Cleo

Bossy, crazy, sweet Rosie. For all her quirks and her conviction I had Cleo’s worst interests at heart, her deep-down goodness was undeniable. Why else would she present me with On Death and Dying by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross offhandedly along with the kitten books?

I knew about the five states of grief Kübler-Ross put together to help people deal with grief. There was a lot I recognized.

1. Denial. Definitely during those initial shocking moments after the phone call at Jessie’s house. A big chunk of me continued to be in denial. On street corners and in shopping malls, I still saw Sam running and laughing. They were all blond-haired impostors. Something in the dungeon of my subconscious clung to the ambulance man’s words that Sam would have been a “vegetable” if he’d survived. Several nights a week I dreamt everyone had decided to hide from me the fact that Sam was still alive. Suddenly aware of their lies, I’d sprint through a labyrinth of hospital corridors to find him attached to machines in a darkened room. He’d then turn his head and fix me with those blue eyes, just as he had when he was born. I’d wake up, heart thumping, pillow saturated.

2. Anger. It would’ve been helpful if, after a few weeks of Denial, I’d faded recognizably into Anger. Every cell in my body raged at pigeons scattered like pieces of torn paper in the sky, women driving Ford Escorts, in fact, women drivers in general, and Sam’s school friends who had the effrontery to still be living. If only I could be assured the Anger stage would pass. Trouble was I was angry and in denial all at once. And yes, there had been a few pathetic…

3. Bargaining Sessions. Sometimes, in the bathroom or be hind the steering wheel, I conducted one-sided negotiations with God asking Him (or, if Rosie was to be believed, Her) to please wind the clock back, so the events of 21 January would unfold five seconds earlier, so the car rolled down the hill before Sam’s foot touched the curb, the pigeon was delivered safely to the vet and we all sat down around the kitchen table for Steve’s lemon meringue pie. What was a little time shuffling for someone (or something) as omnipotent as the Great Creator? In return I’d do anything He (or She) required, including join a nunnery, take up women’s rugby and pretend to enjoy sleeping in tents. All of which would save me from…

4. Depression. The wardrobe of sorrow houses many out fits. For casual daywear there’s plain old self-pity, which sufferers sometimes flippantly refer to as depression. Postnatal depression is slightly dressier. For full-blown formal occasions (complete with attendant psychiatrists and pills) there’s clinical depression, suicidal sadness and, ultimately, insanity.

My uncles returning scrambled as eggs from World War I were said to be depressed, possibly crazy. One of them was incarcerated in a mental home. A maiden aunt didn’t speak for years after my grandparents insisted she put an end to her affair with the local postmistress. With the compassion and understanding typical of rural 1930s New Zealand, the wider family called her Creeping Jesus. As far as I could understand, my aunt and uncles had logical reasons to be depressed.

Even though all these variations of sorrow are shoved into the same closet, they seem to have as much in common as flax skirts and Dior gowns.

The word depression wasn’t big enough to describe the ocean of melancholy I’d slipped into. There was no shoreline. The sea had no floor. Some days I fought to stay afloat. On others I was suspended lifeless, like a broken willow branch, drifting in its infinity. For Kübler-Ross to label this mere “depression” and a “stage” was outrageous folly. And then, to imply there would be a final stage of—

5. Acceptance. No way was I ever going to say it’s okay for a beautiful nine-year-old boy to die. Kübler-Ross missed a few other stages while she was at it, including guilt, self-hatred, hysteria, loss of hope, paranoia, unacceptable confessions in public, a powerful urge to open the car door and hurl oneself onto the motorway.

I thanked Rosie for the books and flicked through Your Cat and Its Health.

“You will read it properly, won’t you?” she said.

“Look Rosie, we might not meet your standards, but we’ll do our best. We’re not going to kill her, at least I hope not…”

“Never mind, baby Cleo,” Rosie said, putting on that silly voice again and burying the kitten between the steamed puddings of her breasts. “Itty-bitty kitty can come and live with Auntie Rosie any time.”

Cleo writhed between Rosie’s sweltering mounds. Then, in a split second that seemed to be happening in slow motion, she flattened her ears, rolled back her lips, hissed and swiped a fully armored claw at Rosie’s face.

“Ohmyyyygoooodddd!” wailed Rosie.