Running With Scissors_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [66]
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. HOPE’S CUNT IS LIKE FORT KNOX. NOBODY 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