The Next Best Thing

Chapter 6

Emma sat up in bed with her eyes closed, trying to hang on to a dream of an old family cat. He went by a million names, as most pets do, but she and Sophie took the initials of their favourites to call him CBDB officially, at least on all his veterinary paperwork. In life, the kitty had cerebellar hypoplasia, a condition that affected his motor skills. To keep his balance, he walked with stiff, tin-soldier legs which led to a permanent arch in his back. He fell down a lot, the little champion, but he was otherwise strong and spoiled.

In the dream, Emma rested on a couch. CBDB, with his green adoring eyes blinking for attention, pounced on her lap with all the slinky agility of any healthy feline. He flopped onto his side, purring, his happy bobtail twirling like a propeller with each pass of her hand over his short grey fur. How she loved that beautiful boy, and how special it was to feel that love so strongly again, but, oh, how she wished her sister would visit her dreams instead.

She dragged her feet to the bathroom and slapped on the light, her eyes still practically glued together. She remembered that it was Saturday and smiled with the idea of going back to sleep. Then she remembered Gabe's therapy appointment was at eleven and made reluctant peace with the loss of her free time as she flushed the toilet.

Next, she took the medicine cabinet out of her sink and wondered where to put it. The floor was as good a place as any for the moment, so she put it down and let it rest against the wall, intending to sort it out later. She washed her hands and was then face-down in two palms full of water when she realized what she'd just done. She looked up at the new gaping hole in her wall and screamed.

As she stared in total shock down Mitch Garner's hallway, the man himself staggered into view in a pair of grey briefs, scratching his nethers. Emma screamed again.

He jumped and shouted, "Oh shit!" looking equally stunned as he slammed into the doorframe of his room while trying to run back in for cover. He re-emerged a moment later, trying to tie the strings of his pajama bottoms with one hand and holding his head with the other.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?" Emma yelled.

He recoiled for a second but recovered. "What happened to 'language'?"

"What happened to my wall?!?"

"It's not just your wall," he said. That his calm voice had all the urgency of syrup falling on a pancake made zero sense to her.

"What could have happened?"

"Hang on now, I can explain," he said. Then didn't.

He was visibly trying to recall something, and suddenly it dawned on Emma that whatever it was, was his fault.

"What did you do?" Her voice was so low she almost didn't recognize it. She could feel herself about to blow. If he didn't spit out a reason soon she was going to Kool-Aid Man through the rest of the wall and shake one out of him.

"I may have had a little to drink," he admitted. "I may have pulled my cabinet out of the wall because I was mad the door wouldn't close."

"May have?"

"Definitely did." He knew better than to tell her to keep calm. An unexpectedly sincere look in his eyes pleaded for it instead.

"Why are men like this? Why do they do things like this? I've never known one woman to tear something down from a wall or punch something through one."

"Of course not. You all just throw things."

"We don't just throw things," she said, tired of him being right. "Sometimes we set them on fire."

His forehead dented as if trying to determine a threat level. "What?"

"Not me! Go on. What happened to my side?"