved the book.

 

He takes the book

without looking at me

goes alone into his room

 

and shuts the door.

 

 

 

At first the morning feels as thick

as the terrible Tule fog.

 

I can't stand it when Dad is like this.

 

He can suck the joy out of a room

in seconds

just by looking mournful.

 

Sometimes I want to say

She's dead, Dad.

Get over it.

 

But then I remember

I want something soft, too.

 

Serendipity changes the air.

She trips and leaps and dodges and twirls

and then falls in my lap to sleep

 

her face so sweet and fluffy

her breath a gentle stir.

 

She is good for me.

I know that.

 

She'd be good for him, too.

 

 

 

Already this morning

she's made herself at home.

She likes to see where she fits in.

 

I follow her as she

squeezes into small boxes

dallies in open drawers

slithers into sacks

cozies herself in closets.

 

We play hide-and-seek and I find her

in my boot            in my basket

in my backpack                in my bowl.

 

I can pour her like pudding

into any shape of container.

 

She spreads out soft like Jell-O.

 

She fills up any mold.