where she would have been without him.
Blackie walked over to Carla and purred at her
feet. When Carla didn't react right away the cat
started to push his head against her leg. Long
black tail curled around her. She looked down,
smiled and touched the chin of her beloved
companion. "Are you hungry, Blackie boy?" She
grabbed the cat into her arms, squeezed him
gently against her cheek and lowered him on
the kitchen counter. While Blackie purred
intently, she filled a small cup with his favorite
food and watched him eat. The big clock on the
wall went "tick, tock." Her palm was still hurting
from before.
"Want to go for a little nap, Blackie? We
have all day, oh yes we have, my beautiful
boy." Blackie licked his lips and then let out a
content meow. Carla smiled and picked him up.
When she passed the hallway, the phone rang
again. Carla looked at Blackie and rolled her
eyes. "It's the same breather again. No one else
calls us." Carla took out the phone, turned off
the volume and threw it back in the bag. Then
she kissed Blackie's forehead. "We only have
each other, Blackie. I'll take care of you, you'll
take care of me."
Carla and Blackie laid on the bed.
Blackie curled up against her side, begging for a
belly rub. Carla rubbed him and the cat started
kicking her, sharp nails gently scratching her
gauzed hand as if knowing not to hurt her.
Before falling asleep Carla turned to the portrait
on her nightstand. A strange man in overalls,
smiling. She smiled back at him. "Sleep well,
Daddy." She grabbed the frame, brought it to
her lips and tugged it under her arm.
Later that week Carla sat in front of her makeup
stand, brushing her hair and observing her 57year-old self. Suddenly she felt dizzy. Everything
around her started to morph into something
else. She held the brush in her hair, all frozen
and fixated on the reflection in the mirror. She
looked into the eyes of a young girl. It was her
at age six. Behind the girl, she saw their old
kitchen. And his father. He sat at the dinner
table, reading and smoking. He turned to look
at her and smiled. Carla smiled back. Then she
turned to look at the girl again. The girl just sat
there, in her yellow dress, staring, angry, flames
engulfing her from behind, her hair burning off.
"Where were you when I needed you?" the little
girl screamed. Carla dropped the hairbrush and
shook her head startled and confused. Suddenly
she was out of the house, struggling to set
herself free. The house was burning. Sirens.
They were so loud, it hurt her ears. Daddy!
When Carla finally woke up from her episode,
she found herself crying. In the background, the
phone was ringing.
Two weeks later Carla stood behind the counter
of Morris Bookstore, holding a couple of roses
taken from her garden. She had thought flowers
would brighten up the rainy day ahead. It had
been a slow week and flowers always made her
feel better. She placed one of them in a
clumsy-looking vase when the phone rang. Not
again. Now this ridiculousness needs to stop!
She grabbed the phone, clicked the line open
and shouted with the top of her lungs: "This is
the last warning, you miserable excuse for a
human being! I will call the police. I will not.."
"Excuse me, is this... Carla?" a female
voice inquired. For a moment Carla went
breathless. Oh my goodness, it's someone else.
"Uhmmm... yes," Carla answered and cleared up
her throat, feeling embarrassed. "I'm sorry. This
is Carla Sanders. I've been getting these weird
calls lately. They have been driving me crazy.
I'm truly sorry for shouting at you. What can I
do for you?"
"This is Eleanor Anderson."
"And what can I do for you? Where did
you say you were calling from?"
"Oh, my turn to apologize. I'm sorry. I'm
a nurse here at the Home of Hope. I found your
number amongst your father's belongings."
Carla let out a sarcastic dry laugh. It died
before it passed her lips. "I'm sorry, you must
have the wrong person. My father died in a
house fire when I was six years old."
"Jacob Webb?" the woman repeated.
"Yes, Jacob was his name, but -"
"Jacob lived with us for many years.
During the last few months his condition started
to deteriorate rapidly. I am truly sorry to inform
you this late. He passed away eight days ago.
We would have called you sooner but we had
no knowledge of your existence. He was a very
quiet and an extremely private man, kept
mostly to himself, and never had any visitors."
Carla thought she was hearing a hint of
disapproval in Eleanor Anderson's voice.
"My father's family name was Sanders,
not Webb," Carla repeated firmly. "As I already
told you, my father died decades ago. I don't