Page 55 of No Room in the Inn

“No,” I say again, louder this time, because I don’t want to know, don’t want to hear what she’s trying to say. “Myrtle can’t have cancer,” I say, shaking my head firmly. “She can’t be dying. This is Myrtle—myMyrtle.” I gesture to her before going on. “She’s lazy and fat, and I need to keep her that way with lots of fancy cat food. She’s not limp and frail, and she mostcertainlyis not dying!” My voice has grown louder and louder until it rings through the silent room, and then a deafening silence takes over.

And then I’m crying. The tears come out of nowhere, zero to sixty in no time flat. Great, heaving sobs that can’t seem to be contained, tearing out of me again and again and again. I hunch down over Myrtle’s curled form on my lap, shielding her from anything and everything that might try to separate us.

How are we going to fix this? I can’t afford to pay for treatment. My parents probably can’t, either; I read somewhere once that treating pet cancer can be upwards of ten thousand dollars. That makes me cry even harder. I’m vaguely aware of a hand rubbing my back, of my father’s arm pulling me close.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” my mom says softly. She’s crying, too. “We’ve done everything. All the treatments, all the medication—we’ve done everything possible. Chemo, radiation—everything.”

That shocks me silent for a second. My parents aren’t poor like me, but they’re by no means wealthy.

I sit up straighter and look from my father to my mother and back again. “You—you paid for all that?” I say, my voice thick and nearing unintelligible.

“Of course,” my mother says, still rubbing my back. “Of course we did.”

I swallow, looking at her. “You hate Myrtle.” Even as I say it, I stroke Myrtle protectively.

“Butyoulove Myrtle,” my mom says. “Of course we tried everything.”

Cue the tears again. But they’re different now; there’s a heavy dose of guilt hanging out with all the pain inside, and before I know it the full-on sobs are back. I think vaguely of Nixon and hope that he’s not hearing this, because I really don’t want him to have to relive any painful memories of his mother.

“We were hoping something would work and that we wouldn’t have to upset you,” my father says. He sounds defeated, tired. “And then when Granny passed…”

“We decided to wait to tell you in person,” my mom says gently. “I tried to call you earlier, but…”

My father strokes my hair. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

I look at him, and he looks back at me with compassionate eyes.

My eyes, incidentally. I look more like my mom than my dad, but I’ve got his eyes, big and brown. Looking at him now, though, and the gentleness and wisdom in his gaze, I just feel woefully inadequate. Because for eyes that look so similar to mine, I doubt I’ve ever looked at anyone with as much love or compassion.

And, suddenly, I feel very stupid. My parents love me. I’m their only child. And I’ve been treating them like dirt.

Maybe it’s because I’ve just learned that they’ve been shelling out thousands of dollars to keep my cat alive. Maybe it’s the memory of Mildred Moore, perpetually cranky because her daughter isn’t speaking to her. Maybe it’s the influence of Nixon, who isn’t half as bitter as I am despite the fact that he doesn’t have any parents at all.

Or maybe it’s my father’s eyes, the compassion in them making me painfully aware of how selfish I am. I don’t know. I don’t know why I do it. But suddenly I find myself saying, “Let’s have dinner on Sunday.”

And my mother gasps. She actually gasps. That’s how surprised she is that her daughter should want something as normal as a family dinner. A hot knife of guilt slices through me.

“Do you—” My dad falters, then says, “Really?”

I nod. “Yeah.” I hesitate, then add, “Nixon can come too.” I look over my shoulder, but Nixon is gone. That’s okay; I’ll tell him later. I’d like him to be there, or maybe Sarah and Flora. Mostly I just don’t quite feel ready to do it alone.

“Of course,” my dad says, and my mother nods. Though she’s trying to hide it, I see her chin trembling slightly.

“We—we would like that,” she says softly.

I just nod. And I have to get out of here now. Because I don’t want to talk anymore or feel Myrtle so listless in my lap. My heart is breaking, shattering, and I have to go.

I carefully transfer Myrtle back to my dad’s lap, kissing her softly between her ears. Then I stand, wipe my eyes, bid my parents goodbye, and take my leave.

When I get outside, I’m both pleased and disappointed to see Nixon’s car idling in the driveway, waiting for me. It was nice of him to wait. But I hope he doesn’t want to talk, because I can’t do that right now.

I get in the passenger seat, grateful for the heat that washes over me as I sit. I don’t look at Nixon, and he doesn’t say anything as I buckle in. He’s silent until he puts the car in reverse.

“What do you need from me?” he says, his voice soft.

I look over at him, surprised. “What do you mean?”

He exhales roughly, running one hand over his hair. “I mean, what do you need? Do you want to talk? Do you want me to leave you alone? Do you want to go home, or to Sarah’s, or someplace else? Is it okay to look at you, or should I look away when you cry?” He pauses, his eyes intent on mine, then says, “What I’m saying is, how can I help you mourn in comfort?”

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