What the Cat Knew

The neon sign buzzed above the bar like a dying insect. Elena sat in the booth, her hand extended across the sticky table, palm up. Sarah traced the lines with practiced fingers, feigning concentration she'd lost years ago.

"You'll live a long life," Sarah said, not looking up. "Too long, probably."

Elena laughed, but it was brittle, hollow. "That's what you always say."

"That's what you always want to hear."

They hadn't spoken in three years—not since the funeral, not since the cat. Mitsy had been Elena's companion for seventeen years, matted calico fur and mismatched eyes, a creature who'd judged everyone except Sarah. Mitsy had slept on Sarah's chest during college, had purred through their worst fights, had curled around Elena's feet the night her mother died.

The night Mitsy died, Elena had called Sarah at 3 AM, sobbing. Sarah had come over, helped dig the grave in the rain-slicked backyard, held Elena while she shook. They should have grown closer then. Instead, two weeks later, Elena had stopped returning calls.

Sarah had driven by Elena's house once, seen the For Sale sign, the emptied rooms, the cat missing from the windowsill.

"The cat's name was Mitsy," Elena said suddenly, as if Sarah could have forgotten.

"I know."

"I put her to sleep two days before Mom died. I never told you."

Sarah's finger stilled on Elena's lifeline. "What?"

"Mom was already gone, really. The dementia. She didn't know me. But Mitsy—she knew. She kept crying at the door to Mom's room, like she was waiting." Elena swallowed hard. "I couldn't have them both leaving me the same week. I thought if I spaced it out..."

Sarah's palm reading had always been bullshit, but she'd never felt more like a fraud than now. All those imagined futures she'd invented, all the comfort she'd pretended to offer, and the truth was sitting right here in this booth: Elena had been drowning, and Sarah had walked away.

"I'm sorry," Sarah said. "I should have checked on you."

"I didn't want you to." Elena pulled her hand back. "That's why I stopped calling. I knew you'd see it. You'd look at me and know."

"Know what?"

"That I did it for myself. Not Mom. Not Mitsy. Me."

Outside, a stray cat slunk through the puddles, stopping to look in through the streaked glass. Something about its posture—judging, knowing—made Sarah's chest ache.

"I charge fifty bucks for this, by the way," Sarah said.

Elena smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. "Worth every penny."