Page 51 of Kitten

“I don’t do anything,” I said, ideas I didn’t recognize falling out of me. “I just let things happen. I even let Silver run away.”

“Silver did that.”

I had already sensed the dynamic Isabelle spoke about unfurling between James and me, even tried at times to remedy it. But if Isabelle was right, then he felt it, too. When he cared for me, it was pleasurable for the both of us. By doing nothing, I allowed him to do everything. I liked to be the bad child with clenched fists, and he liked so much to give.

But I didn’t want to be helpless anymore. I wasn’t sure my life, or James’s, could sustain it.

At that moment, Bruno trotted toward us, his blond fur matted with water. People turned to look at him. The few remaining children pointed with their heads smushed against their parents’ chests. Isabelle said, “What’s that, Bruno, what have you got for us?”

Bruno slowed. I knew what he had for us. I wanted to close my eyes, but I didn’t. I kept them open, fixed on the dog with the half-open mouth, until he reached me. He lifted his chin and looked at me like he was sorry. I understood that he was.

He let go. She fell, making no sound, leaving no imprint. At the foot of the crag, a sleeping creature returned to where she was first found, tongue poking out.

17

Isabelle and Bruno walked me home. I asked to be alone. Inside, it was thick with silence. Silver lay in my arms with her nose nestled in the crook of my elbow, her belly still bloated with saltwater.

I debated whether to call James with the news or wait until he returned the next day to deliver it in person. If he knew, he’d probably skip the pitch and return to Holme at once. It was probably kinder to let him have one more day of ignorance. One more day where it was just the two of us, me and Silver, and she didn’t really have to be dead.

In the guest bathroom, I knelt by the tub and turned on the tap, pouring shower gel into the rush so the bath frothed with bubbles. Silver’s fur flared in the soapy water. I cupped her head with my palms and thumbed the sand carefully off her eyes. I scratched the divots behind her ears, patting down the fur so it went in one direction, shiny and neat. I brushed her teeth. I rubbed her feet. Then, when she was clean, I unplugged the tub. Tufts of fur swirled lazily around the drain hole. I spoke to her, briefly and quietly, until I became sleepy. We went to the bedroom. The floor waswarm from the day’s sun. Dust motes swiveled freely below the window with nobody there to catch them.

I curled onto the bed. Light fell through the blinds, sliding off the mattress and pooling on the floor. I pressed Silver’s soft body against the cold, empty plate of my chest and, with a sense that something more than her life had ended, I wept.

The bed shook. I had the strange yet gratifying sense that weeping here, on this bed, was the first real thing I’d ever done. For just a moment, it was the only thing I would ever do. And then I fell asleep.

When I woke, it was evening, Silver was still in my arms, and I had a missed call from my mother.

My mother picked up on the second ring. “Katie,” she said, and I thought it was strange that I felt nothing.

“Mom.”

“I’m calling to tell you happy belated birthday.”

My body felt distant, small. I observed it from above, a smudge like spilled ink on bleached sheets. She didn’t sound angry. She didn’t sound like herself, either.

I forced myself to speak. “Thank you.”

“I know I’m late.”

“It’s okay. I missed yours.”

“You did,” she said. “You were punishing me. I know you.”

She always said this: I know you. But I also knew her, enough to understand why she’d ignored my most recent call. She wanted to punish me, too. I relaxed. We were finally even.

“Did you feel punished?” I asked.

“Very much. You punish me very well.”

I could tell her who taught me. “Why are you calling me now?”

“I was cleaning.” Her voice softened. “I found all these paintings you made. The one of the sheep. The water lilies. You were so talented, did you know that? And you won a prize for the water lilies, do you remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“You used to spend all these afternoons painting. You refused to eat or drink. Sometimes you even wet yourself, remember?”

“Yes, I remember.” I did all that because she did it first.