"Fidget," she calls out, her voice filled with amusement as she climbs the stairs, the scent of clean linen filling her nose, her arms full of freshly laundered sheets. "Where are you hiding my little man? You're late, you know. I think your tummy alarm has broken. It's 5:30 and you've not come to remind me how cruel I am to starve you twenty-three hours of the day."
Shifting the sheets to her one arm, Ruth stops in the middle of the steps, listening for the telltale patter of pawed feet against the carpet. It's silent as she continues, a smile pulling at her lips as she shakes his head. "I see how it's going to be, the silent treatment for not feeding you every hour. Have you forgotten the new toy I bought you just this mor…FIDGET!"
She's reached the top now, her right hand gripping the top of the railing as she stares, her mind struggling to process the prone feline stretched along the floor, parallel to the hall wall. "Wake up Fidget," her voice is strangled as slowly, she takes one step forward, her heart choking in her throat as the sheets slip to the floor. He doesn't move and she gasps, the tears strangling her as she fumbles to reach the phone in her pocket, her mind a wicked haze of emotions as she dials the familiar number.
It rings once, twice, before being picked up, the gruff voice on the other end at being disturbed a weak anchor as she nearly shots "Fidget! Oh my God Harry, he's dead. Fidget's dead." She is screaming at the end, her normally calm exterior is completely shattered and she has no control over the voice that's coming from her. He says something – what she's not sure – as she continues to stare down at her beloved companion, unable to move or say anything.
It takes him fifteen minutes to reach her house, fifteen minutes in which he mutters words he knows makes no sense. Words he knows she doesn't comprehend, even if they did make sense. It's the gentle tone of his voice more than anything he's trying to convey, to offer some kind of soothing until he can get there in person. She's in shock, has been since he answered the phone, but the steady breathing he hears through the line reassure him that she's still there with him. As he turns onto her street, he thanks whatever God will listen that there's an empty spot behind her car on the street.
"I'm out front Ruth," he mutters, turning the car off as he glances at the house. It's dark save for the soft glow of light coming from the front sitting room. Gathering his keys, he opens the door, moving into the brisk, winter air. Shivering, he pulls his jacket tighter as he continues to grip the phone, his focus now on the house – and the woman within. Stepping to the door, he tries the handle.
Locked.
In normal situations, he would be pleased with the fact that she was safely locked behind the solid door, but today it's bloody inconvenient. Shouldering the thin, rectangular phone, he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket for the slim case. "I'm coming in Ruth," he says softly, his fingers deftly working the tools in the lock. He feels it give and breathes a sigh of relief, pushing open the door to step into the quiet entry.
Inside he pauses a moment, his eyes adjusting to the low light as he glances around. His eyes catch the shadow at the top of the steps and he moves forward, one foot in front of the other as he slowly climbs the wooden stairs. "It's Harry, Ruth. I'm coming up." His voice is soft as he moves to her, his eyes never leaving her statue like figure.
He reaches the upstairs landing in under a minute, pausing beside a silent Ruth as he follows her gaze across the hall. "Oh Fidget," he mutters, his heart breaking even more at the sight of the furry companion stretched out in the hall, his paws taunt as though he'd been walking when he died. "I'm so sorry."
Carefully he lowers himself to one knee, his fingers reaching out to brush against the soft fur on his small head, scratching between his ears in the gentle way he had come to do in the years the cat lived with him. "I'm so sorry," he says again, tears filling his eyes.
It's this that breaks through to Ruth and she gasps, the intake of breath ripe with tears as she moves forward, dropping to her knees beside him. "Fidget," she's crying now as she reaches out, her fingers moving to rest next to Harry's on the cats head. "Oh Fidget come back. Please don't leave me." She's crying fully now as she moves closer, her hand running over the fur on his back as she says his name over and over again.
They stay like that for a while, Harry scratching the top of the cats head while Ruth pets his back, her voice going hoarse from the crying. Eventually Harry moves, shifting to gather Ruth in his arms to pull her back.
"No!" she says, struggling to get out of his grip. "Let me go. Let me go!"
"Ruth," his voice is gentle with just a hint of steal as he pulls her round to him, the desperation and pain in her eyes cutting through him like a knife. Slow now, he moves to cup her cheeks in his palms, his thumbs brushing along the tracks of tears to wipe them away. "He's gone Ruth, there's nothing we can do."
"He can't be gone," she hiccups, her eyes straying from his to the prone figure of her most beloved companion. "He can't!" She's crying again as her fingers move to grip his fingers tightly, her eyes pleading with him as they meet his gaze. "He can't be. He was fine this morning. We did his morning routine of him waking me at 4:30 asking for breakfast, his paws brushing softly against my hand as he meowed 'come on mom, feed me. I'm starving.' And I told him not yet. Like always. And like always, he laid down against my side, his paws wrapping around my fingers in a loose grip as he napped with me."
She stops now, her gaze moving once again to her fury friend, taking in the way his lips have pulled back slightly in a grimace, how his face was his but somehow not his at the same time. He's gone; she knows this; and yet, her heart does not want to believe it. Slowly, she moves Harry's hands as the tears continue to fall, her fingers releasing his as she moves to Fidget one last time. Leaning down, she presses her lips against the fur of his head, tears dripping into his fur as her eyes close.
"I love you Fidget. I always will."
She moves back now, her body shaking with sobs as she watches Harry move, taking the laundered sheet to wrap carefully around the small body. He's so careful she can see as he lifts Fidget into his arms, his own eyes filled with tears as he brushes his cheek against the top of the sheet.
Slowly he climbs to his feet, the stiff weight in his arms letting him know that it's been a couple of hours since he passed, his heart breaking even more with the knowledge that he's been alone all this time. For the moment, he ignores the mess that passing always wrecks upon the body and moves to the stairs. There'll be time to clean it later, once Fidget has been cared for. "Come downstairs Ruth," he says softly, his eyes moving once again to the devastated woman, wanting nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and make this all go away. He waits a moment, just watching until she nods, her movements shaky as she stands.
Silently they make their way down the stairs, the soft glow of light from the front sitting room illuminating the night. "Go sit," he orders, his head nodding towards the sofa along the wall. "Just sit and I'll be back when I can."
She says nothing to this, her gaze avoiding the wrapped bundle in his arms as she nods, the tears silently falling.
It's going on nine when he finally returns to her flat, a heavy weight of exhaustion and grief filling his very soul. He's lost so many people over the years, some close to him, but never has the loss of a person felt quite like this. There are no words – nothing he can say or think – to explain this feeling.
And, he realizes, it is only a fraction of the grief Ruth is feeling.
Silently he turns the car off, his gaze once again moving to the box. The weight upon his heart grows as he reaches for it, the prick of tears once again filling his eyes. He'll never understand why innocents are taken before their time, especially when no outside forces are involved. As he reaches the door, he lets himself in, his gaze once again taking in the quiet of the entry way. Everything is the same as when he left and so he makes his way to the sitting room.
Ruth is curled on the sofa, the dried tracks of tears evident on her face as she stares at her hands. He steps closer, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as his gaze catches the furry mouse toy in her fingers. Fidget loved throwing them about, he remembers, chasing them around the house with a pounding of little paws, jumping through the air to land on them before pounding them with his hind leg.
It's a good memory.
One he'll cherish in the years to come.
"Ruth." He says her name softly, watching as her eyes lift to his in a watery smile.
"Hi." Her voice is cracked, raw with emotion, as she grips the mouse tighter in her fingers. Unconsciously her thumb brushes the tan fur in that gentle way she sometimes strokes his palm as she takes in the box he is holding.
He settles next to her, his knee brushing hers as he sets the box on the low coffee table. Silently he turns, pulling her into a tight hug as the tears begin to fall again. She sobs, her body shaking with the force of them as she burrows into his chest, the wetness of the tears seeping through the thin material. His own tears come as he lies his cheek against her hair, needing the comfort almost as much as he needs to give it.
Sometime later, the last of the tears have fallen; for now at least; and they are sitting quietly on the sofa, arms wrapped around the other.
"What's in the box?" she finally asks, breaking the silence of the night.
He moves now, reaching to pull the box into his lap before gripping her hand in his again. His gaze is drawn to the five small items, each prepared in an attempt to sooth the mourning family of a beloved pet, and he wonders briefly what to start with. Finally he settles on the urn, a rectangular cedar box no bigger than a memory box. Letting go of her hand for a moment, he lifts it, the lightness a surprise as he holds it out to her.
Ruth takes it with trembling hands, settling it in her lap as she takes in the beautiful Celtic carving atop the lid. She doesn't open it, knowing that inside is the ashen remains of her beloved friend. Instead, she traces a finger along the carving, quietly praying that he's happy and safe wherever he is now. Tears cloud her vision, not falling this time, as she asks "how?"
"Graham," Harry says, his fingers moving to rest on hers. "His girlfriend's family are morticians and they've – Sally and Graham – started their own business a few years ago, catering to devastated pet owners. I," he stops for a moment, emotion choking him. Ruth squeezes his hand, understanding this is nearly as difficult for him as it is for her, and so she just waits, giving him time to compose himself. "Sorry," he mumbles a few minutes later, his fingers wrapping in hers.
"It's okay."
He nods, "I called after I left here. Graham, he met me at their office and he…he took care of Fidget for you."
"For us," she says, her fingers tightening around his. "For us. He was as much yours as he was mine now." Her heart still hurts as she looks in the box, seeing the four other items nestled safely in tissue, but she has to smile at the paw print pressed into the clay. It had been his paws that had drawn her to him, all those years ago, as she'd looked through the various kittens to be rescued. He'd reached his paw out through the metal door, his tiny claws wrapping around her finger as she'd moved past, making her stop to look at the gray tiger.
It had been love at first sight as she'd gazed into those green eyes, his pink nose twitching as if he was trying to smile and say 'pick me. Let me come home with you.'.
They'd been together for ten years, never far from the other aside from those three she'd spent in exile. And then she had never worried, knowing he was safe and happy with Harry. There hadn't been this horrible pain of loss and separation, of knowing she'd never see her little man again. That she'd never hear his gentle coos and chirps as he spoke to the birds in the back garden or feel his soft touch of paw upon skin as he'd petted her, asking her to feed him early.
Somehow, it never hurt to be apart from him because she'd just known he was okay.
Blinking back tears, she sets the impression to the side and gazes upon what remains in the box – a paw print set in clay, an ink print of the same paw, a lock of his gray fur, and a photo set in a frame matching the urn, one that Harry must have had because she's never seen it before. She's wrapped in Harry's arms before she realizes that she's crying again, the pain of losing Fidget so deep that she just clings to him, needing the strength that he gives her.
Sometime later, Harry pulls back slightly to glance upon her face. She's asleep; the stain of her tears evident upon her cheeks; and he's loathed to move her. He knows how drained emotionally she must have been to fall asleep, and so he carefully shifts her sideways, lying her against the cushions as he slips away.
Quietly he moves about, locking the front door and setting Fidget's remains on the table by the window. There'll be time enough in the morning to continuing processing what has happened, but for now, he'll try and get some sleep. Slipping behind her on the sofa, he pulls a blanket over them, wrapping his arms around her sleeping figure. "I love you," he whispers, his lips pressing against her hair, and a small smile tugs at his lips as she shifts closer, her hands moving to cover his in sleep.