Cleo

The night sky that had once seemed so icy and indifferent would draw me into its magnificence. Maybe the cloak of space wasn’t empty after all, but full of profound energies humans have yet to perceive. Instead of limitless nothing, that giant bowl of stars could be where we’ve come from and the place we return to. So far away and yet intimately close. Light that had left those stars years ago traveled across time to enter the retinas of my eyes and become part of my experience. They were as close to me now as darling Sam, distant as the stars and yet an integral part of every breath. The sky, stars, Sam and I were closer than I’d dared imagine. Maybe that’s what Mum had been talking about when she’d said Sam was part of the sunset. Perhaps she wasn’t insensitive after all, but incredibly wise. When it’s my turn, maybe I’ll discover death isn’t a terrifying full stop but a return to the eternal mystery that is home.

With help from Jason and Ginny we plowed through another winter into a second spring. As nights grew longer, evenings after school were a favorite time for the four of us to get together. Ginny and I would meet in the garden and soothe the day away with a glass of bubbles while we watched the boys burn off the last of their energy before bedtime.

I’d gone along with Ginny’s dizzy act in the beginning. With her whacky earrings and fabulous hairdos, she gave the impression of being a blonde in brunette’s clothing. Nothing could’ve been further from the truth. I was amazed when she confessed to not only being a midwife but studying for a science degree as well. More important, she introduced me to fake fur and lent me some of her earrings, including some orange dangling Perspex lightning bolts that were beyond electrifying. Ginny taught me how to put false eyelashes on straight and to not be scared of platform shoes. She was becoming the friend I’d always dreamt of—zany, wise, kind and equipped with an almost psychic ability to turn up when needed.

Rob and Jason were bonded by their devotion to Cleo. They thought it was about time she had kittens. They were disgusted when I explained she’d had an operation.

“That’s so-o mean!” said Jason, shaking his head with bewilderment.

“Yeah,” Rob added. “Why didn’t you let Cleo have babies?”

Standing on the grass against an orange sunset, Ginny and I exchanged smiles. We’d become such close friends it felt as though we were living in an Antipodean version of an African longhouse. With one short zig of the zigzag between our homes, the boys ran freely from one house to the other. Even though Ginny and Jason lived in two-storied splendor, they seemed oblivious to our shabby kitsch.

“Well,” I said, “a cat can have babies three or four times a year. And if she had five kittens in each litter that means Cleo would have twenty babies in one year. Imagine twenty kittens running through the house.”

Rob thought that sounded fantastic. When I asked where they’d all sleep, Jason volunteered that at least one kitten could live at his house.

“They’d still have nineteen kittens left,” said Ginny. “And it wouldn’t be long before they were able to have kittens. They’d end up with hundreds and thousands of kittens.”

“Wow!” said Rob, turning to me. “Why were you so mean?”

I tried to explain the operation’s benefits. Without it Cleo would want to go out on dates. She’d get moody when we kept her inside. The vet had assured me having her spayed protected her from infections and some types of cancer.

“Nobody stopped you having babies,” Rob grumbled.

This surgical reproductive talk was reassurance we’d done the right thing in not revealing to Rob details of Steve’s vasectomy reversal, which had involved considerably more time under the knife and greater discomfort than Cleo had undergone. The patient hadn’t once complained, though his eyes sometimes clouded with pain. The surgeon reported that the operation had gone well, though it would be some time before we knew for certain if it had worked. After a stoic recovery, Steve had packed his suitcase and hobbled off to the ferry for another stint at sea.

Cleo tuned into the boys’ disapproval of me. Squirming in my arms, she demanded to be put on the grass. She stalked around the side of the house looking like Naomi Campbell. Watching her disappear I felt a momentary twinge of guilt. Perhaps a creature as graceful as Cleo deserved to populate the world.

“You should’ve let her have babies!” said Rob, harrumphing off down the path. “C’mon Jason. Let’s dig.”

The boys’ shared love of Cleo had expanded to other interests, including a vast excavation they’d undertaken in a corner of our garden so wild and neglected I’d barely noticed it before. Shaded with ferns and an air of forbidden mystery, it was a perfect spot for male bonding over a major dig.