Running with Scissors (20 page)

“What’s the matter with her?” I said.

Natalie turned the light back on. “I need a cigarette.”

I reached over and grabbed my pack, then tossed it on the bed.

Then we cracked up until Natalie had to run into the bathroom because she was going to pee in the bed.

For the next three days, Hope would not let Freud out of her sight. Or her arms.

“Hope, don’t hold that cat over the stove like that,” Agnes scolded. “Her tail could catch fire on one of the burners.”

There was nothing Natalie or I could say that would make Hope understand that the only suffering her cat was experiencing was
her.

“You can’t hang that thing around her neck. It’s too heavy.”

“But Natalie, this way she can’t get lost. I can hear her wherever she goes in the house.”

The necklace, made of two jar lids and a length of red yarn, was secured around the cat’s neck. The lids clanked together whenever the cat moved.

“What are you doing to this cat?” the doctor bellowed when it leapt up on his lap, fleeing from Hope.

“Dad, Freud’s sick,” Hope said, catching her breath.

“Leave this poor animal alone,” was all he said before nodding off in front of the TV.

On the fourth day, the cat’s condition worsened. According to Hope, Freud again contacted her during REM sleep and said that she had hung on for as long as she could, she really just needed to be left in peace so she could die now.

“Has anybody seen Hope?” I asked that afternoon. I needed a ride to the Hampshire Mall so I could fill out a job application at Chess King and Hope was the only one who could drive me there.

“I haven’t seen her all day,” Agnes said, scrubbing at the dining room table with vinegar and newspaper. “Last time I saw her she was downstairs in the basement”—she used her fingernail to scrub something off the table—“with the cat.”

I turned around and looked at the door to the basement. “Hope?” I called out. When I didn’t hear any answer, I opened the door. It was dark. But then just as I was about to close the door, I heard something, a faint scratching sound. I flicked on the light and started down the stairs.

Hope was lying on the floor with her head next to a yellow plastic laundry basket. She appeared to be dead. “Hope, are you okay?”

“Mmmm? Who?” she mumbled sleepily.

“Hope, what are you doing down here on the floor? People have been looking for—”

That’s when I saw the whiskers. They were poking out of the slats of the laundry basket, flicker, flicker, flicker.

I leaned forward and peered inside the basket. Freud was pressed against the side of it, her nose trying to poke through. “Hey cat,” I said gently. Then, “Hope, what’s going on in here?”

Hope slowly sat up. She brought her finger to the side of the basket and tickled Freud’s whiskers. “Poor kitty.”

“Why is she in the laundry basket? And why do you have this dollhouse on top of it?”

Hope looked up at me and her face told me that something dreadful had happened. It was the face you might wear if you had to tell a parent that their child had met unfavorably with a python.

“She’s dying, Augusten.”

The cat made a yowling sound, almost a growl.

I brushed a cobweb off my head and slapped the back of my neck. “What you are doing down here? It’s awful.”

The basement was damp, with a dirt floor, stone walls and a low ceiling of exposed beams.

In a calm, tender voice Hope explained. “I’m down here with Freud to keep her company while she passes away.”

My first impulse was to laugh. Except the expression on Hope’s face told me she wasn’t kidding. So I said, “
Oh-kay,
” and I backed away, then walked slowly up the steps, turning the light off before closing the door.

Then I ran as fast as I could upstairs and burst into Natalie’s room.

“Oh my God,” I said. “You will
never
believe what your crazy sister is doing.”

Natalie quickly let her skirt fall, covering her thighs and turned away from the mirror. “What now?”

“She’s got the cat trapped in a laundry basket in the basement. She’s gonna kill it.”

“
What?
”

“It’s true. I was just down there. She’s got the thing stuck inside this laundry basket because she says it’s dying and she wants to keep it company or something.”

“Are you serious?” She raised her eyebrows in her trademark don’t-fuck-with-me-fashion.

“Totally.”

She grabbed her Canon Al.

“No, not like that. Just lean in and tilt your head up toward the lightbulb,” Natalie directed, the camera gripped in her hands.

I stood by the stairs, not wanting to get more cobwebs in my hair. I’d just taken it two shades lighter and it was very porous. I was concerned that dirt might actually stain the shafts. I wasn’t sure my hair could withstand another processing.

“Yeah, that’s good,” Natalie said.

Hope was posed on her side, her face next to the laundry basket. Harsh light from the bulb overhead created dark, dramatic shadows under her eyes. The flashlight Natalie had aimed through the laundry basket created subtle slats across Hope’s cheekbones. It looked like it would be a great photograph.

Eventually Agnes appeared at the top of the stairs, suspicious. “What are you all doing down there? You better not be smoking pot or engaging in other activities. I won’t allow any of that in my house.”

Natalie kept her eye on the eyepiece of the camera and shouted, “Shut up. Leave us alone.”

“I’m warning you,” Agnes called. “I’ll speak to the doctor.”

“This was a good idea, Nat,” Hope said. “It’s nice of you to come down here and take our picture. It’s special.”

Natalie laughed. “Oh, it’s my pleasure.”

“Cut it out down there!” Agnes screamed. She was even more annoying than usual. I wanted to walk up the stairs and close the door but since I wasn’t her kid and this wasn’t my house, I couldn’t.

Hope said, “She is such a mothermind.”

“Don’t move your mouth.”

A
mothermind
was a Dr. Finch-ism. It was one part busybody and one part manipulator. It was based on the principle that mothering people is unhealthy after a certain point in life. Like the age of ten. A mothermind wanted to oppress and control you. If a mothermind needed money, she might say, “Do you have ten dollars?” Dr. Finch’s feeling was that it’s none of your business whether or not I have ten dollars. If you need ten dollars, say, “May I have ten dollars,” or “I need ten dollars.”

Everyone in the house was paranoid about being seen as a mothermind. And Agnes was the biggest one of all. The Antichrist of mental health and emotional maturity.

After Natalie was satisfied with her pictures, she said, “How long are you going to stay down here?”

Hope answered gravely, “As long as I need to.”

Once we were back upstairs in Natalie’s room and had stopped laughing, we wondered if maybe we should call the doctor. “It seems like she’s really serious,” I said. “Like she’s not joking.”

“Your hair looks so dry,” Natalie said. “Have you colored it again?”

“This isn’t about my hair,” I said. “But yeah, I did. I had to go a little lighter. I think it looks more natural.”

“More natural than your natural color?”

Natalie would never understand, could not understand this basic concept. She barely even washed her hair. Which was one thing I really hated about her. Because she could be so beautiful if she tried, if she wasn’t such a fat and sloppy thing. And as soon as I thought this, I tried to think of something else quickly. Because we were so close that I felt sometimes like she could read my mind.

“What’s the matter with you?” she said.

I knew it. She heard me thinking. “I’m not thinking anything,” I lied.

“What?”

“
What?
”

“What were you thinking? Your hair was fine.”

Phew. “What about Hope?” I said, changing the subject.

“Let’s let Dad figure it out.”

That evening when the doctor was sitting in the TV room and Hope was still downstairs in the basement with the cat in the laundry hamper, we explained the situation to Finch. He listened carefully, nodding and saying, “Yes,” and “I see.” I have to admit, I was impressed with his professionalism. He looked and sounded exactly like a real psychiatrist. Until he opened his mouth.

“Let’s ask God,” he said.

Automatically, Natalie walked to the fireplace mantle and pulled down the bible. It was sitting next to a framed black-and-white photograph of a movie marquis that read, “Tonight: Velvet Tongue.”

“Okay then, let’s ask for guidance.” The doctor closed his eyes.

Natalie fanned the pages and then opened the book.

The doctor put his finger down on the page. He opened his eyes and slid his eyeglasses down from their perch atop his head.

Natalie read the passage his finger had marked. “And in those times, there was no peace.”

The doctor guffawed, causing his eyeglasses to slip down his nose. “Well, you see there. That’s your answer. That’s just wonderful.”

“I don’t get it,” Natalie said. “What does it mean?” She sat down on the sofa next to her dad.

“Well,” he began in his throaty baritone, “I think what God is saying is that these are very stressful times for everybody, including Hope. Maybe especially Hope. This business with the cat,” he waved his hand dismissively in the air, “is just stress. I say ignore her. It’ll resolve itself.”

Resolution came later that week in the form of death. Opinions were mixed as to the exact cause. According to Hope, the cat died of “kitty leukemia and old age.” According to me, the cat died of “being trapped in a laundry basket in the basement for four days without food or water.” Part of me felt sad for the cat, but only a very small part. I was learning that if I lived slightly in the future—what will happen next?—I didn’t have to feel so much about what was going on in the present.

A week later I walked into the kitchen to see Hope sitting in the chair next to the stove. She had a vacant look in her eyes and was holding a snow shovel. It was summer.

“What are you doing with that?”

She continued to stare straight ahead, oblivious to me.

“Hope,” I said, waving my hand in front of her face. “What are you doing with a snow shovel?”

She started and looked up at me. “Oh, hi Augusten.”

I stared at her and said, “Well?”

“Well what?”

I grabbed the handle of the shovel. “What are you doing with this?”

Tears welled in her eyes. “
Freud’s alive
.”

“What?!”

“It’s true. I was walking home and just as I got to the back door, I heard her crying under the tree.”

Hope had buried the cat under the single tree in the yard. A week ago. “Hope, the cat is not alive. You did not hear the cat crying.”

She broke into tears. “But I did. I
heard
her. Oh my God, I buried her alive.” She stood suddenly. “I have to go get her.”

“No,” I said. “You don’t.” I blocked her from the door.

“But I heard her. She was calling out for me.”

Hope stood trembling, clutching the handle of the shovel. That’s when I noticed she was also wearing a stocking cap and a green wool coat. Something in her brain had shortcircuited. She was now prepared for Christmas.

The minute she walked outside, I phoned Dr. Finch at the office. One of his patients, Suzanne, answered the phone. Finch liked her voice so much he sometimes lured her into playing receptionist when Hope was out of the office.

“I need to talk to him.”

“You can’t, he’s with a patient,” she said, pouring on thick her professional receptionist voice, even though she was really just a crazy housewife who liked to cut herself with a paring knife.

“Go get him, Suzanne. It’s an emergency.”

“What is it?” Suzanne thrived on drama and crisis. Which is no doubt why she ended up in the emergency room every other week.

“It’s Hope. Just put him on.”

“Fine,” she sighed. “I’ll go get him.”

When Finch picked up the phone I told him that Hope was out back digging the cat up.

“Put her on the phone,” he shouted.

I balanced the handset on top of the phone and went to the door to call Hope. “Your father wants to talk to you,” I shouted.

She was at the tree, hunched over the shovel, digging. She turned. “Okay.” She dropped the shovel and ran inside.

I don’t know what he said to her. But I watched and she nodded. “Yes, Dad.” She nodded some more. “Okay, Dad.” A calmness overcame her face and when she hung up all she said was, “I’m going to go to my room and take a nap.”

I WOULD DYE FOR YOU

P

LEASE
. H
OPE
’
S CUNT IS LIKE
F
ORT
K
NOX
. N
OBODY GETS IN
.”

“I heard that,” Hope called from the kitchen. ”And I don’t want you talking about me when I’m not there.”

Bookman yelled back at her over his shoulder, “We’re not talking about you. We’re talking about your cunt.”

Hope walked stiffly into the room. She spoke sharply in a low voice. “I don’t like you using the C-word in connection to me. It’s rude and offensive.”

In her hand, she held a raw hot dog.

“Take it easy, sister,” Bookman said, adopting a condescending tone. “We were just discussing your love life. Or lack thereof.”

“My love life is none of your beeswax,” she huffed. “Besides, haven’t the two of you got better things to do than sit around all afternoon talking about me?” She bit into the frankfurter.

“Seriously, Hope,” Neil said, leaning back against the sofa and placing his arm around me. “Being in love is fantastic. It’s the best thing there is. You should try it.”

Hope sneered. “I’d hardly call you an expert.”

His hands slammed down on his thighs and I could feel his muscles tense against mine. “What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

She leaned against the windowsill and chewed slowly, casually. “It means I’d hardly call you an expert on love, that’s all.”