The public park was bleak this time of year. Still it was an oasis of calm, fenced in from the bustle of the rest of the city. She had returned to the familiarity of the public subway station bathroom by the museum and had spent most of the night there. Having locked herself into a stall, trapping the now collarless Clifford in her lap, she had successfully managed to go unnoticed. Upon waking, she was so tired; she began to wonder if she could still consider herself sane. As if on autopilot, she joined the citizens of the city, making their way by foot on their morning commutes. She stopped with them at stoplights and moved with them when they became fluid again. She spent the day at the public park, sitting and walking through the dappled, swaying light, worrying about the greasiness of her hair and letting Clifford sun himself while watching out for dogs, who frequently showed both shock and hysteria at his being there.
Nature, she thought, must possess some secret to living that people were not privy to. It seemed to Aria that the little yellow flowers, which were leading the way for the arrival of spring, were God’s way of laughing at her. In truth, Aria did not believe in God, certainly not in the way that Mrs Johnson did. But she could feel something bigger than herself, and bigger than everything, at work in the world. She just didn’t know what that was. She didn’t know so many things. She was unsure of her body, yet she was stuck in it. She seemed to be navigating her way through life with a lighthouse that remained unlit. Aria often followed these mental pathways of existential thinking to escape the world instead of to venture deeper into it. Today, she followed these mental pathways to avoid the reality of the decision she had made.
Aria had been waiting to take Clifford home until she knew that the Johnsons would be home, having finished work and picked up the younger kids from their school. She felt disheartened to realize that now when she thought of them, they felt less and less like a mother and father to her. The possibility of that ever feeling real to her was gone. Mere days had passed and already the life she had lived with them for the last three years felt like it belonged to someone else. The life she had been living on the street felt more real to her. There was more continuity in it. It felt more like where her life began and therefore, more true to who she really was. Whether she wanted that to be the case or not, there was some dark relief to be found in that belonging as opposed to always feeling like a fish in a nest of birds.
When it was time, Aria pushed through the friction of the part of herself that needed Clifford with her, the part that could not face what she was about to do. She left the sanctuary of the park and boarded the last city bus she would ever take with him. Clifford was motionless. Perhaps he has sensed what was about to happen. Perhaps the weight of Aria’s heartache had subdued him. She was saying goodbye, long before she ever actually said it. When she reached her neighborhood, she felt nostalgic. It was already a lost life. It was one more place she had never belonged, only tried to. Each house boasted only marginal differences from the others that surrounded it, as if they had all been fashioned with a cookie cutter. More so than ever before, she could feel the fakeness of this neighborhood. Like a perfectly groomed tree, it had been crafted out of someone’s vision of the great American dream. A dream where all the family problems were to be kept closed tightly behind those idyllic front doors.
Walking closer, she spotted the house that she had tried to consider a home. She was not afraid of being seen. At this point in her life, Aria had perfected the art of going unnoticed. She was far enough away that she could watch them like the ghost of someone who was one of them once. This time, when she kissed Clifford on the forehead and held him one last time, the tears did not come. “I love you, Bobbins,” she said in a whisper, using the nickname that he frequently went by in the house. “I’m gonna miss you.” She let a succession of kisses repeat this sentiment to him before she released her grasp on him. “Go on, run home,” she whispered louder, as an instruction. With no reservation, Clifford fled toward the home as if it were his salvation.
Aria watched him run up the front steps onto the porch and survey the door, only to find it closed. He did not meow to be let in. He was a quiet cat in general. Instead, he sat down on his haunches and began licking himself passionately, restarting the grooming he had ceased during his time with her. She felt her heart break a little bit more, seeing him so relieved and at home in this place that she could not belong to no matter how hard she had tried.
She moved so as not to be noticed by any of the neighbors returning home. Half an hour passed. Clifford was still grooming himself when the front door opened. Mr Johnson almost tripped over Clifford, not having seen him until the last second because his view had been obscured by the black trash bag that he was carrying in front of him. Clifford darted past him and disappeared into the house. Mr Johnson poked his head back in the door to follow his
