The Secrets Beneath Our Feet

Chapter Three: When We Call

"Not until we are lost

do we begin to understand ourselves."

~ Henry David Thoreau

.......

Throwing on my weathering robe, I slugged down the stairs to find my father scurrying about the kitchen. He always opened the patio doors before breakfast, since my mother vowed that fresh air kept the lungs healthy. As soon as I breathed in the crisp morning air, the coffee pot chimed and its dribbling slowed. My world felt at ease, and the smell of fresh waffles and eggs almost made me forget the wretched nightmare.

Almost.

"So I heard from Mr. Weber that you don't care much for plants." My father smiled to himself, scrambling the eggs without pause.

"Is that so?"

"Indeed.... In fact, he had quite a bit to say while we were at the bar last night. Even the local fishermen couldn't keep up with his slurs." I smiled to myself, looking down to see our kitten, Everette, curl himself between my feet. I bent down and ruffled his dark fur; he was quite a ham at times.

In moments where I felt relaxed, my dissociation was less present. However, as soon as life got stressful or overwhelming, I began to drift off, and it felt as though there was a glass window between me and the world. It's hard to connect with people when one doesn't truly feel present.

"Lorena?"

I continued to scratch the back of Everette's neck.  When I was younger, I found the neighborhood kids cornering this kitten and making fun of his features.  You see, Everette had only three legs and a nub to walk on.  As I approached the group of tall middle schoolers, they were kicking the dark kitten back and forth, calling him "Peg Leg Pussy".

I was horrified, as was the cat. After I had shooed them off, clutching my library book in hand, I picked up the small bundle of fur and claimed him my own. My squeaky red boots and fluffy hair tended to scare off the older kids.

"Peg Leg Pussy is no name for a gentleman like yourself," I had said, brushing the dirt off of his little head.

"What if I call you Everette?"

   Coming out of my thoughts, a heartwarming feeling nestled inside me. I couldn't help but reminisce that kitten; he had surpassed his leg with age, and was now deemed the local theft.  The scoundrel always brought home little treasures, placing them on my windowsill.

"Lorena."

I looked up, meeting my dad's aging blue eyes. He seemed concerned, but something told me it wasn't because of my absent nature. He put down the pan.

"I received a letter from your mother yesterday." My glaze flickered to the open doors, the morning breeze feeling quite a bit colder on my skin.   My father walked over to our rotting wooden desk and swiftly grabbed a crumpled ball of paper.

"She wanted to give you a riddle."

"Again?"

"Yes, again; she wanted to..." I put my hand up, stopping my father mid sentence.