The Girl Who Thought in Stories

Emma sat in the same chair she did every Saturday. The chair held an important story, being the same shade of blue as her grandmother’s winter coat and gardening gloves. Her grandmother was one of the few people she could talk to. The kind eyes and soft smile always brought her to another world where the madness of each day faded away.

During the winter, they would put on their coats, hats and gloves as grandmother shook her head gravely upon finding out she hadn’t brought a scarf. Before going outside, she would always grab one of her multitude of scarfs from their bag in the closet, wrapping it gently around her neck and firmly pulling the knit hat over her ears. Stepping outside always brought an indrawn breath as the shock of cold and the glare of sun on snow assaulted her. After a moment’s chaos, a soft whisper from her grandmother and the comforting pressure of her squeezed hand would make everything bearable, and they would kick their way through the snow to check on the chickens before making a trip to the mailbox.

During the summer, she would take Emma outside to help in her garden filled with brown earthiness, and the greens of growing. The first thing they always did was put on their gloves and hats, the same they used on each visit, stored in the same place just inside the garden shed. Then they would walk through the garden and talk about whatever was on Emma’s mind, pulling the errant weed and making sure the plants were watered and healthy.

Beside the chair sat a cup of tea, slowly cooling, in the same mug she always used. The cup’s story was that of her cat Pepper with its black on white lettering of the word ‘CRAZY!’. She had always greeted her each morning on her bed, sometimes snuggled against her face, and sometimes pouncing on shadows cast across her blanket. She never seemed to know that Emma hated mornings and didn’t care. When Emma pushed her away to cover her head with a blanket against the morning sun, she would walk across her face to plop down on her head. When Emma refused to get up, she would rub her head into her hand demandingly, and no amounts of groans or shoves would satisfy her until she threw the cover off and sat up.

Emma stared out the same window she did every Saturday with its view of the once brightly painted yellow bird feeder. A faded pink hummingbird feeder hung empty beneath it, rocking slowly back and forth in the wind, as a morning dove flew in on its daily check, before gliding away. The feeder held her mother’s story, the sweet smell of sugar water boiling on the stove to be put out for the hummingbirds, and the hard black shells of the sunflower seeds they would put out together. The smell of fabric softener was always the same as Emma pushed her head against her mother’s shirt when the bright sunlight pierced a summer cloud, or the blast of a car horn reverberated through her head. Her mother never minded. The birds needed to be fed, and it was their job to do it.

Pepper limped over to her leg, gently pressing her body against it. Stories of her rubbing against her possessively flashed through her mind, as she bent down to pick her up. She hardly weighed anything anymore, feeling more like the kite her grandfather had her carry out to the open field behind her grandparent’s house than the demanding cat who had pounced on her blanket covered head. Gently placing Pepper on her lap, she slowly drew her hand across her fur, the feel of each rib like the sunflower seeds that should be in the feeder.

Her hand froze mid stroke. Pepper was too light. The hummingbird feeder shuddered in a gust of wind. There were no birds for Pepper to bat at through the glass. The birds needed to be fed. Pepper could no longer chase shadows and birds through glass. It is our job to do it.

It is our job to do it.

“It is our job to do it. It is our job to do it.” The words came protectively from her mouth, warding against the onslaught of stories lighting up her mind. Her Grandmother’s unnaturally rosy cheeks and too smooth face. The roses growing wild next to the collapsed wooden shed behind her house. A wooden picture frame of her mother surrounded by roses. The wooden veterinarian sign with faded lettering.

The window rocked back and forth as she did. Her grandfather placed her tiny hands on the steering wheel of the rocking boat. He was wearing a fancy navy blue jacket and lying in a coffin with a too smooth face.

“It is our job to do it.”

The sun flared blindingly through the window. Her mother placed sunflowers seeds in her hand, and they spilled all over the floor. Pepper spilled her cup of milk and began lapping it up. Her grandmother brought her a cup of milk for her cereal. Her dad brought her a cup of milk. “It is our job to do it.”

“Emma?”

A blue jean leg came in front of the window, rocking as she did. The soft clink of a glass beside her. The clink of the latch of the door of the funeral home. The clink of Pepper knocking over a lamp. “It is our job to do it.”

“Emma?”

Her dad asking her if she wanted to watch a movie. The smell of popcorn coming from the kitchen with loud pops of kernels. The steady warmth of his body sitting next to her on the couch.

“Everything is alright Emma.”

They loved watching movies together. It was their thing. Sometimes mother would watch them with us, other times she would sit at the small table near the window and work on a puzzle. Her dad would try to do British accents and old man voices and they would both laugh. They always ate popcorn on the couch, even when mom complained about the kernels getting in the cushions. Pepper liked to climb across the back of the couch and pounce on dad’s head, usually at the best part of the movie, making him jump and yell at her, always with a smile on his face.

The leg and window slowly stopped rocking. Pepper rumbled quietly beneath her hand. She looked up into her dad’s face. Sometimes there was worry, or frustration. Today there was only understanding. “I brought you some milk if you want some.”

I took the cup he pointed to and put it up to Pepper’s face like I used to. Dad didn’t complain, and when I stole a look at his face, his smile seemed sad. Pepper didn’t want any, so I took a sip before putting it back.

“I remember when your mom and I got her. You had just started walking, and we thought it would be nice to have a cat around the house. She was always more your cat than ours, even from that first day.”

“I don’t want to go.” Emma forced the words out. She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to think about going. She always sat in this chair on Saturdays with her cooling tea and view of the birdfeeder, but this wasn’t a normal Saturday.

“I know honey, I don’t want to either. I wish there was another way.” He bent down to scratch Pepper behind her ears. She didn’t seem to notice. He straightened slowly with a sigh. “The old girl has been here for us through some tough times. Now it’s our turn to be there for her, even if it’s hard and we don’t want to do it.”

She stood up carefully, gently cradling Pepper against her chest. Her story went through Emma’s head; laughing when she ran too fast and slid across the kitchen floor. Ignoring her when Emma screamed before the funeral and purring when she cried into her fur afterwards. She walked them to the cat carrier dad had placed on the table, gently placing her inside on her favorite blanket.

“Are you ready to go?” Emma could see the concern and pain on his face; the same look when we went to Grandpa’s funeral. The same look when they went to Grandma’s funeral. The same look when they went to Mom’s funeral.

Their stories flashed through her mind before she nodded. “It is our job to do it.”