The Valentines never had a pet when their son was growing up. It was only when Vincent was an older teen that they finally adopted one—his mother's request. Eleanor grew lonely at home when Vincent was at school and her husband was working, and she wanted a companion during the daytime. A four-year-old black cat, christened "Midnight" by Vincent, was her choice. "Middie" was the cat's nickname. She was supposed to be Eleanor's cat, but she really ended up being Vincent's. In the morning when Vincent was packing lunch, Middie rubbed up against his legs with a rumbling purr. In the afternoon when he came back from school and set his backpack on the bed, she, already lying there, greeted him with a loud meow. And at nighttime when he was studying or reading, she sat peacefully in his lap until he fell asleep.
Vincent's father had worried at first. Vincent had had weak lungs growing up, and he suspected Vincent might be allergic to cats. He'd encouraged Eleanor not to get a pet and said he would try to take less hours instead. That wasn't possible; Shinra's assignments weren't flexible, and he could be in town or in parts unknown for days at a time with little to no contact. He had never had this problem when he was still at work on his dissertation since, having found, rented, borrowed, or otherwise procured everything he needed for his research, he was at home most of the time, and Vincent remembered him sitting at his typewriter for hours on end talking to himself in a language that seemed otherworldly.
Vincent wasn't allergic. He loved Middie's attention, and especially because his father seemed even more otherworldly whenever he came home. His father used to be down-to-earth, literally—Vincent missed the days of hunting in the mountains together, always knowing Mom would have a mug of hot cider waiting back at their cabin. The warmth of the drink would spread from his head to his toes, and he forgot the chill of the frigid river in which they had washed their bloody hands after butchering their dinner.
Middie helped alleviate some of the stress of high school. If Vincent was on the verge of a panic attack, he buried his face in her fur. She was an unquestioning support, and a durable tissue for any tears. In college, he looked forward to seeing her on break as much as to seeing his parents. Incense burning, macramé hanging on the walls, chimes clinking in the breeze, Dad falling asleep in his chair while reading, Mom humming as she mixed cake batter—all these things were home to him, but it wasn't truly home without Middie curled up at his feet.
During Vincent's senior year of college, Eleanor became very ill. Vincent, terrified of the worst-case scenario, wondered how she kept smiling. She had always been someone who could "go with the flow," roll with the changes. When he was on break, she acted as if nothing had changed, doing everything they used to do together—singing along to the radio in the car, watching game shows, playing with Middie. Vincent never brought it up, but he knew that she, deep down, was just as scared as he was.
Grimoire was not back at the apartment as often as he or Eleanor wanted. In a letter to Vincent, he said he was currently studying the Planet's defense mechanisms. Vincent knew something of this; like everyone else, he'd learned in school that the Planet created Weapons to defend itself if it was in danger, but he didn't know it on the level that his father did. Vincent continued writing letters during his last semester, but with few responses, even as his mother's condition worsened. After he graduated, picked up a paid internship at Shinra, and moved out, Eleanor passed away, and Vincent saw his father for the first time in five months.
"Will you take care of Middie?" Grimoire asked after Eleanor's funeral service. His and his son's eyes were both red; the left side of Vincent's head was pounding, black strings and splotches showing up in his vision. He felt dizzy from crying.
"Of course I will." What other answer was he supposed to give? He would never turn Middie down, even if she was getting a little old. She was a part of the family. And she had always really been his cat.
"Thank you." Silence passed between them for a moment. Nobody was coming up to them and offering vapid sympathies; nobody interrupted their conversation. "I'm sorry I haven't been around. I thought maybe you wanted to go up to the cabin this weekend. We both have paid time off."
"I'm sorry, Dad." Vincent lifted his head, seeing how the room had begun to spin. "I would like to, but I don't think I'm well right now."
After coming by and picking up the litterbox, food, and Middie, he passed out immediately after setting her down on the tile floor, hands and forearms breaking his fall. When he resurfaced a second later, the vertigo was intense, the room splitting into various blurred images before his eyes. He had been doing well, hadn't had any migraines in weeks. "Middie kitty," he called weakly. He knew she would come. "Middie."
He felt her fur against his face and he reached his arm up to pet her. Just then, he caught a whiff of patchouli, but when he held Middie to his face and sniffed, he didn't smell it. He'd never felt anyone's presence from beyond before. He wouldn't say he believed in ghosts. But Mom had always worn a perfume that had patchouli in it. And it was exactly her perfume that he had smelled.
At noon on the second day of his migraine, he was lying in bed with Middie stretched out across his shins, wondering how long it was going to last, when the phone rang. Without opening his eyes—even with the blackout curtains, the light was too strong—he picked it up and said, "Hello?"
"Hi, Vincent, it's Dad. Your supervisor just called me asking about you. He said you didn't pick up this morning. Are you still sick?"
"Yeah, but I'm off." Vincent laid his arm across his forehead. "Will you come over?"
There was a moment of silence before he said, "I'm coming right over. See you then."
Grimoire had a key to Vincent's apartment, so Vincent didn't have to get out of bed to let him in. He took care opening the bedroom door—it needed oiling badly, and the noise would grate on Vincent's senses—and pulled up the chair from Vincent's desk. Vincent's left hand was lying palm up over the side of the bed, and his father set his palm against Vincent's. "How's it going?"
"I want Mom back."
"I know." He patted Vincent's hand. "How's your head?"
"Shitty."
"Well, you just let me know if there's anything you need."
"I need a vacation."
Grimoire's hand left its place, and Vincent heard an indignant meow, then felt Middie's fur under his chin. "How about a cat?"
Vincent laughed as best he could. "A cat would help."
Two years passed and Middie grew older just as Vincent and Grimoire did. Her eyes began glazing over with age, and Vincent could see little stars in them when he held her up to his face. She sometimes had accidents before making it to the litterbox, and it was sad to think he might lose her soon. He still thought about his mother nearly every day. It wasn't that he cried or agonized over her being gone, more that there was a hole in his life, a palpable absence. She had been cut out.
He couldn't help feeling that he should have heard from his father that week. He'd taken Middie to the vet and gotten her checked out, and she had a tumor that would have to be examined as soon as possible. Shinra's insurance—they had exceptional benefits, especially since Vincent's promotion—covered the visit, but he was worried about the cost of surgery if it were needed. He'd called his father—no response, even after Vincent left a message on the answering machines (Shinra had the newest technology). Then Vincent was given an envelope and the rest of the day off at work that day. He waited until he was home to open it.
"No," he said. "No, no, no, no." He said it over and over, though he knew it was true. His vision blurred, tears blotting ink. Dropping the letter, he sank to the floor and sobbed until his chest hurt. Not just his mother, but his father, had returned to the Planet, had been taken away from him.
Middie was an old cat, but she hadn't completely lost her senses, and hearing her person in distress drew her attention immediately. She brushed up against Vincent where he lay with his face against the cool tile, his tears forming a small puddle at his cheek. He cried even harder and drew her tightly to his chest, squeezing her so hard that she squirmed to try to escape. He let her go and she scampered out of his arms, her claws scrabbling on the tile. "Thank you," he said as he watched her leave the kitchen. "I love you, Middie kitty."
