Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [10]
There was a pause, and he could hear his mother in the background. “Put the cat down now—no, he doesn’t like being held like that.”
He smiled. Kylie was just like his sister, ferociously independent and stubborn. At six and a half, she already displayed Laura’s ironic wit. There was the sound of the cat hissing in the background, then a sharp “Ow!” and the sound of a chair falling. Moments later, his niece came to the phone.
“Hello, Uncle Lee.”
“Hi, Kylie. What were you doing with the kitty just now?”
“Playing.” Her voice carried a note of gleeful guilt.
“Really? What sort of game were you playing?”
“Um…dress up.”
“You were dressing up Groucho?”
“Um…yeah.”
“Did he enjoy that?”
“Not really. He tried to run away.”
“But you stopped him?”
“Yeah—until he bit my hand.”
“That must have hurt.”
“Uh-huh…Grandmom is putting a Band-Aid on it.”
Kylie’s relationship with Groucho was one of hunter and hunted—and, when she managed to corner him, it was torturer and victim. Her favorite game was dress up, and she clothed the cat in a dazzling array of humiliating outfits. The aging and dyspeptic tabby was far from child friendly, but Fiona Campbell had had him for years and wasn’t about to give him up now.
“My Band-Aid has Winnie the Pooh on it,” Kylie said.
“Oh, that’s nice. Did your grandmom buy them for you?”
“Uh-huh. I picked it out, though.”
Lee heard the whistle of the teakettle and went into the kitchen. “That’s good. I’ll bet it feels better already.”
“Yes.” There was a pause. Talking to a young child on the phone was a job. You had to constantly initiate topics, keep the conversation moving. As Lee poured hot water over the coffee grounds, he was aware of something in the back of his mind trying to press its way to the front, but he couldn’t quite grasp what it was—a thought, an idea, an image of some kind.
“Are you having fun in school?” he said into the phone.
“Um, yes.”
“What do you like best?”
“Art class. I drew pictures of Mommy today.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. We were apposed to bring a picture in and draw from that, so I brought one of Mommy from the scrapbook.” Kylie had trouble with “sp” sounds, and pronounced “supposed” as “apposed.” She also said “Francanscisco” for “San Francisco” and “pissghetti” for “spaghetti.” Lee found all of these childhood speech patterns charming, and was sorry the day would come—as he knew it would—when his niece would outgrow them.
A silence hung in the air, and Lee couldn’t think of anything to say. He knew his mother kept a scrapbook filled with pictures of Laura, but he didn’t know Kylie had seen it.
“And then when she comes back I can show it to her.”
Lee bit his lip. It was bad enough that his mother had never accepted Laura’s death, but it made him furious that she insisted on sharing her unreasonable hopes with her granddaughter.
“Okay, well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Can I talk to your grandmom now?”
“Okay. Grandmom!”
His mother came and took the phone.
“Yes, dear?”
Lee wanted to tear into her for what he considered her irresponsible behavior, but he didn’t have the energy. All he wanted to do was lie down, pull the blankets over his head and shut out everything.
“Was there something you wanted to tell me?”
“No—I just wanted to say good-bye.”
“Fine. Take care of yourself—and remember to eat!” His mother often ended conversations that way. He had lost so much weight during his depression that she became worried.
“Okay, I will. ’Bye.”
Lee hung up and lifted the filter from his coffee mug. The liquid inside was hot and strong and black—opaque and impenetrable, like his mother. Again the thought in the back of his mind struggled to make its way forward. He added a drop of milk to his coffee and took it over to the window seat. It was something about Marie, and yet not about her. Something related to her death…but what? He stared out at the gray February morning. A thin rain was falling,