Mommy's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Mommy knelt on the floor of the tall cat house, holding a photo of two cats she would never pet again. Arrow, black and white, with an arrow on his forehead and paws like fat mittens. Cutie, the calico with the softest fur. Both gone to heaven now. Every day she told them she missed them. Every day the words hit the ceiling and stopped. She had no way to send her love across. That was the ache she woke with and slept with. "I don't even know if you can hear me," she whispered to the photo. Her Foo Fighters shirt was damp where a tear had fallen. She pushed her brown hair back and stared at the empty cubby on the bottom shelf. Fourteen years with Arrow, and now silence. Then Pepper padded in. Pepper was Mommy's daughter’s black cat, yellow eyes, the strangest cat she had ever seen. Pepper stopped in front of the empty cubby and sat, tail curled, staring at nothing. She meowed at the air. Then she meowed again, like she was answering. "What are you looking at?" Mommy asked. Pepper's front paws began to glow. A soft blue light spread across her toes, brighter and brighter, until a small burst lit the whole cubby. Mommy had seen that light once before, on Arrow's paws, and knew it was real. She dropped the photo. Pepper turned to her and let out three short chirps. She looked at the empty cubby, then at Mommy, then at the cubby again. She was showing her something. Someone was there. "Arrow?" Mommy breathed. "Cutie?" Pepper rolled onto her back and batted the air, playful, teasing. She swatted at nothing and purred loud. Then she trotted to Mommy and pressed her glowing paw against Mommy's hand. The light did not burn. It was warm, like sun through a window. Mommy understood. Pepper could see them. Pepper could hear them. Pepper was the door she had been missing. "Tell them," Mommy said, her voice breaking. "Tell them I love them. Tell them I think of them every single day." Pepper looked at the empty cubby and meowed, long and clear. She waited. Then she turned back and rubbed her cheek against Mommy's knuckles, hard, the way a cat says yes. A second burst of blue lit the room, then faded. Mommy laughed and cried at once. Her love had crossed. For the first time, she had proof it landed somewhere. She wrapped her arms around Pepper and held her. But Pepper suddenly stiffened. She pulled from Mommy's arms and stared at the cubby, ears flat. Her paws flickered blue, then dimmed, then flickered again, out of her control. She yowled, frightened, as if the door she'd opened would not close. The light stuttered like a candle in wind. Mommy's smile fell. She had her bridge now. But something on the other side did not want to let go.