“Okay,” I yelled over the racket. I took Theodore from Ina’s shoulder and felt his nose. It was cool and damp, although his eyes were slightly glazed. I ignored my parents, who continued to yell in my left ear. “What happened?” I asked Ina.
“Nothing, nothing,” Ina protested. “I treated him like a king.”
“What did you feed him?”
“Not much. Cat food,” she said defensively. “And a can of tuna. A little frozen shrimp. Some cheese cubes. Oatmeal. A sauerkraut ball.”
“A sauerkraut ball?” Theodore seconded the motion as I felt his stomach rumble in my arms. Oh no. I ran through the open door and threw the cat into the yard. He landed with a solid thump and threw up sauerkraut ball and God-knew-what-else on Ina’s sailor-outfitted leprechaun.
My parents and Ina stood behind me dumbfounded.
“You could have killed him,” Ina said. Then she saw the unfortunate leprechaun. “Oh, Fella, not on Ralphie!”
My dad wheeled over. “India, that is no way to treat an animal.”
My mother heartily agreed.
Theodore stumbled and slumped onto the grass and, after a moment, began to eat it. I ignored the yelps and proclamations in my ears as I marched around the house, unraveled the garden hose, and dragged it to the front yard. I cleansed Ralphie and returned the hose to its place beside the driveway. My movements were deceptively smooth.
I stepped in front of them. Ina wrung her hands over her head; my mother shook her entire right hand at me, one finger apparently not expressive enough; and my father snapped his fingers in my face.
“Stop it,” I said.
They froze like puppets with tangled strings.
Across the street, an open-mouthed neighbor, who pretended to prune her double petunias, gave up the charade and watched the spectacle, as did the man three houses down on his riding lawnmower.
“Stop it, all of you!” I became painfully aware that I was yelling at the top of my voice, but was unable to reduce my volume.
“India, you’re making a scene,” Mom said.
“Making a scene? What do you think you’re doing? Or what you’re always doing, huh?”
My father opened his mouth to speak.
I held up one hand to stop him. “No. I’m sorry that I didn’t call you back. I had to work. I went to a funeral—” I stopped mid-sentence, choking on the word. The finality of it, the finality of Olivia’s life was too much. For better or worse, Olivia had been my best friend for the vast majority of my life. She was a friend who listened to me whine for countless hours about my parents, a friend who came to all my art exhibitions even though it was most definitely not her crowd, and a friend who saved me from the evil clutches of Maggie Riffle and her coven of bullies-in-training. Seeing Maggie again had reminded me that it was Olivia who had saved me from that near swirly. That had to count for something. That loss was worth the inattention to my parents. Apparently, they did not agree, and I knew never would.
I shook my head, trying to sort out my thoughts, trying to think of something that I could say to them that could make them understand. In my silence, my parents and Ina began shouting again. The words I needed did not come to me because they did not exist. I turned away from them, stepped into my apartment, and shut the door. I secured the lock, deadbolt, and chain. After unplugging my landline and turning off my cell, I went to bed.
A half hour later, the knocking at my front door finally stopped.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The next morning, I woke up in my funeral outfit with Templeton kneading my head with his forepaws. I reached up to pet him and felt the dried dove poop on my sleeveless blouse. I shuddered. I blinked my eyes, fatigued from staring at the ceiling most of the night, and stumbled into the shower fully clothed.
An hour later, dressed in shorts, T-shirt, and running shoes, I felt twenty percent human and eighty percent idiot. The guilt from my outburst haunted me. Ina was right—I would make an excellent Catholic.
I plugged in the phone and grabbed a new box of raspberry toaster pastries, Ina’s favorite. I hopped over the iron railing that divided our porches. It was seven-fifteen; Ina would be on her third mug of Irish Cream coffee.
There was no answer when I knocked. I knocked again, and Ina threw open the door.
My hand caught suspended in the air. I waved. “Good morning,” I said brightly.
Ina scowled. Her ensemble that morning was lemon yellow pedal pushers and a lime green tank top.
I held out my peace offering like a Girl Scout making her pitch. Giving the inside of my cheek a good chomp before I spoke, I apologized. “Sorry I blew up at you yesterday. I was angry at my parents, not you.”
Ina took the box of pastries from my outstretched hand.
Taking this as a sign of goodwill, I pressed my luck. “I know that you were just worried about Theodore. You’re a terrific cat sitter. Mark’s really grateful.” Or, he would be if he knew.
Ina examined the box. “Raspberry?”
I nodded.
Ina’s withered face broke into a glorious grin. “Come on in, Sweetie. Let’s have breakfast.”
If things were that easy with my parents, I’d write a personal letter of thanksgiving to the cereal company.
The layout of Ina’s apartment was the mirror image of my own, but that’s where the similarities ceased. Ina’s apartment had all the novelty and, well, greenness of an Irish specialty shop skirting Boston Common. The carpet was green; the curtains were green; and the walls were green. Shamrocks decorated the lampshades and doilies, and clay pots of houseplants were painted to resemble pots of gold. A large icon of St. Patrick held center stage on the wall directly across from the couch. However, the apartment held remnants of Ina’s former life—the life before the senator’s letter—in the heavy mahogany furniture and silver frames of deceased relatives.
Ina dropped the pastries in the toaster. “Fella’s doing much better. He’s in the bedroom, sleeping it off.”
“Ina, I’m sure that he only had a stomachache from all he ate yesterday. You should only feed him cat food, at least for a while,” I told her as gently as possible.
“I gave Archie table scraps all the time. He always turned up his nose when he was full, but Fella never turned up his nose. He kept eating. Made me wonder if that brother of yours ever fed him.”
I sat on the bar stool by the abbreviated counter. “Theodore is well fed. Any scale will tell you that. He doesn’t understand the concept of full, or, for that matter, self-restraint.”
The toaster popped, and Ina tossed two extra crispy treats onto a saucer for me. The edges smoked. I bit off a corner and burned the roof of my mouth. Penance. I ineffectively waved my hands in front of my mouth,
“Yes, some don’t understand self-restraint,” she remarked.
After Ina’s pastries were charbroiled, and mine had cooled to a temperature akin to the shady-side of the equator, I took three steps, Ina took six, and together, we sat on the green plush sofa.
Ina spoke. “What’s got you spooked, honey?”
After burning my mouth twice more, I fanned my mouth again. “Spooked? I’m not spooked.”
She wiped a few stray crumbs from her tank top to the floor. Theodore would eat them after his nap. “I’ve never seen you so uptight.”
I scooted away from her for a clearer view. “I’m not uptight.”
Ina shook her head slowly.
“It’s been an unusual week, and under the circumstances, I’ve held together very well.”
Ina shook her head again. “You’re three tantrums away from the psych ward. You’ll never survive if your brother goes to trial.”
Frequently, Ina rambled on in incomprehensible psychobabble, but I wasn’t in the mood to indulge. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Ina placed her saucer on the low coffee table. Sprinkle crumbs were all that remained of her breakfast. She licked her right index finger and picked up the crumbs, putting them in her mouth. I was ready to throttle her when she finally spoke. “A tiny part of you thinks that Mark could be guilty.”