LITMIR.BIZ

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didn’t hold out on him, did you? Because I told you what happens if you don’t give them whoopee whenever they want it, didn’t I?”

      She’d told me, countless times. It’s Rule #5.

      “Get counseling or something,” she says. “It’s not worth throwing away a good marriage over.”

      “We don’t have a good marriage, Mom. In fact, we don’t have any marriage at all at the moment, except on paper.” I suck in a breath and then drop the bomb. “And the woman David was seeing has been murdered. David is a suspect.”

      Mom turns horribly pale—which for her means turning damned near invisible—and I think she might actually get her lifelong wish to become deathly ill. “You don’t seriously think he killed someone, do you?” she whispers. Despite her color drain, the look on her face suggests that she finds the idea kind of intriguing.

      “No, Mom. I don’t. At least I don’t think I do. But I know that he saw the woman only hours before she was killed and that they had a horrible argument.”

      “How do you know that?”

      Oops. “It’s not important how I know. Just believe that I do.”

      “Have you talked to David about it?”

      I shake my head and open my mouth to drop my next bomb—that I, too, might be a suspect—but stop when the kitten makes its presence known by leaping onto my leg and sinking its claws into my skin like a rock climber hammering home his pitons. Hissing through my teeth, I reach down and pry the creature loose, only to have it do this amazing wriggle-flip thing that transfers the pitons to my sleeve with lightning speed. It hangs on for dear life, looking panicked and mewling pitifully. I pull it off my sleeve, wincing as I hear claws rip loose of the fabric, and settle it in my lap on its back with its legs in the air where they will do less harm. With one finger I rub its stomach. It relaxes immediately and starts to purr.

      “Well, lookie here,” I say, squinting between its back legs at two furry little bumps, each one about the size of my prom night pimple. “You’re a boy.”

      My mother clucks her disapproval.

      “I need to think up a name for him,” I muse.

      “You’re actually going to keep that creature?” my mother says, aghast.

      “Sure. Why not?”

      “I already told you why. Cats carry diseases. And those litter boxes are so…” Her eyes grow wide suddenly. “Do you even have a litter box?”

      I shake my head. “Not yet.”

      “Well, what…how…if…oh, my.” She sputters for a few seconds as she considers the possibilities. I can almost see the images in her head—a montage of slasher-movie scenes where everything that would normally be covered with blood is covered with cat shit instead.

      “Don’t worry, Mom,” I say, watching her turn apoplectic. “I’m leaving. Your house is safe.” I pluck the kitten from my lap, stand, and head for the door, my mother close on my heels.

      “You really should get rid of that thing,” she says. “Are you going to see David?”

      “As soon as I can.”

      “Well, please give him my regards and let him know I’m not responsible for the insanity that has obviously overtaken you. That comes from your father’s side of the family.”

      Next to obsessing about her health, my mother’s other favorite hobby is trashing my father and his family. My parents divorced when I was in kindergarten and my only memories of my father are vague and misty. They bear such an unreal quality that I often wonder if they’re real memories or something I conjured up during my lonelier hours.

      My mother has remarried three times and divorced three times since my father—she’s not an easy woman to live with. And while I have no idea where my “real” father is and haven’t seen or heard from him in thirty years, I have a trio of delightful stepfathers, two of whom still live nearby.

      “Your father’s family has Gypsy blood in the line. You know that, don’t you?”

      “How could I not, Mother? You remind me of it several times a year.”

      “Yep, Gypsies,” she goes on. “A bunch of expert con artists, stricken with wanderlust. The whole lot of them.” Then, as she realizes I’m leaving, she hits me with a last-minute wave of maternal concern. “Are you doing okay, Mattie? Do you need anything?”

      “No, I’m fine, Mom. Thanks.”

      “Be sure and wash those cat scratches well with some strong antiseptic. You don’t know where that cat’s been.”

      “Sure I do. I found him in a Dumpster.”

      My mother clutches at her chest and I think she might pass out. But she rallies, as she always does. “How are you set for money?” she asks.

      “Great,” I lie. “I’ve got a job now.”

      “Really? That’s wonderful.” This is said with a forced tone of fake delight since my mother’s idea of a perfect life is to marry a wealthy doctor or lawyer (though the doctor is imminently better) and never work again. She never understood my desire to continue working after I married David. “What kind of job is it?” she asks.

      “I’ve gone to work with Izzy, as his assistant.”

      Her expression turns to puzzlement. “Izzy? But isn’t he a coroner or something like that?”

      “Yes, he’s the medical examiner.”

      “But that means he works with dead bodies, doesn’t it?”

      “Yes, he does, Mom. So do I now.”

      Mom’s shoulders sink and she looks at me with a woeful expression. This news is irrefutable proof that I have fallen about as low as I can go on her ladder of success. “Oh, Mattie,” she says with a tone of sadness I might expect if I’d told her I was living on skid row. “Has it really come to this?”

      “It’s a good job, Mom. I like it. Granted, it’s not for everyone, but it suits me just fine right now.” Then I think of something that might sway her opinion. “Plus, I’ll get to see all kinds of interesting diseases and disorders. I’ll be able to see how they affect the body in a way I never could when I was nursing.”

      I see a gleam in her eye. “You’d tell me if you saw something…worrisome, right?” she asks. Coming from anyone else, I might think the question reflected a fear that some pestilence or plague of community-wide, if not global, proportions might pop up one day. But in my mother, it’s merely a sign of her excitement over finding a new source for symptom and disease information she can use to expand her repertoire.

      “Of course I would, Mom,” I assure her, winning a smile of approval.

      “Do you have a phone yet? You need to have a way to keep me informed.” She hesitates a second and seems to realize her comment needs something more. “Informed about how you’re doing,” she adds.

      I flash on the cell phone Izzy gave me earlier. It’s in my purse, along with the slip of paper that has the number on it. But frankly, the past two months without a phone have been rather enjoyable, the only downside to it all being that I have to drive to get my takeout rather than having it delivered. I know that if I give my mother the number, she’ll be calling me several times a day to share her latest crop of symptoms.

      “Not yet, Mom. But when I get one, you’ll be the first to know.” And in saying that, I am abiding by Relationship Rule #9: Try to Avoid the Truth When You Know It Will Hurt.

      One hour later I pull up in front of the cottage, my car laden with $136 worth of cat supplies. I have four kinds of cat food, a cat bed, a dozen cat toys, cat vitamins, cat grooming supplies and a cat collar big enough for four kittens. I also have three large containers of cat litter: one that is guaranteed

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