I’ve lived with 2 cats since college. Max was my first cat. He was a present from my first boyfriend, who got him from the pound when he was 2 years old. For his first year with me, he lived with my ex and me, but I felt bad for him since we were away from the apartment most of the time. So I got a 2-month old kitten - Missy. She was Max’s — “his pet”. But really, I got her to assuage my guilt for being ’absent’ — emotionally and physically.
Max was the precocious troublemaker. He was loud & bold. Missy was the ‘perfect one’ — the sensitive, quiet, timid soul. In the last 15 years he’s been with me, Max was with me through everything – all the depression, the heartaches with my first boyfriend – the abuse, my ”attempts”– in fact it was Max sitting by my head looking down at me with his sad eyes, as I lay there wanting to die, that made me realize I needed to survive, if only for him. So I called 9-1-1.
For the last 2 years Max has been losing weight. He was literally flesh & bone by the time I brought it down to L.A. He also started ‘forgetting’ where the litter box was. Oddly, it seemed to happen at the same time when my new boyfriend Ryan and I started spending a lot of time together. When I’d sit on the couch with Ryan, Max seemed so adamant about wanting to get on my lap…like he was “staking his claim”. I swear, he was never as adamant about being on my lap then when Ryan was sitting next to me. Otherwise, when Max and I were alone, he would be content just sitting next to me. No matter how upset or angry I got at Max, he’d try to sit by me, even when I was giving him the cold shoulder, ignoring him while I was reading or watching TV. On the other hand, Missy would be perfectly fine upstairs sleeping alone in the bedroom during the day, because she knew “our time” was at night when I’d be ready for bed, and she would cuddle with me underneath the goose down comforter, as we slept. When I was home, Max needed to be with me. So in spite of being the older, bolder one, he needed more attention.
My dad used to joke that the only reason why Max would ‘forget’ to use the litter box was that he was trying to get my attention any way he can, “because he was vying for my attention against his new rival Ryan”. Part of me actually believed that Max was just ”acting out” because he wanted more attention from me. I’d spend whole weekends with Ryan and when I’d drive home, Max would be the first thing I’d see coming out to greet me in my garage. I’d be happy to see him, and then when I’d get upstairs to my bedroom, I’d find a pile of Max poop and/or cat vomit waiting for me on the middle of my bed. So, during our last months together, I was more upset with him than anything else. I got so frustrated that I stopped cleaning after him. Days would pass before I would actually have the incentive to “pick up after him”. I had gotten so disgusted with Max that I had stopped letting him sleep on my bed. I’d close the bedroom door and would only let Missy in. Max coped. Before I purposely forbade him from my bedroom, he used to meow until I’d finally let him in so he could take his place at the foot of my bed or the pillow beside me, since Missy had the crook of my arm underneath the covers. Max used to have that spot before Missy. But Max coped with ”the punishment” I exacted since he’d wait for my alarm to go off, before he’d start meowing outside of my door for his breakfast. He had taken to being fine sleeping on the couch downstairs in the living room – the living room which didn’t get much heat during the winter; and sitting on the piano bench next to me or the dining table chairs behind me as I played the piano.
Gradually, over the last 2 years, I’d noticed that my portly orange tabby started losing weight. So much so that I had started to forget how he used to look like. But I was angry at Max for the mess I came home to every night. I thought he was ‘acting out’, leaving me ‘presents’ just to spite me. For a while I even stopped petting him, because I didn’t want to feel his bones. When I did pet him, as he ate, I could feel the bones of his spine protruding from his back. But I thought that tough love would make him ‘snap out of it’ — that soon he’d behave – stopped vomiting, stopped pooing — that I’d be able to be more ‘affectionate’ to him. My mom and dad would say that Max ‘behaved’ — never did the things he did when I had left the cats with my parents when I went on a 3 week trip last May with Ryan.
“Max always used the litter box when he was with us,” my mom would say. “You just need to clean the litter box…” she’d say.
I did every day. So it was only for spite, I’d tell myself. It was only when my mom and dad, and my friends would start commenting on Max’ weight that I started to get ‘troubled’. But I’d tell myself, Max is 15 years old. He’s an old cat. It’s just old age…. Maybe it was denial on my part.
It’s the sorrow, the guilt, the regret…it’s everything…that I did not want to cope with.
Before it got really bad, I was going to take it to my vet in the Bay Area, but my mom was worried that the clinic would charge me with neglect if I took it to my own vet so my parents had me go to another vet in L.A. During the drive down to LA, Max was in the carrier in the back of our SUV facing the window towards the back the whole 6 1/2 hour trip. Missy was in the carrier on the backseat with my mom. While Missy only meowed a few times during the tri, I heard Max meow faintly throughout the 6-hour trip. I’d talk to him from the driver’s seat to let him know that I was still there. When he was quiet, I knew Max was still “functioning” when we started to smell the unquestionable stench of poo coming from the back. Before I let Max in the house, I stuck a hose in the carrier to water his legs down of his feces. When we took it out of the carrier, and tried to dry him, it was only then that I’d noticed open sores underneath its belly and leg. We tried to treat it with antibiotics and Max seemed just fine. He seemed just happy to be out of the carrier. When we were at my parents’ he was walking up the stairs (albeit little more slowly than normal), but he was still ambulatory nonetheless. When I was at my parents’ house and I was practicing the piano, Max climbed the stairs so that he could listen to me. He didn’t care if our 2 dogs saw him through the big portrait window and kept barking at him. Max just kept sitting calm and still where he was, as if he knew that nothing bad would happen to him because I was in the room with him. My brother and I were amazed when he came to sit by us when we called him to get closer to the portrait window, so that the dogs could get a closer look at him. We were amused by the apparent calm blasé demeanor that Max displayed in front of our little cocker spaniel mix who was miffed by Max’s obliviousness. He trusted me. He trusted that I would let anything or anyone hurt him. He trusted that I would not hurt him. And the next morning, when I tried to get him back into the carrier to see the vet (in spite of knowing how tortuous it was sitting in the carrier for the 6 hour drive to LA), he trusted me still. My dad insisted that the cat be put in the trunk of the car. I asked him why he couldn’t just sit in the backseat with me.
He said, “That cat might be contaminated. There’s vents in the trunk. He’ll be fine.”
It’s funny how even now, my parents can have such a hold on me.
No matter how old I am, I still felt like a child in their presence.
I did what I was told. No questions asked.
I opened the trunk and placed Max inside.
When we got to the vet, my dad told the vet that we had found it the day before abandoned in my parents’ backyard, because he didn’t want to risk having them charge us with neglect. So when the vet took his info, I couldn’t tell him that the cat couldn’t have gotten the lacerations and sores by climbing through a fence (like the vet had thought) because he had been indoors his whole life. I couldn’t tell him that it had been having problems keeping his food down and was vomiting everyday. I couldn’t tell the vet that his emaciated appearance wasn’t because he was a starved stray cat, but a 15 year old who might be suffering from a terminal disease… Because the vet thought we just ‘found’ the stray cat yesterday, the vet seemed more concerned about the sores and told us that the first thing they would do is bathe him, clean his wounds, stitch him up his lacerations, give it vaccinations, and a shot of antibiotic.
“It would be a simple procedure,” the vet reassured us.
I asked him if he could also check the cat’s blood. He said that he would check it for feline leukemia. He said that if his blood turned out positive, then there would be nothing he could do, because “it’s like AIDS in people”.
I asked him if he thinks he could get the cat back to normal. The vet seemed very positive and said that if the cat is negative for leukemia, after they had administered antibiotics it would take no time for him to get back to his health. But he said that he would have to keep the cat overnight after the surgery and we could pick it up the next morning. He reassured us that it was a simple procedure and that we would be able to pick up “the cat” tomorrow. I say “the cat” because my dad told the receptionist that the cat had no name, so his cage read “no name”.
The cat with “no name” kept meowing as my dad and I left the examining room. I could hear him meowing adamantly, louder than I had heard him in weeks…as we completed the paperwork at the front desk. I wanted to go back in and reassure him that I would be back for him, but my dad said that I could not show attachment. I had no reason to feel insecure because the doctor seemed so sure… as I walked out of the door, I didn’t even think that I ‘needed’ to reassure him.
Since the clinic closed at 5pm, I called that afternoon at 4:00 to check on “the stray cat that the Tanners had brought in”. I asked if the surgery went well. The receptionist answered and told me that she’d call me back because the chart was in the back. She didn’t call.
I didn’t worry at first because I knew they had been busy that day. So I called as soon as it opened the next morning. Another lady answered and when I gave her my name she instantly said “oh, I am so sorry my dear. Your cat didn’t make it through the night.”
“My cat died?”
My mom was sitting at the table next to me and heard. She started tearing up and started repeating, “We shouldn’t have taken him to the vet. We should’ve just let him heal…” she kept repeating.
I asked for details over the phone. There was a long silence and she gave me the doctor who told me that “the cat” survived the surgery.
“It was able to stand up after the surgery. It was a simple procedure.” I asked how it died. He said it must have had “internal problems.” The doc said that he was kept in a warm room by himself after the procedure. He said that he probably died in the early morning because when he had touched the cat, “he was still warm.”
He said that since it was a stray they didn’t have his medical history. As if to try to pacify my guilt I asked if he tested his blood.
“Did he have leukemia?” I asked the vet.
No. His blood was normal.”
I told him I’d be there to see the cat.
In the background, my mom kept mumbling through tearful eyes, “He must’ve had an electrolyte imbalance. Had I known that he was so frail, that he could not handle it….”
Three hours passed before we actually got there because my dad was telling me that I couldn’t go there and make a scene, and my mom had a dental appointment in 15 minutes and was trying to calm the situation. “There’s nothing you can do now, Carissa. He’s dead. Just learn from your mistakes,” my mom said.
My dad kept telling me that I couldn’t go there and let them see me cry.
“They’re not going to believe that the cat was a stray,” he said. “You better calm down,” he said. “You’re crying now? What’s wrong with you. Look at you, as if he were a human being. This wouldn’t have happened if you had taken better care of him…You’re such an actress.” he said.
My brother was sitting on the table listening to the whole thing silently, until my dad said those words, and he quietly mumbled to himself as he was leaving the table “as if he were human? gosh….” as he walked out of the room, into the kitchen. My mom was coming out of the bathroom and started complaining about a bucket and tile cleaner that was on the floor.
“What’s that doing on the floor?” She asked my dad.
“I’m gonna work on the floor. Just leave it!” I screamed.
“When will you have time to work on the floor; we’re going to Uncle George’s this afternoon,” my mom said.
I blew. “What? You expect me to go to a party pretending everything’s fine?”
“Carissa, Uncle George’s expecting you. You came all the way from San Francisco,” my mom continued.
“And I did not expect my cat to die today. Can’t you just tell them my cat died? I’m sure they’ll understand,” I said.
“Carissa, you’re such an actress. They know you’re here, and you’re not even going to make an appearance,” my dad mumbled.
“Is that all you care about? Appearances? If I go, yes I’ll have to act. Is that what you want me to do, act like everything’s fine? What? I can’t cry? I’m not capable of grieving? It’s only been an hour since I found out my cat’s died and you expect me to go to a party? What kind of person do you think I am?” I started screaming. ”Why are you telling me I can’t cry? If you think so awful of me, so incapable of genuine sadness, why don’t you just disown me then! You don’t know why I’m crying! Don’t you think I know all the things that you’re telling me? Do you think I’m crying because Max is dead? I’m crying because of all the guilt! You don’t know why I’m crying! So don’t tell me I can’t cry, when you know nothing!”
My mom started telling my dad to stop and to leave me alone that he’s just making it worst. “Carissa, I know how you feel. I know. Just learn from your mistakes.”
As I sat there, my dad and mom was trying to figure out how we were gonna handle Max burial. I wanted to bury it in the concrete planter box underneath my bedroom window. My parents didn’t think it was a good idea because “it’s against federal health regulations”. My brother suggested a pet cemetery, but that was too expensive. So I suggested creamation and planting the ashes in a potted plant that I could take with me. My mom called the receptionist to let her know that we would like to have the cat creamated and they said that the clinic could make arrangements to have Animal Services pick up the cat. As soon as my mom hung up, I called them back asking them not to send it away because I still wanted to see him.
My mom and dad left for the dentist, and my brother – in the attempt to make me feel better — came back to the living room carrying my younger cat, Missy — in the attempt to put her in my arms, from where I was sitting at the table. Missy was always so timid. So much more frail and more sensitive, and was scared of leaving the comfort of the downstairs family room where she was hiding underneath the pillows of an old couch for the last 2 days.
”Come on, Missy, Carissa needs you now,” my brother said.
But as my brother tried to get Missy in my arms, her eyes were peeled towards the dogs who were watching from the portrait window. She grabbed hold of the tablecloth, which took my bowl of uneaten mulligatawny soup along with it, that spilled all over the carpet. As she scurried back down the hall and down the stairs, I grabbed the vacuum and started cleaning up the mess. My brother went back to his room. While I was waiting for my mom and dad to get back, I found time to text a couple of my friends of the news of Max’ death.
When we got down to the clinic I wanted to see Max…to see “how he died”. As if I would be able to garner the truth by simply looking at him. I wanted to know if the doctor was telling me the truth, that he didn’t die during the procedure… that he died like he said… the next morning. The doctor took my mom and me to the room where they kept him. Max was lying in his cage, on his side. His body seemed bigger or rather ’longer’ than I remembered. But he was still emaciated and so frail looking. Like the doctor said, he was stitched up from his leg to his belly, which was shaved to reveal his pale white skin. His left foot was bound to cover the sore that covered 1/3 of his foot. Around his head was a large white plastic Victorian collar, to keep him from licking his wounds. When I approached him I saw that a fly had already gotten to his slightly opened mouth. I was angry and flicked it away with my finger, as the doctor was pointing to the dark threads that ran up Max’ abdomen, explaining ”the simple procedure” that was performed. “You see, we stitched up his lacerations…very simple.”
I touched Max’ paw. It was cold and stiff. I looked at his face, from inside the plastic funnel-like collar.
Max died with his eyes open. His pupils were dark, opaque, dilated, pointed up towards the ceiling of his small cage. One look was all I needed to know why…how Max died. It wasn’t the doc’s fault. It wasn’t my parents’. Max died because he thought I wasn’t going back for him. His heart couldn’t take it. I thought he was strong. And maybe all he needed was reassurance from me. Maybe he just needed that last reassuring tone and look in my eyes before I left him, which I was afraid to give him that day. If I’d known how fragile he was, I would’ve stayed through the night with him. I never thought that one night…one night of uncertainty — when he had spent weekends without seeing me –was enough to kill him. And as I looked into his eyes and saw the pain that he must have been in….that’s when I realized how much Max loved me.
The doctor left my mom and me alone with Max. I took my camera out and half of me that was floating above the whole morbid scene watched me as I was taking snapshots of my dead cat. In one shot the flash reflected in Max’ eyes. So I took out the flash and took 3 more shots. Then I saw the placard that hung on the cage. “Orange tabby, 8 lbs, admitted 11/23/07, Lacerations, bath, inoculations, surgery. Creamation ‘private’, Age: unknown, Name: ‘no name’”. I broke down.
On the drive back home, my mom and dad were discussing how the receptionist would be phoning them in a couple weeks when Max’ ashes were ready. I asked them what phone number they provided because their phone would sometimes be off the hook for a whole day, because they don’t get to the phone on time when it rings and then forget to turn off the answering machine. I asked them if they could just give them my number, because for all we know they can’t get a hold of them when the ashes were ready and then they’ll throw it out or something.
“Stop it, Carissa, that’s nonsense, you’re making up stuff now,” my dad said. ”There are days that we can’t get a hold of you.”
“Ask mom, I told her last week. I tried to get a hold of you last week, and couldn’t because it was busy for a whole weekend! And why would I make something up like that? Not only am I an actress, but I’m a liar now? If I’m such a bad person, then why bother with me anymore? Disown me, if I’m such a terrible person!”
“Carissa, do you think we are suppose to do this? This is a sacrifice to us? What do you think? It’s $300 to pay for a creamation,” my dad said.
“If money is all that matters, I’ll write you a check! All I ask is some empathy some sympathy. If you can’t do that, then how ’bout just silence, as I’m allowed to grieve, can I grieve without being accused of melodrama?”
My mom started yelling, “Carissa, stop! Your dad is old. He says insensitive stuff to me too!”
I got angry, “So that’s his excuse? Dementia? Mom, he’s always been like that!”
When I got home at 1:00, I went straight to my room and climbed in bed. At around 3:30, I heard my aunt and uncle arrive at my parents’ home to get a ride to my uncle’s house. They were talking softly, and a few minutes I heard footsteps in my room.
“Carissa, it’s alright.” A felt a hand stroke my hair. “Your cat died?” she asked.
I couldn’t muster a response other than a nod underneath the bed covers.
“Ok. That’s alright, dear. I know you loved your cat…he’s been with you for a long time….Just get another one.” She continued to stroke my hair. “You’re not coming with us?”
I shook my head.
“Ok. That’s alright. Just rest. Drive safely tomorrow, ok?”
My aunt left me to join my mom, dad and uncle in the living room. An hour later, 3 cousins arrived. I tried to take my mind off of Max and the image of his dead body, his pain-filled eyes, by trying to listen to the latest family drama from voices coming loud and clearly from the dining room, as no amount of comforters & linens that I wrapped myself in could muffle the din of voices.
When they finally left at 4:15 for the party, I was left with images & sounds — memories of Max meowing by my pillow, meowing at the foot of my bed for his morning meal, meowing pitifully for food when I’d come home from work, meowing outside of my bedroom for his breakfast as soon as he heard my alarm go off, meowing pathetically for a simple pat on the head, meowing quietly for attention, meowing loudly as I left him in the cold steel of the examining table at the vet’s the day before.
“I want Max back” I whispered to myself, as I cried myself to sleep.
It was 6:58pm and I heard a faint meow. I looked down at the side of my bed and saw Missy’s unmistakable plump shadow, pacing the the side of my bed. I called her and she stood on her hind legs to paw the bed covers. She climbed in bed and lay there with me, purring, looking at me with her big green eyes. She seemed anxious. I’d wake up to her pacing back and forth beside me on the bed, then “check” underneath the covers, then jump off the bed, and pace the bedroom floor.
When Missy came back up to look at me again with her huge liquid green eyes, I whispered, “Max is gone….”
Of course she didn’t know what I said, or maybe in some way she did. She responded by purring back. She just seemed comforted by the sound of my voice, and she licked my fingers as she was accustomed to doing all these years.
“Missy, what am I gonna do with you.”
She lay there with me in bed until I woke up the next morning. Missy made it very difficult for me to leave her with my parents but I realized that in the long run Missy would at least have stability. She would be assured of that.
The next morning, the day I left, I was in the hallway and my brother came out of his room.
“Hey bro, thanks for trying to make me feel better, yesterday,” I said to him.
“Oh, you’re welcome,” he smiled and said awkwardly, as he went back in his room and closed the door.
—————————-
During the drive back up to the Bay Area, I tried to take my mind off of Max with the sound of trance music and Groban blasting from my speakers. When I got to Ryan’s place, he asked me if I had fun at the party. I told him that I didn’t go. He asked why, and I told him that I just didn’t feel like it. He knew when I had spoken to him on the phone on Friday that Max was being operated on that day. He asked me how it went. I told him that I didn’t want to talk about it. He asked me nothing more about it while we sat on the couch. He just held me close to him and held my hand. I was trying to be strong. I told myself that I had done all of my crying the day before. I wouldn’t worry him about me. I needed to show him I could handle this by myself. I didn’t want to depress him. Anyways, I didn’t know what to say, how much to say… I was ashamed. We sat quietly on the couch watching a DVD as he had his arm around me.
When we were in bed, he held me in his arms and he whispered, “I’m sorry about your cats.”
I didn’t say anything.
“So you were going to have me fly out there for the party and you weren’t even going to go?” He teased. “Let’s just say I got some news that morning.”
He instantly stilled as he pulled me closer to him. ”Max was operated on?” He asked gently.
I nodded.
His grip on me tightened as he continued, “Is it the worst that can possibly happen?”
I nodded.
He squeezed me as he lay quietly, holding me in his arms. As I snuggled closer to him, I felt dampness from his cheek and I realized he was crying.
“Why are you crying?”
He voice trembled as he answered softly, “Because you had Max for such a long time….he was so old. Why did they operate on him, when he was so old?”
That’s when I realized that I needed to talk to him about it, that I couldn’t keep something this important to me inside of me. He wanted to know. He needed to know. In the darkness, as he held me, I was calm. I didn’t cry, as I told Ryan everything. Every ugly detail…How the doc didn’t know how old Max was because my dad and I lied about his circumstances…How I even took pictures of his dead body, as proof that he died, and not that I “had him put to sleep”…. But that the truth was, I did kill Max.
“You know what’s worst?” I said softly.
“Do I wanna know?” Ryan’s voice shook as he responded softly.
“When he died, he had no name.”
I went on to tell Ryan that I felt Max probably died because he thought I had abandoned him, and his heart couldn’t take it. I told Ryan how I failed Max when he needed me the most. When all he wanted to know was that I still loved him. I told Ryan that Max was always there for me — When I had attempted suicide for a 2nd time, that it was hearing his voice, hearing him meowing for me, next to my head, that got me out of it. I told him that even if my ex had actually gotten Max from the pound for me as a gift, that Max seemed to know that he was “my cat”, not my ex’s. Max was protective of me. Before Max had a ’litter problem’, he’d pee on my ex’s clothes, and only his clothes. I told Ryan how strong he seemed the day before we got him to the vet…how he had walked 2 flights of stairs just so he could hear me play the piano. And because I simply took it for granted that he would pull through, I didn’t even think of giving Max a backward glance as I left him that day. As I talked about Max wistfully I heard Ryan sniffling as he held me close to him. I told him about the pictures I took of the placard that hung on his cage and how it said ‘private creamation’ as if I’d even have any way of ensuring that it were Max’ ashes.
“When I get his ashes, I’ll plant them in a potted plant. You could help to pick one out with me…”
“You don’t want to keep pictures like that,” Ryan whispered, “You don’t want to remember him that way, do you? Get rid of them.”
“You want me to delete them?” I asked.
“Yes.”
A moment of silence passed before I continued. I didn’t have pictures of Max when he started losing weight. I suppose wanted to preserve these images as reminder of how awful I was to him…
“Can you delete them for me?” I asked.
“You want me to do it for you?”
“Yes.”
“How many did you take?”
“Four.”
“Ok. I need to get up and shut off the computer in the next room anyways.”
I gave him my camera and he went to the next room and a few minutes passed before he came back into bed. He gathered me in his arms and held me tight.
“They’re gone?” I asked.
“Yes,” he whispered.
As he held me, I could feel the erratic rhythm of his heart.
“Do you think I’m a monster?” I asked him softly.
“Why would I think that?” his voice was shaking.
“Because I should’ve had enough sense,” I answered.
“You were just following what your parents were telling you to do.”
“But I still should’ve had enough sense.”
A few moments passed and Ryan asked, “Do your parents still believe that you place me as a priority over them?”
“They just don’t want me to get hurt. They just want me to be happy….why?” I asked.
“Because when we get married and have children, they should know that priorites change, and your husband and children do come first.”
“Yeah. But they also believe that men leave. But family…your parents will always still be there…,” I replied.
“But not when family are estranged.” Ryan said.
“I know, but not with my family,” I said simply.
A few moments passed and I told him that even with what happened on Saturday, before I left for the Bay Area, I hugged my mom and dad goodbye. When I hugged my dad, he did say sorry. “At least he knew what he said to me was wrong. But what happened to Max was not anyone’s fault but mine.”
I felt Ryan squeeze me as he held me tightly in his arms.
A few moments passed, and I could still hear him trying to stifle his tears. I knew that the pictures were affecting him. My mind drifted to the time he told me briefly about what happened to his rabbit. I remembered the despondent look in his eyes and how he immediately left the table to go to the kitchen when he had told me that he found his rabbit lying dead in his makeshift house in the backyard — its eyes gouged out, presumably by one of the many neighborhood cats.
I could only imagine the pain he must’ve been feeling when he found his rabbit dead in his backyard. I could only imagine the pain he was feeling when his mother died 4 years ago. Ryan never went into detail about his mother’s death. Up ’til that point, all he had revealed was that she had died of cancer. So much pain in his eyes; so much he had not said; I never asked him for details because I didn’t want to open any wounds. Sometimes I regret not having asked him. I hope he realized that it’s because I cared that I did not ask the questions.
“Do you still want me to be the mother of your children?” I asked him as he held me.
“What does Max have to do with that?” He said incredulously.
“I’m a bad mother.”
He held me more tightly. “Why? Because you loved him? Because you just wanted to prolong his life, when he probably didn’t have it in him to live much longer? He probably was suffering. The sores he had were probably not healing as it normally would because he was having kidney problems.” Ryan kept reassuring me.
“He didn’t have to die that night. If I just told the doctor the truth, he could be alive right now.” I continued.
I couldn’t cry that night. I couldn’t shed a single tear that night because I knew the truth. I just had to accept it.
“Why did you leave Missy, if Max wasn’t there anymore?” Ryan asked.
“Because I thought that if things got bad, and I needed to leave the area, that I wouldn’t have to worry about what to do with Missy,” I said.
“What, why would you leave? What are you trying to escape?”
“If things got bad…at least she’d have the stability.”
“Because you leaving her would be stability?” Ryan asked incredulously.
“No. Because my parents would be able to at least give her that.”
Before I drifted to sleep in Ryan’s arms, I asked, “Do you still want me?”
“Of course I still want you,” He whispered as he tightened his embrace.
I’d wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of Ryan stirring next to me. I felt bad that he was not able to sleep, as I heard his uneven breathing next to me.
I put my arms around him, touched his face, his closed eyes and felt that they were still damp. “I shouldn’t have told you,” I whispered.
“Why?”
“Because you’re upset,” I said. “Why are you crying?”
“Because I knew you love Max, and I don’t want you to be hurt,” Ryan said simply.
I touched his face as he held me in his arms and reached over to kiss his damp eyes, his tear-stained cheeks, his warm salty lips. I trailed soft kisses down his throat and his heaving chest. I didn’t want him to cry for me anymore. I just wanted to drink in and drown in the sweetness of him, so I made love to him that night, and held him until he was lulled to sleep.
When I left Ryan the next morning, it was the first morning that he was not awake to kiss me goodbye.
In the grey-blue mist of twilight, I looked at his face — gentle and at peace.
I did not want to wake him.
Selfish. What a monster I am.
I kissed him lightly on his cheek before I turned away to leave him.
Four months later, I would kiss him before I said my last goodbye.
It’s funny how guilt could cut so deeply. It leaves such ugly scars.
You try and try…but sometimes you just never learn.
***
Ghosts now…
they are
the loved ones
of my past
Sometimes I hear
the faint clicking of footsteps
Often his face
haunts me in my dreams
Hurt
No time to say sorry
Hurt
Too late to say sorry
Hurt
Too many times for sorry
Gone is
his warmth
his smile
his voice
…his sweetness
I miss you
my best friend
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