‘Who’s that?’ I asked.
Everyone’s eyes were on the ute. The driver cut the throbbing engine but did not get out; a dark silhouette sat motionless behind the wheel.
‘Looks like Gary Koslovski,’ said Brian. ‘Dylan’s dad.’
Kevin threw a dark look toward the ute and dropped his cigarette. ‘Come on, Sunny. Let’s go,’ he said, grinding the butt under his boot. He strode off without another word.
Shelley sighed. ‘I better go and talk to Gary,’ she said. ‘I think he might’ve been out here all night.’
As I watched Kevin get into his ute, wondering why he was so eager to leave all of a sudden, a wave of sweet perfume filled my nose. I looked around for the source.
‘What is that?’ I said, sniffing the air.
‘What?’ said Leanne.
Then I recognised the scent. Jasmine: my mother’s perfume. I looked around again, wondering where the smell could be coming from.
‘Sunny? Are you alright?’ asked Leanne.
‘Oh, um, yeah,’ I said, realising she was staring at me.
‘What is it?’
I had one more quick look around. ‘Nothing. It’s fine. I’d better go.’
Insomnia visited me again last night. Although my body was exhausted, I was provoked into a frenzy of stupid cyclical thoughts and my mind refused to shut down. Finally, around midnight, I must’ve fallen asleep and when the alarm went off on my phone at six-thirty, I was incredulous about the possibility of it being morning so soon.
I groaned and fumbled to turn it off, somehow able to find the right place on the screen without opening my eyes. Then I remembered why I had set it. I wanted to get up and go on the search. I wanted to be ready.
I was examining myself in the antique rust-stained mirror in the bathroom, turning my head left and right, when I heard the floorboards creak. With goosebumps popping up on the back of my neck, I looked past my reflection through the doorway behind me and could see the laundry sink and the water-heater. It was nothing – old houses creak all the time, including when they wake up in the morning and when they settle at night.
As I squeezed toothpaste onto my toothbrush, I wondered where Kevin was. I hadn’t heard him getting up, or the ute revving in the driveway. The house was still and hushed.
The creaking came again, and once more I looked past my reflection in the mirror. Nothing. I started brushing, thinking I needed to hurry up and find out where Kevin was. Suddenly something furry and warm wound between my ankles. I leapt sideways, smashing my hipbone on the sink.
‘Phfitt!’ I said, through a mouthful of foam. I looked down. The cat looked up at me and miaowed.
I shook my head and spat into the sink. ‘Reggie,’ I said, picking him up. ‘Where have you been?’
He purred and rubbed his face against mine.
Reggie had come into our lives three years earlier, when we lived in Dawson; he was another of Mum’s rescued animals. I used to work at the animal shelter sometimes, cleaning out cages and washing cats – Mum had a thing about clean cats.
Reggie was a ‘miracle’ kitten because he came back from the dead according to the folklore at the animal shelter. What happened was an old woman’s cat had a litter of nine kittens. The pensioner lived in a flat and had no money to feed the kittens, so she put them in an old sack and held them down in a bucketful of water until they stopped squirming. She then buried them in a local park next door to her flat – at least that’s what the neighbour told people.
The next day, children playing on the swings in the park heard miaowing coming from under the ground. They stood in a circle, staring at the crying earth, and then ran home, screaming, to tell their mothers about the ghost cats. The parents dug them up and every one of the nine kittens was still alive. Most went quickly from the animal shelter; everyone wanted a ‘miracle’ kitten. But the least attractive of the tabby selection – he had no eye patches or socks, just your overall zigzag effect in standard grey – was left. That’s how we ended up with Reggie.
Reggie the resurrected.
He was a surprisingly friendly cat given his start in life. He harboured no resentment against humanity. In fact, he was one of those cats that thinks it’s human. I know you shouldn’t anthropomorphise animals like that, but he really did. He didn’t even mind Mum bathing him, which was pretty ironic given the old lady’s chosen method of dispatch.
Reggie was pleased to see me. He purred like a lawnmower and continued to smooch his face against mine. Mum said they just did that to mark you as their territory with pheromones or something equally unromantic, but I preferred the version where he missed me terribly.
‘You scared me, Reg,’ I said, putting him down. I laughed at my fear of creaky floorboards. My senses were working on overdrive – I needed to calm down.
I pulled a brush through my hair a couple of times. My hands seemed too small and clumsy; my fingers were skittish and not performing the task very successfully. I placed the brush down. ‘Calm down, Sunny.’
Reggie snaked between my legs and began grinding his spine against my calf like some sort of pole dancer.
‘Come on, Reg.’
I picked up my toothbrush and put it in the glass next to Kevin’s, and then, thinking the better of it, placed it on the counter.
On bare feet, I slopped back to my room. I would hold my dark thoughts for now, until they were required. I was good at blocking things out. I think it’s called ‘compartmentalising’ in the shrink trade, or maybe it’s just straight out
