Cleo

Cats aren’t something to be “got.” They turn up in people’s lives when they’re needed, and with a purpose that probably won’t be understood to begin with. I certainly hadn’t wanted a kitten so soon after Sam’s death. Not consciously, anyway. Life is a contrary business. Sometimes what you think you don’t want and what you need are the same thing. Cleo’s cuddles, her fun, her uppity behavior, were exactly what we needed to take our minds off monumental sadness and remind us what joy there is in living and breathing. She taught us to loosen up, laugh and toughen up when necessary.

Guardian of our household, Cleo watched over every step of our journey. She stayed with us for as long as we needed her—which turned out a decade or two longer than expected. Whether she’d been sent to us by Sam or the Egyptian cat goddess, she bestowed her healing powers on us with more generosity than could be asked of any creature.

Once we started trusting life again magical things seemed to unfold. Wonderful people like Ginny, Jason, Anne Marie and Philip turned up at exactly the right times. Cleo supervised every encounter, sometimes giving the impression she’d actually arranged them. I’ll always be grateful to these people and many more who helped us recover from the loss of Sam. Not that I’ll ever confidently say we’ve recovered. We’ve changed, grown. Sam, his life and death, will always be part of us.

Anger ultimately gave way to forgiveness and, years later, the enormous relief of learning Sam hadn’t died alone and frightened. I discovered Superman is real, after all. He’s the hero who stops at accident scenes and does what he can for victims. For us his name was Arthur Judson.

For years I’d avoided returning to the zigzag in Wellington. With typical sensitivity, Ginny understood and never pressed me to visit her. We’d arranged reunions in Australia or other parts of New Zealand, anywhere that served good sauvignon, really. But curiosity eventually got the better of me. As the rental car ground up the hill towards Wadestown I prepared for gut-wrenching replays. Rounding the first hook bend, then the second, I noticed there was still a stretch of public land, a mini park, overlooking the harbor. I’d once dreamt of erecting a sculpture there in Sam’s memory, but concrete and stainless steel lack warmth. There are better ways to honor a lost child.

The road straightened, narrowed and became steeper as it rose towards the footbridge, still hanging across the cutting like a gallows. As the car sped underneath, I absorbed a rush of impressions. The steps down from the bridge, the edge of the footpath where Sam had turned to his brother all those years ago and said, “Be quiet.” The harsh surface of the asphalt where his blood had spilt. My chest jarred. What was the point of putting myself through all this?

The houses on our old street seemed more brightly painted, the gardens better maintained since we’d left. At the end of the road I was astonished to find the zigzag had disappeared. Ginny had mentioned the neighbors had clubbed together to pay for a bulldozer to create drive-on access for all the houses, but I hadn’t imagined anything this dramatic. The old zigzag with its twists and turns had been replaced by a full-on driveway plunging straight down the hill. I stood at the top of the zigzag that was now a road and looked down on the city. It sprawled farther up the hills these days. There were several new high-rise office blocks. Wind jagged up from the south.

“Bubbles, darling?” asked a familiar voice. Ginny and I wrapped arms around each other. Laughter lines and streaks of grey through her hair had only intensified her beauty. Leopard-skin tights and wild earrings had succumbed to a flowing skirt and silk shirt that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the streets of Milan.

Together we walked down the driveway over what once would have been one zig and a zag to Ginny’s place. I deliberately avoided turning towards our old bungalow. A single glimpse had potential to unleash an army of demons. The jungle that used to surround the Desilva’s had gone, but their house sat serene as ever. A champagne cork popped as Ginny explained how she and Rick had looked at apartments in town, but nothing could surpass the convenience and outlook of this house.

Nodding, I took in the surroundings. Ginny’s taste in interior design had moved on from eighties chic to European understatement. Having lived there nearly thirty years, Ginny confessed she and Rick were the neighborhood establishment now. The Butlers had moved ten years ago. Mrs. Sommerville had gone to the great staff room in the sky.

“And our old house?” I asked tentatively.

“A footballer and his girlfriend lived there for a while,” said Ginny. “Someone wanted to renovate it, but they gave up. It’s been tenanted ever since. There’s a good view from upstairs, remember?”