Was that how Bethany had thought of her own home?
Buzzard the Cat slept on the bed right next to the half-open window through which he’d crawled. He wasn’t her cat, not like Louis had been hers. He was an emaciated stray with a penchant for dry and crumbly tuna fish. She hadn’t invited him in that day over a month ago; she’d simply been incapable of letting him starve. There was the fact, too, that with his black coat, despite its lank appearance, he’d reminded her of Louis, of a different life, a life with Cameron.
She and Cameron had finished each other’s sentences, laughed before they got to the punch line. They’d stayed up late, lying in bed, and planning their future. They’d told each other everything. He wanted a sailboat. She wanted to drive across Canada in a sports car. They loved the same funky futuristic art and the same sappy old black and white movies. She hated his Jazz. He hated her Country. He could drive her crazy with a look across a crowded room. She could make him forget his next sentence with a whisper. She missed seeing his face. She missed touching him.
“What about the fights?”
“What fights?”
Cameron snorted. “You only remember the good things.”
“It’s called viewing the world through rose-colored glasses, and I like it.” She did remember the fights, the nights he’d stormed out, and the nights he hadn’t come home.
“We fought the night I died. Do you remember that?”
“We fought about your cigarettes. If you hadn’t needed another pack, we never would have gone to that 7-11.”
“The fight ended with the cigarettes. That wasn’t how it started.”
For the life of her, she couldn’t remember how that particular conflict had started. She only remembered shoving the whole damn pack down the disposal and grinding them up. What had started the ill-fated argument which changed everything that came after?
Max faltered, but another bit of logic was born on her lips. “I thought you couldn’t remember anything before you died.” Unless, of course, she remembered an event first and reminded him.
“The answers hover on the edge of your consciousness, there for me to read like an open book.”
“Oh, you’re so mystical, Cameron,” she scoffed, fear adding a tinge of sarcasm to her voice.
“That fight was important, Max, but you always did forget the really important things.”
She shivered, reached for the thermostat, set Louis’ picture on the bedside table, then turned to close the window. With her back to his voice, she demanded, “Tell me why it’s important.” Besides the obvious, besides the irreversible devastating result.
“I can’t tell you. You have to figure that out for yourself.”
She didn’t even try.
Buzzard mewled then, and Max was glad for something to do. She opened another can of tuna, put half on a chipped saucer, then sat on the bed to finish the rest herself. It needed salt and pepper. She didn’t care. The cat inhaled the fish like someone was going to snatch the food right out of its mouth.
She thought about Witt, marriage, and babies, about the future she’d planned with Cameron. “Did you want children?”
“It’s a little late to ask now.”
“I mean did it bother you that I couldn’t have children?”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“But did it bother you?” She waited, holding her breath.
“Yes.”
She put her hand to her chest for a long, silent moment, until the pain slid back into its hiding place. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
He sighed, peppermint swirling around her. He’d taken to sucking mints instead of smoking cigarettes. Of course, he had to die before he’d kicked the habit. Bitterness swelled inside her.
“We didn’t talk about babies. We didn’t talk about a lot of things, Max. You just don’t remember that.”
Another of those convenient lapses in her memory. She couldn’t remember how they knew she was the one who couldn’t have kids. Maybe she’d always known. Maybe she’d been born with a barren soul. She’d certainly managed to have a barren life except for those few short years with Cameron.
*
It was quarter to eleven, and Max lay wide-eyed in her single bed. Buzzard snuggled against her side. She was a morning person, early to bed, early to rise, her bedtime no later than nine, even when she had no temp job to go to in the morning. She hated to wake later than seven. It felt like the day was half over and wasted. She liked to lay in the dark and watch the sun come up, as if with the new day came new hope. If she was disappointed that this day ended the same as the last, there was always a chance the next one might be better.