The Cat Who Knew

The funeral home smelled of lilies and floor wax—a combination that made Mara want to retch. She stood before her mother's open casket, staring at the woman who'd spent twenty years perfecting the art of being absent. Even in death, her mother's hair remained an aggressive shade of bottle blonde, the dark roots visible at the scalp like an accusation she'd never bothered to answer.

Mara reached out, then stopped. Her hand trembled.

"She loved that hat," a voice said behind her.

Mara turned to find a woman in her seventies wearing too much jewelry and a polyester pantsuit. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"I'm Mrs. Chen from down the street. Your mother—well, she wasn't much for people. But that cat of hers, that orange tomcat she called Buster? She talked about him like he was her grandchild."

Mara felt something sour rise in her throat. Her mother had never once asked about Mara's children. Had never acknowledged her grandchildren's existence.

"She left him for you," Mrs. Chen continued, pressing a key into Mara's palm. "Third apartment on the left. I've been feeding him, but I'm going to Florida next month."

Mara found herself standing outside her mother's apartment an hour later, the key heavy in her hand. The apartment smelled of lavender and loneliness. And something else—animal.

A massive orange cat appeared in the doorway, his coat matted, one ear notched from some ancient fight. He looked at her with eyes the exact same shade as her mother's had been—pale, judging blue.

Mara sank to her knees. "Hi, Buster."

The cat approached slowly, then pressed his warm body against her legs, purring like a small engine. And there, on the scratched-up table beside her mother's favorite armchair, sat the hat Mrs. Chen had mentioned—a ridiculous, wide-brimmed thing with fake flowers and a peacock feather.

Mara put it on. She looked absurd. She looked like her mother.

The cat jumped into her lap, kneading her thighs with sharp claws through her black dress, and for the first time in twenty years, Mara cried for the mother she'd never really had, while the orange cat purred against her chest, his warmth the only honest thing in the room.