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The Cat, Ebola and a Shoebox Coffin(continued) Once upon a time I imagined I could die and make my peace with it.
But this was when I was all alone, and when death wouldn't mean leaving
her behind. And I imagined that she'd cheat on me, if I passed on. Kamla
insisted these worries should have evaporated when we began dating.
But they didn't. I couldn't have predicted dating her would have been
even more stressful, or that I'd feel infinitely more jealous, and paranoid.
My inferiority complex grew by the day. It's going to end one of these
days, Dante, I'd say to myself. No one ever really loved me. Not even
my father, who was predisposed to love me, if only out of obligation.
How much longer before Kamla fulfilled the prophecy? How much longer?
It was going to end eventually and I knew it. Would my deteriorating
mental state be the wedge between us? "You're doing this, Dante," Kamla said. "Not me. You're
looking for reasons to self-destruct." I might've just kept my mouth shut, but I was also in the habit of
sharing my worries, doubts, and demented delusions with her — a
feeble attempt to earn her sympathies. I was helpless, neurotic, interpersonally
challenged. "Pity me, Kamla." I needed more and more reassurances
that she loved me, and that I was ludicrous, that she wasn't going to
die. And the more I drowned her in questions, the more infuriated she
became. The more she lambasted me, the more I believed she was thinking
the horrible things I feared. "I know you don't love me like you
did, Kamla... You forgot to bring me a coffee when you were out. You're
trying to tell me you just don't love me anymore and that I'm a burden
to you, aren't you?" "Argh!" she'd cry, putting her hands in her hair and pretending
to pull it all out. "You're neurotic, Dante. I can't take this
anymore. What do you want me to say? How many things do I need to say
it to placate you?" "You owe me," I'd shout back, pacing wildly, my eyes hot
with tears. "Do you know how often I had to reassure you I wouldn't
abandon you?" "I'll abandon you if you don't stop this nonsense," she threatened.
She picked up Licks and grabbed the keys. "Obviously, I don't want
to leave you, do I?" "Well, not this second you don't," I'd respond, "...but
maybe this evening, or tomorrow morning! And what if it happens by accident
and you just die, huh? You're going to die one day." I'd begin
to cry, and she'd just get angrier. She believed in God, and I didn't. She'd touch my cheek tenderly and
say, "So, we'll be reunited eventually... in Heaven." But I knew the end was the end. God was just an adult's imaginary friend
helping you feel a little less lonely and little less doomed than you
really are. And we, as a species, were beyond fantasies. Kamla was the optimist and I the pessimist. She insisted I return to my desk, distract myself, pop an Ativan, and
consider a lobotomy. I found it hard to deny Kamla's change of heart.
I sensed it now, we were hopeless. But when I brought the matter up,
she only ignored me. "I'm not fueling this nonsense any longer."
And she'd caress Licks and smooch tenderly at her ears. She went off to work every morning and I stayed home. Spring came and
went, and my sense of self only deteriorated. One rainy afternoon Kamla
was late coming home, and I felt my pulse steadily quicken. I struggled to resist calling her cell immediately to get a status
report as Licks walked back and forth across my desk, stepping over
my keyboard leaving dander in her wake. Dander that might spore dust
mites — mite feces, and other allergenic insect parts — sure
to lead to adult-onset asthma. I knocked Licks away, but she only persisted.
My heart pounded and Licks meowed, white fur falling out onto my hands.
I felt I might sneeze on her, blow her off the desk and cause her untimely
death. She might land on her head, snapping her neck, proving not all
cats land on their feet! I resisted and grabbed her round her abdomen and shuttled her toward
the front door. I tossed her out onto the concrete. "Life isn't
fair to any species, Beast," I confessed. "Don't despair.
At least you are spared the curse of consciousness!" Licks meowed
at me and pawed at the door. The rain spat down, wetting her head. Not
even her sodden exterior could get me to let her back in. Instead, I
darted to the bathroom and sought the bottle of Lysol disinfectant,
gave the keyboard and monitor a spray and relished my precious moments
of solitude. Even if Licks was becoming more my companion, in moments
of panic I was still no caregiver. I washed my hands, blew my nose, and resumed the writer's stance: my
wrists taunt and fingers limber, tapping the backspace key a couple
hundred times and writing the occasional word in between. After a half
an hour, Kamla still wasn't home, so I finally dialed. By then I was
certain she'd lost control of the car and been T-boned by a Mack truck
in the intersection six blocks from our flat. I was forwarded to her
voice-mail. "Why aren't you home yet? Drive safely, Kamla. If your phone isn't
dead, and you are instead, know that I love you. In the smallest likelihood
Heaven does exist, I hope you're listening to this. Okay, call me, bye!"
I hung up and paced. Licks sat in the window and rapped on it with her
fuzzy paw. If she'd come in contact with a rabid fox, and been given
the wrong vaccination at her recent vet trip, she might have contracted
rabies in the short span since I put her out. My skin crawled. At that I heard the garage door go and felt my anxiety dissipate. I smiled. That was when I caught Licks making a dive from the window ledge in the direction of the car. What followed was a strident screech, Licks was crushed under the rubber of Kamla's tires. Kamla got out and puked all over the driveway, and I ran for the pink shoebox. By the time I reached the front door, box in hand, Kamla looked as
though she might decapitate me. She had her umbrella in hand, ready
to stick me and mount my head as a trophy. "You murdered my cat!"
she screamed. My mouth fell open. "She wasn't an outdoor cat, Dante.
You know that!" She began to sob. and I worried she might choke
on her tears. "I - I'm sorry!" I said. Kamla didn't seem to care. "Sorry? If anything, you should feel
the most terrible right now, Dante! How are you going to keep me now
that you've killed our cat? Licks was the glue cementing this relationship." "I always knew you loved Licks more than me! I knew you'd stop
loving me eventually." "Well, you're quite the prophet," Kamla said, wiping her
eyes. "This wouldn't have even happened if it weren't for you,"
I cried. "I was doing this for you. Licks was a distraction and
a bio-hazard, Kamla! You said you wanted me to be productive…" "You haven't been productive in eons, Dante. You were no better
than she, just the more paranoid of my dependents. And now you've murdered
the only one I truly loved." Kamla sobbed again and I attempted
to pull her into my arms. She struck me with the umbrella and dented the shoe box. "That hurts!" I objected. And at that, she retreated to her car. She backed down the driveway,
over the splattered and smeared remains of the cat now polluting our
asphalt. She grabbed a shovel from the open garage and scooped Licks
up as though she were shoveling slush. She opened the back door and
rested the shovel (now Lick's cradle) on her back seat and slammed the
door. I ran toward her with the box still in hand. "We can bury her
in —" I began once more. She took the cat off to be cremated. Just like Licks, she never came back. And I was left standing there
with a lonely pink coffin, soaking wet, and surely falling ill with
the flu.
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