Boo

I stood there at the worn door, prepping myself for battle. 

I could faintly hear a television through the thin apartment walls, and could just make out my mother's voice asking John to get something for her.  

John was my mother's eighth husband. Not my stepfather, just my mother's husband. I'd had so many stepfathers as a child I decided when I turned 18 and left home that I would never have another.  Any husbands after that would have nothing to do with me.  As a child our bizarre lifestyle had made me feel special.  I didn't excel in sports or music or academics, and I usually had no idea what was happening in politics or current events - those things were rarely discussed at our house. But I was the sole possessor of weird. I was the girl with the truly dysfunctional home in the days when dysfunctional wasn't the norm.  I didn't know then that a child will cling to anything to feel special.  Now I did.  Now I had a say. John was just my mother's husband. 

A soft questioning meow brought me back to the present, and I looked down at white whiskers poking through the carrier at my feet.  "Now?" I whisper.  "Now, you have to meow like a cat? After your perfectly quiet little interview and our perfectly quiet ride over here?"

My mother was a cat-person. Not a cat-lady, though I think if she'd had the means and space she would have hoarded cats for pleasure at the cost of reason. But she was a cat person, fully appreciating all things cat. She loved their purr, their fur, their independence and sass, their silky grace, soft paws and sharp brains, and always attributed to them her own dark, dry humor.  She used to say things like, "Cats were once worshiped as gods. (Add a perfectly-timed pause). Cats have not forgotten this."

But my mother had not owned a cat in over 20 years. Not since marrying this husband, this one who had lasted longer than all the others, though I could not understand why. This husband had said with resounding conviction for many years, "No cat!"  And my mother, rather than running off to look for Number Nine, had stayed to quarrel and fight and do the rest of her life with Number Eight.  She had thus remained cat-less. 

I knelt down and looked with trepidation at my new friend. She was absolutely beautiful. A long-haired, black and shockingly glossy Himalayan, she was the chic, celeb wanna-be of cats everywhere.  She reminded me of a roommate I once had who always woke up gorgeous. Her mere existence made it hard on all the tabbies of the world. 

"She has such a gentle personality," the nice lady had said. "She would be so perfect for an elderly couple," she had promised. 

She had been perfect for them, too, the lady explained.  Until their baby grew into a cat-chasing toddler, and two new dogs had viewed her as a chew toy.  Born on Halloween, almost completely black, they had named her Boo.  Now she was three and sitting in a strange carrier in a strange hallway with a strange new lady looking at her. 

I looked into her stunning green eyes, and wondered if I had been cat-hypnotized into believing this was a good idea. 

No. No, I understood boundaries. And yes, yes, I had stayed inside all boundaries, both reasonable and ridiculous, for the past 20 years. Because this was their marriage, her husband, their life, not mine. 

But it was easy to see that my mother's health was failing. She was 78 now, and that meant more trips to doctors with long hours in waiting rooms, more medicines, more anger, less mobility, less humor, more depression, more anger.  And more anger. What I didn't run from screaming, I wanted to help fix.  A cat wouldn't fix anything, I knew, but no cat-person should have to live, and eventually die, utterly cat-less.  

And now the moment of dread was upon me. The television program inside the apartment had just started a new game show while I gathered my nerve. 

"Oh, Boo," I sighed. "What have I gotten you into?  What have I gotten myself into?"

And I heard my mother's voice in my head answering for Boo. "Lady, is my new room ready?  They serve tuna, right?  I don't do the dry stuff.  So, where's the staff?"  

My mom was gonna love this cat.  But what to do about that no-cat husband of hers? 

I stood and again began to prep my mind for battle.

I had to prep my heart so many times for these visits.  "Go low," I would say to my heart, "Go so very low.  Remember, you’re only here to serve and to give. Don't let yourself expect anything - not affirmation, not appreciation, not connection, not love. You will only be hurt and disappointed. Again. Just give, just serve, just stay humble, just go low."

Now I felt the need to prep my mind for battle. This was a new a new stance, going to battle for my mother. I knew better than to do battle with her as I had never won. But now, of all things, I'm battling for a cat. For this insanely beautiful creature that I knew would bring her joy. 

I prep.  

I breathe.

I wait. 

I knock.  

John calls out in his usual high-strung manner.  

"Yes!!  I'm coming!!!"

And then lower, more to himself, "I'm coming, I'm coming."

I didn't like this man, this eight man my mother chose so much like the other seven, a former alcoholic, former chain smoker, with low self-esteem and easily manipulable.  My mother was the poster child for the manipulative relationships that prevailed in the 40's when she was still in her drop-dead gorgeous twenties. Pretend you are incompetent so your man feels smart.  Pretend you are weak so he feels strong. What amazed me was that it was still working in the 21st century, and for a woman in her seventies. And that there actually were men around who did not catch on, could not see through it.  Or, a new thought I began to entertain 10 years into this union, maybe they did.  Maybe they guessed her weaknesses were an act, but ignored them because they liked the feeling of pseudo strength and pseudo smarts. 

I thought of my own sons, raised by their own dysfunctional mother who was still, even after they were grown and gone, trying to fix the broken parts inside herself. I breathed a prayer of gratitude that they were not intimidated by strong, capable women. In fact, they cherished them. Then they married them. And then became even better men because of them. And yet none of them were manipulated and each knew how to lead. None were manipulated by their wives. They each, in turn, had been manipulated by their mother, because it was the only parenting class she ever attended as a child, and lessons thrust upon one in life tend to stick longer than all the workshops one signs up for later.

And my daughter? I'd spent her lifetime wondering how she could be mine. Healthily independent, terrifyingly adventurous, and so discriminating in her dating that she eventually found someone, in her words, like her brothers. 

If being strong was the only thing I admired in my children, it would have been enough. But I still wanted to grow up to be like them.

I could hear John manipulating the two locks on the door.  Always two locks.  Always fearful of the world.  He is telling me the whole time it's almost open. John is easily anxious, easily offended, always worried, often critical. His hyper-anxiety sets off an auto-trigger in me of extreme calm and assurance, a counter balance to downplay to his continual storm.  I realize now that I learned this downplay from my children, who used it in turn to counteract my meltdowns. If he lived long enough, I believe John would have tempted me to downplay the end times even as they descended on us. It's never fun seeing your weaknesses in people you don't like. It's probably why we spend so much time looking away from them. 

Now I would be creating his storm. 

The knob turned and the next sound I heard was, "Meeeeeeoooooow?!"

Not the soft inquisitive mew of a moment before, but a shrill cat-like meow more like, "Lady, if you don't show me hot food, cold milk and a litter box neeeeeoooowwwww, I'm going to find my way out of this prison and eat your face.  Your time has expired."

John never even looked up. He didn't have a chance. His face went from doorknob to hall, and without even a hello, he said, "What's that?!"

Prep was now over. The battle had begun. 

I picked up Boo's carrier, and smiled toward John (in case he ever took his eyes off the carrier).  I looked at him in a fun way that implied I brought cats to his place every morning, and said, "Oh, this?  This is Boo."

"Boo!?" John repeated as though he was waiting for me to tell him what a Boo was. It was a totally sane response, but I was so used to un-sane conversations in this relationship that I wasn't about to give him credit for switching sides. 

"Yes, Boo.  She's a cat."

I lifted the carrier eye-level and man and cat exchanged glances.  Neither uttered a sound.  Lowering it I broke the silence as naturally as possible. 

"Is Mom here?" 

It was a rhetorical question. I knew she was there. She didn't leave the apartment without him. She barely left it with him. John did all the grocery shopping, all the bill-paying, all the cooking, all the pill-counting, and all the cleaning, including now cleaning up after my mother.  The less she was capable of, the less she pretended to be capable of, the more he did. Unless she was in the hospital or rehab, my mother was always there. 

John eventually moved aside to let me by, and I forced myself to use a casual, yet respectful step. I could not describe what those 11 steps from door to recliner looked like, but the battle was now on, and I knew I had to carry myself carefully.

My mother was seated in the largest, softest of the two worn chairs in the tiny studio. I had actually bought both recliners five years before, and the two chairs before them. But they looked ragged and ready for replacement again from full-time use. 

I watched my mother's eyes catch mine as I entered, and immediately dart down my arm to the carrier. But my other eyes, the ones that my children said I had in the back of my head, those eyes were on John. I could feel him watching me. I could see his now reddening face just off to my left. I knew he was prepping for battle. 

I put the carrier down next to my mother, and knelt front of her. She would not look at me. She knew exactly what a cat carrier looked like and she only had eyes for it. Opening its door, I lifted out the softest, most dreamy blob of love in the form of cat that was ever created. Boo, as if on queue, immediately purred and curled into a massive ball on her lap. 

I have no medical training and don't ever wish to. Most things medical repulse me. I am a writer, a word sculptor, and the reality of cells and organs and blood and mucous totally ruin a story. This outlook is unlike my daughter's, who for reasons I will never relate to, enjoyed holding peoples' guts together so much as an emergency room nurse that she went on to stitching them back together as a PA. 

But at that moment, watching fibers in my mother's being soften, hearing her soft coos to Boo, I would swear on a stack of medical journals that I had witnessed someone's blood pressure come immediately down. Her face instantly brightened and softened, and her entire being was instantly happy. She was absolutely lost in cat. 

I, however, was still absolutely present with John. He had been talking almost non-stop since I entered. 

"A cat!?  I don't like cats."

"Did you ever have one?" I asked, still kneeling, not daring to look at him. 

"No!  We never had a cat when I was growing up."

"They can be pretty nice, John."

"I don't know anything about cats."

"There isn't a lot to know.  They are pretty easy."

"I heard they can be mean."

"I don't think this one is."

“Well, we don’t have any litter.”

“I bought some.”

"We don't have a litter box."

"I brought one."

"We would have to leave it alone when we go out."

"She would be okay."

"She might destroy things."

"She is declawed."

"Well...she might not like us."

"She probably won't."

"What??" 

"She probably won't like you."

I had taken him off guard.  This is a good thing to do when one is in battle.

"What??  Why is that?" 

"Cats don't like people, John."

He was slowing down. He wasn't acting as defensive. He was thinking. 

"They don't?" 

"No. They like themselves. It's part of their magic."

"Well, I never heard of that."

"Well, you never had a cat," I smile. 

I stand up and gently pry this thing that is now one with my mother from her lap. 

"Mom, let's let Boo meet John."

The dynamics in the room are palpable. My mother's pleasure, John's nerves and my terror.  In 20 years I had never crossed this man's boundaries, and I just walked into his home with a creature he had forbidden. Now I was going to place the enemy in his arms. 

I turned toward John with Boo filling my arms and could see that he had stiffened.  I can retreat or I can go forward. I've prepped for this battle. I must go forward. 

I took a step toward John and lifted Boo to eye level.  They gazed at each other again. 

"I don't know anything about cats," he repeated. "It probably won't like me," he repeated.

"She is analyzing you right now, John."  

"She is!?"

"Yes," I flatly state.  "She's deciding if you are worthy enough for her to master."

"What? That's not going to happen.  I'm not going to let some cat be my master."

"You will if she decides you will,” and I slip Boo into his arms. 

This cat must have guessed which side her bread was going to be buttered on because she immediately re-melted into John and cranked her purring several decibels up. 

"She's purring," he smiled.

"You must be worthy," I said. 

My boldness surprised me. I had never been so forward with this man. Indeed, I had never tramped so blatantly over someone else's boundaries. At least not since learning about boundaries. When one is raised without them, other people's fences are nonexistent. When one is raised in dysfunction, it's hard to perceive where your own fence lines belong. 

But now I knew. Now I was an adult. Now I had years of jumping over peoples' fences, with intentions both good and bad, years of making amends and starting over, years of no excuses for walking into someone else's door with that which has been forbidden. 

Boo faithfully kept up a powerful rendition of, "You Cannot Live Another Day Without Me" in a rumbling bass, and I could see that John was beginning to slip under her spell.  Boo had just joined the battle.

I finally decided her weight would likely put an abrupt end to her concert and slipped her gently back into my mother's lap amid my mother's purrs and John's ongoing postscripts. 

"Well, she's soft, I'll say that.  She purrs loud, doesn't she? Could you hear her purring? She's shiny," and many other accolades. 

The next thirty minutes brought relative calm to my soul, John distracted with gathering laundry and my mother transfixed with Boo. I don't who know was happier, my mother, the cat, or me. 

Finally, John said he was heading downstairs to start a load of wash, and as soon as he was out the door I knelt again in front of my mother. 

"Mom," I began.

She looked up, delighted. I pushed down a thought that maybe, perhaps she would love me now, that this moment might spark some kind of motherly connection.  "No, Down Hopes! Down!", I silently barked at myself. "Disappointment ahead!"  And true to my gut, my mother's look drifted back to the cat, where all the motherly instincts she possessed would be spent. 

"Mom, this cat is just here on trial, " I began. 

She jerked her attention back to me and said, "What?  Why?!"

"Because I talked her owner into one overnight stay to see if you two were a match. If John insists, I will take her back in the morning. I don't want this cat to come between you."

My mother's reply was meant to be humorous, but she was sincere as she put both hands on Boo and stated with flat conviction, "Over my dead body."

We both laughed. I knew the battle had just become hers.  Hers and Boo's.  

To be continued....