If I had only known the real reason for her shaky hand, I would have run the other way. But such is life. I arrived at her house on a clear Sunday morning in May. The birds were singing (I had no interest then) and the sun was streaming through the blue sky. It was a cloudless sky, a beautiful spring day. The last thing I wanted to do was go into that dark gloomy house. But being a dutiful daughter, I did. I remember going in through the heavy front door, and the sun disappearing as I closed it. It would be dark for a long time after that. I was immediately assailed by the smell of death. A medicinal, sweaty, dirty smell. I put down the bags I had brought with my humble belongings in them and wound my way up the stairs. As I climbed wearily, I saw it. The cat. There was something about the cat, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. A big, black tom, which sat there grooming himself as if he had all the time in the world. His green eyes caught mine, and his mouth grimaced with a hiss. Some greeting, I though t. I tried to shoo him out of the way, but he stood his ground, as if he owned the place. He did, as I found out later. He bared his teeth, and arched his back as if to frighten me. He succeeded. I inched backwards down the stairs slowly, and then thought to myself, are you going to let a cat scare you? I squared my shoulders and marched toward him. He hissed again, but I glared back at him. He backed down and let me pass. As I reached the top of the stairs, he streaked by me, almost knocking me off balance. I shook my head in wonderment, and headed for my mother’s room. I knew where it was, for I had grown up in that house. My father had been a very successful businessman, because of the clients he cheated in real estate. We reaped the benefits of his fraud, but were none the wiser. I found out about his double-dealing after I left home. I was disappointed in him somehow. He was not the man I thought he was.

It was a huge house, full of useless rooms and secrets wanting to be silenced. My father had died young, at age 35 of a heart attack. He left my mother and I alone. She never remarried, but she was not the best mother. She left me to my own devices, and at age 18, I moved out. She wasn’t sorry, and neither was I. So here I was, back again. They say you can never go home, but I suppose you can, in a way.

I came to the door leading to her bedroom. I tapped softly on the door. A frail voice answered, "Come in". Surely not my mother’s voice-she had always had a strong clear voice. This voice was timid and weak. Her illness, I told myself, and opened the door. What I saw appalled me. There was the cat, sitting on my mother’s breast, glaring at me. He was purring! My mother looked distraught at having this beast sitting on her, so I tried to shoo him again. He hissed and spat at me, and settled himself down on her chest and fell promptly asleep. She tried to smile a greeting at me, but I could see she was not happy at this arrangement. I approached her and kissed her cheek, trying not to disturb the cat, for fear of getting clawed. She looked drawn and tired, thin and frail. Bottles of medicine and a glass of water sat on her bedside table. The room had not changed at all since I was a child.