My Sunshine (11 page)

When Laura left his office moments later, she did so with a heavy heart.

 

About six that evening, Isaiah was about to wrap up for the day when Laura appeared unexpectedly in his surgery. Bundled up against the cold in a pink parka with fake-fur trim on the hood, she looked adorable, her eyes shimmering with excite-ment, her cheeks flushed from the evening chill. Hands crossed over her chest, she appeared to be hiding something under her coat.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, even though he felt absurdly pleased to see her.

Cheek dimpling in a conspiratorial smile, she said, “I have an emer-gency.”

His heart caught. “What happened?”

She stepped closer, parting the front of the jacket. A fluffy gray tabby kitten was curled against her breast, sound asleep. “This poor baby came crying at my door. He's a stray, and I can't have pets.”

“Uh-oh.” Isaiah couldn't shake the feeling that this was a joke and he had somehow missed the punch line.

“I have to find a home for him,” she went on in that slow, halting way of hers. “Do you know any-one who might take him, someone special who'll love him? Maybe a little old lady who just lost her kitty?”

Isaiah stepped closer. The kitten was the exact same color as Seymour. “Ho,” he said, the utterance more an exclamation of amazement than a word. “My God, he's
perfect!
Where in hell did you find him?”

“On my porch.” She fixed him with an innocent look. “That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.”

Isaiah didn't buy it. Coincidences happened, of course, but Laura's self-satisfied expression told him that wasn't the case this time. “Seriously, Laura, where'd you find him? He's a miniature version of Seymour.”

She cupped a gentle hand over the sleeping kitten. “The shelter was a dead end, so I looked in last night's paper. He was at the last house I checked. And he's a male. Lucky, huh?”

Isaiah felt as if a golf ball had gotten stuck behind his larynx. He stared stupidly at Laura's sweet face. In that moment she seemed to glow, looking more angel than human. He couldn't quite believe she'd spent her whole afternoon combing Crystal Falls for a gray tabby kitten that looked exactly like Seymour. It was such a kind thing for her to have done—and way beyond the call of duty. She had never even met Mrs. Palmer.

Belinda emerged from the cloakroom just then. “What's up?” she asked when she glimpsed Isaiah's stunned expression.

Prying his gaze from Laura's uplifted countenance, Isaiah replied, “A kitten for Mrs. Palmer. Laura spent her whole afternoon responding to classified ads, trying to find a gray tabby.”

Belinda came over to see the kitten. “Oh, isn't he sweet?”

Laura was the sweet one, Isaiah thought, but he refrained from saying so. The two women cooed and awwed over the sleeping kitten for a moment. Then Laura shifted her gaze back to Isaiah, her expression expectant.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked. “If we dump him in her lap and tell her he's homeless, do you think she'll sucker in?”

Isaiah burst out laughing, the sadness that had plagued him all afternoon vanishing. “Of
course
she'll sucker in. If she hesitates, I'll give her my famous spay-and-neuter speech about the glut of kittens in our area and how many are destroyed each week because they can't find homes.”

Belinda grinned at Laura. “Trust me, he's got that spiel down pat. Mrs. Palmer won't be able to say no.”

“You should have seen her when I was digging the grave this afternoon,” Isaiah said. His heart panged at the memory. “She sat on the back porch, cradling Seymour in her arms and sobbing. There was nothing I could say or do to make her feel better. She looked so alone that I hated to leave her.”

Laura lifted the kitten to her cheek. “She won't be alone now.”

 

Mrs. Palmer lived in an old double-wide mobile home with a covered front patio chock-full of yard furniture and decorations, many of them plywood cutouts that had been artfully painted. A mobile of bluebirds dangled from an exposed rafter beam. From another hung a little boy and girl perched on swing seats. Near the front porch a bearded old farmer in blue overalls held a
WELCOME
sign in gnarled hands. There was so much to see that Laura could scarcely take it all in.

“Her husband was a woodworker,” Isaiah explained. “When he retired, he stayed busy making yard stuff to sell.”

Laura was admiring a collection of cutout ani-mals crowded around the steps: raccoons, rabbits, squirrels, and countless others that were lost in the throng, all of them darling. “He was very good. Look at that robin. Doesn't it look real?”

Isaiah skirted a family of miniature black bears to mount the steps. As he knocked, he said, “I think he made decent money selling his stuff. Most people don't have the time or talent to make this kind of thing.”

They fell quiet, waiting for an answer to his summons. When the old woman finally opened the door, Laura's heart twisted. As though her frail body lacked the strength to remain upright without support, Mrs. Palmer stood with one arthritic hand braced against the door frame. An oversize polyester blouse and baggy slacks nearly swallowed her
bony frame. Her white hair encircled her head, fluffy wisps poking out here and there.

“Dr. Coulter?” she said weakly.

“Yes, it's me, Mrs. Palmer. I have a problem that I'm praying you can help me with.”

“Oh, my.” With trembling fingers, she pushed feebly at the sagging screen door. “Come in, come in.”

Isaiah caught the door and drew it wide. “I brought a friend along. I hope you don't mind.”

Mrs. Palmer peered past him at Laura. “I'm a little under the weather, you know. I'm not sure I'm up to having guests.”

“We'll be only a minute, I promise,” Isaiah assured her. “Like I said, I've got a problem.”

“Oh, well . . . in that case.” She tottered back a step to allow them entry. “I haven't any cookies on hand, but I can make us a nice cup of tea.”

“That isn't necessary,” Isaiah said as they invaded the old lady's tiny living room. “This is Laura Townsend, Mrs. Palmer. She works for me at the clinic.”

Mrs. Palmer squinted to see. “It's good to meet you, dear. I'm sorry I look such a fright. It's been an awful day for me.”

Keeping her left hand splayed over the front of her coat, Laura extended her right to shake the old woman's hand. “I'm sorry about your kitty.”

Tears slipped onto Mrs. Palmer's cheeks. With quivering fingers, she brushed them away. “I'm a crazy old woman, crying over a flea-bitten cat.”

“No, it's not crazy at all,” Laura protested. “You loved him.”

The inside of Mrs. Palmer's house was as cluttered as her patio. Laura took in all the dusty doodads on the cheaply paneled walls and then shifted her gaze to a huge wicker basket filled with balls of yarn placed next to a worn brown recliner. She could almost see the old lady relaxing there with Seymour asleep on her lap while she crocheted and watched her television programs. How lonely the house must seem to her now that her beloved pet was gone.

Isaiah grasped the old lady's creped elbow and guided her to the recliner. Mrs. Palmer sank gratefully onto the cushion, which had become wallowed at the center from years of use. She fluttered a hand at a green, afghan-draped sofa that was in no better condition.

“Please have a seat.”

The kitten tucked securely under her jacket, Laura sat at one end of the couch. Isaiah forwent the offer and crouched by the old lady's chair. In the brown riding jacket, he could just as easily have been hunkered by an open fire with a tin cup cradled in his big hands. Laura could almost see the firelight playing over his chiseled features.

“Here's the problem,” he told Mrs. Palmer solemnly. “Tonight when Laura went home, she found a tiny stray kitten on her porch.”

Mrs. Palmer's rheumy blue eyes widened. “Oh,
my.
”

“He's homeless and starving,” Isaiah went on, “and there's no way Laura can keep him. If we can't find a home for him, she'll have to take him to a shelter.”

“Oh, no,” the old lady whispered.

“It's a sad situation,” Isaiah went on. “There are so many cats and kittens without homes right now. The Humane Society has about thirty on any given day. They're wonderful about sheltering homeless animals until they're adopted, but with so many . . .” Isaiah's voice trailed away, the implications of what he left unsaid hanging in the air. “I'd hate to see this little guy be destroyed.”

Mrs. Palmer shook her head. “If you're thinking I might take him, I simply can't. My precious Seymour isn't even cold in his grave yet.”

Isaiah nodded his understanding. “I'd have been in total agreement with you an hour ago, Mrs. Palmer. But seeing this kitten changed my mind.” He hesitated a moment. “Do you believe in fate?”

“Fate?” the old lady echoed.

“Yeah, you know, that some things in life happen for a reason? Like when you met Alfred, for instance. Do you think that happened by accident?”

“Meeting my Alfred?” Mrs. Palmer shook her head again. “Heavens, no. We were meant for each other. Both of us always believed that.”

“Some things are just meant to be,” Isaiah agreed. “And I'm sure this is one of them. When I clapped eyes on this stray kitten I got cold chills. He's a dead ringer for Seymour. It's as if God plopped him on Laura's doorstep just for you.”

“He looks like my Seymour?”

Isaiah turned to Laura. Taking her cue, she drew the kitten from beneath her coat. As she held him up for Mrs. Palmer's perusal, she said, “Can you
believe it? He even has the little white tufts in his ears.”

Mrs. Palmer clamped knobby fingers over her mouth and stared with tear-filled eyes at the kitten.

“Now you know why I got cold chills when I saw him,” Isaiah said, taking the kitten from Laura as he spoke. “All my life my mom has told me that God will never allow us to be burdened with more than we can bear. Six months ago you lost your husband. Today you lost Seymour. I think God knows how sad you are and sent this little fellow to Laura's door so he could find his way to you.”

Isaiah placed the sleepy kitten on Mrs. Palmer's lap. The old woman's hands hovered shakily over the tiny feline, her fingertips barely grazing the soft fur. “Oh,” she whispered. A sob caught in her throat, shaking her frail shoulders. “Oh, my, he
does
look like Seymour. Almost
exactly.
Doesn't he?”

“I've never seen the like.” Isaiah sent Laura a triumphant smile. “It's too much of a resemblance to be a coincidence. I'm convinced this kitten is heaven-sent.”

“Oh, my.” Mrs. Palmer finally lifted the kitten in her hands to look at his funny little face. “He's so terribly thin. I can feel his ribs!”

Having left his mother only that afternoon, the kitten was actually quite plump, but Isaiah nodded in agreement. “No telling how long it's been since he ate. It's a mean old world for a tiny kitten without a home.”

Mrs. Palmer drew the kitten to her chest. “It's a wonder he survived!”

“I know it's a big imposition, but would you give him a home, Mrs. Palmer?” Isaiah shifted his weight to sit back on his heels. “I'm never at my place. I couldn't take proper care of a kitten this young, and Laura lives in an apartment where pets aren't allowed.”

“It's awfully soon,” Mrs. Palmer said, but her tone indicated that she was wavering.

“I know. But given the striking resemblance, I don't think Seymour would mind. In fact, he'd probably like the idea—another cat exactly like him. It's an honor to his memory, in a way. Don't you think so, Laura?”

“Oh, yes.” Laura nodded emphatically. “I think Seymour would be glad. He loved you, Mrs. Palmer. He wouldn't want you to be all alone.”

“He'll need his shots and have to be neutered when the time comes,” the old lady observed.

“I'll take care of all that,” Isaiah offered. “You'll be doing me a big favor if you take him. That's the least I can do.”

Mrs. Palmer pushed up from the chair. Cuddling the kitten to her breast, she tottered off to the kitchen, saying, “We'll just pour you some milk while I'm thinking it over. Poor starving baby.”

Isaiah grinned at Laura as he stood up. “Got her nailed,” he whispered.

Mrs. Palmer was beaming when she returned. “My goodness, how he's going after that milk! I think his tummy is so empty, it's buttoned to his backbone.”

“I brought some special food to put some meat
back on his bones,” Isaiah told her. “I'll go get it. If you'll take him, that is.”

Mrs. Palmer glanced down and laughed delightedly. Seymour the Second had followed her from the kitchen and was attacking her yarn basket. Before anyone could react, a ball of red yarn was rolling across the floor, and the kitten was giving chase. The old lady sprang after her new charge, scooped him up, and wagged a scolding finger at his pink nose.