Page 10 of Keepsakes and Kismet

All eight of us answer at the same time. “Clover’s.”

“Correct answer,” Clover says, handing her phone to Sherry. “Some of you need filters and none of you know how to do it.”

Ma turns her head to look at her. “Clover, dear. That wasn’t very nice.”

“Then tell Carter to stop doing bunny ears in every picture! He’s a grown man!”

Carter nudges me. “At least someone thinks I’m grown.”

Sherry’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Are you ready? Say ‘silly monkeys!’”

One thing about Ohioans is we’re always going to say something different when asking someone to smile for a photo, and half the time, the phrase makes everyone’s mouth look weird, which defeats the point. We all smile for one serious picture and one goofy picture, per Sherry’s instructions, before most of us disperse throughout the cafe.

Ma gently tugs on my wrist. “Cal, how’s it going with the voicemails?”

It’s still a little hard to talk about them outside of therapy. I swallow hard, lowering my voice. “It’s going really well. Sometimes I listen to two voicemails in one session, sometimes none at all, but I’m making a lot of progress. All of the messages… They’ve been friendly so far, but I haven’t, um, gotten to the ones I’m most concerned about.”

She stands and wraps me in a hug. I tighten the hold. Her and Dad’s support means everything to me.

“You should be very proud of yourself, dear. And you take however long you need. You know Dad and I are here to support you,” she whispers in my ear.

“Thanks, Ma. Love you.” I release her from the embrace.

“Love you more, Cal.” She brushes non-existent dust off my shoulder. “Before you go tonight, make sure to say goodbye.”

“Sure,” I tell her, glancing at my watch. “It’s already getting pretty late, so I might go sooner rather than later. Either way, I’ll make sure to say goodbye to everyone before I leave.”

* * *

After two additional hours of socializing—thirty minutes of which was just saying goodbye to fucking Sherry—I’m beat when I enter my townhouse.

I slide my keys on the hook near the door before taking my shoes off and making kissing noises into the dark. “Zeebs! Where are you, Zebra girl?”

She doesn’t come meet me at the door right away, but that’s normal. I walk into the kitchen and open a can of her favorite food. The sound of the aluminum lid being pulled back does the trick, and Zebra slowly pads into the room, waiting at my feet. She gives me a small nuzzle at my ankles and a gentle meow, which is probably the most affection I’ll get from her tonight.

I’d like to blame her sullen attitude on the fact that she’s geriatric, but I know she’s never truly belonged to me. And neither of us have really moved on. Even after eleven years, we’re still adjusting. Like the puzzle of our lives is still missing a piece.

Despite what many say, grief isn’t heavy—not to me. It rests against my body, pressing uncomfortably into my skin, but it never leaves a visible bruise for anyone to see. On my tougher days, though, grief reminds me that it can squeeze too tight. Cut off my oxygen, if it wanted to.

I open the record player on the kitchen counter, dropping the needle on a fifties jazz album, before scraping the food into Zebra’s bowl and slumping down to the floor next to her. Most cats don’t like close proximity while they eat, but Zebra’s never been like most cats. I stroke her black fur, scratching behind her ears, and she purrs while she enjoys her food.

“Good job, Zeebs.” I pause, and a sigh gets lodged in my throat. “We’re fine, right?”

She stops eating and turns to look at me, giving me a sad look that speaks for itself.

“We’re fine. It’s fine. I’m fine,” I murmur, petting her back, but there’s a stinging behind my eyes that doesn’t feel fine. Tears won’t fall—they never do. Instead, my chest feels tight.

I take a deep breath and begin the EMDR tapping I learned through therapy. Crossing my arms over my chest, I place my hands on my shoulders, alternating tapping each one. I visualize a calm and safe place—my parents’ kitchen—while performing more slow taps.

After six taps, I check in with myself and do six more. Then, I take a deep breath and find that the tightness in my chest has eased.

“Okay, Zeebs. We’re better, then, hm? We’re getting better, I think.”

When she finishes, I wash the bowl and my hands. Zebra traverses the living room and curls her white paws beneath her on the couch. After turning off the record player, I head toward my room and get ready for bed, dreading the nighttime.

As much as I enjoy relaxing at home, being at Cait’s party was a distraction from my thoughts. Now that I’m alone, they feel even heavier than they normally do. Like I spent all of my energy showing up for my family, and now I have none left to keep the memories at bay.

Which isn’t ideal, because my mind knows the painful ones, and it’s a cruel editor. Each memory is altered, interpreted through the most excruciating lens before replaying them in the dark of my room. After years of this particular brand of agony, I’d trade my emotional scars for a physical one in a second.