to do anything since he left. He has filed me away, whereas I obviously haven’t found a place to file him. His words—filed me away. He learned from his mistakes with me and moved on, treating me like a no-longer-relevant memo. Well, now, it’s not filed anymore, is it? He’s so upset, he hasn’t returned my phone call in three weeks. We’ll finish this discussion Tuesday or Wednesday, he said. That was a month ago. Before that we had three months of talking on the phone and his telling me how happy he is that we’re talking again. His saying we can be friends. You still think I killed Descartes, I said. He started accusing me again of every bad thing I ever did, of how unstable I am, how unfeeling. I told him the vet was the one who suggested I put Descartes to sleep. I told him there was no hope. He thinks he loved Descartes more than I did. He says I have no heart, underneath this soft exterior, I’m hard as granite. I’m someone who abandons her son. He delivers this with an emotionless voice, controlled, venomous. What’s ironic is he’s the one who’s unfeeling, not me. I have problems playing Hearts with my computer because I worry how the other three people feel when I beat them. I know there aren’t three people there, just the computer, but I can’t help it. I’m very sensitive, I love most people, and I love my cats. Descartes was adorable, a tiny, tabby-colored Persian. I got him when he was no bigger than the palm of my hand, the runt of the litter who barely survived. One day he got sick and it turned out he had a congenital kidney problem. The vet suggested a kidney transplant for my cat. How could I put him through that? I changed vets. Descartes lasted for about six months. Then he started getting worse, until one day at five in the morning, I woke up wet. Descartes, who slept every night on top of my right shoulder, had peed on me. He peed without moving. I got up, changed the sheets and lay back in bed wondering what to do. I dozed off only to be woken up an hour later wet again. Since his kidneys were not functioning, his urine was only water, no smell. I called David and told him what had happened. He thought it was amusing that Descartes peed on me. My heart ached and he was laughing. I took Descartes to the vet, who told me it was time. He first gave Descartes a strong sedative. I asked him to leave me alone with Descartes before he gave him the second shot. Descartes was conscious, looking at me. I cried, asked his forgiveness. I am crying now as I write this, thinking of my poor Descartes. I got a call from David when I got home. As if nothing had happened, forgetting our conversation that morning, he started making small talk, his specialty. I interrupted him, maybe not as diplomatically as I could have, telling him I put Descartes to sleep. He went crazy, well, crazy for David, which means he was silent for a minute; then in a cold, venomous voice he asked, “You killed Descartes?” I knew I wasn’t going to get what I wanted, but I went ahead anyway. I wanted sympathy and understanding, to be held. He would never hold me again. He said I killed Descartes because he became a burden, an inconvenience. You can accuse me of a lot of things, but not of killing my cat. I know I’m not the nicest person in the world. I know I can be manipulative, selfish, and bitchy. But I’m not a murderess. While talking to him I realized he must be hurting because he loved Descartes and he hadn’t been able to say good-bye. I screwed up. I should have let David see Descartes before I put him to sleep. I started apologizing. All he said was, “It’s too late now.” I knew he could be cruel, but not like this. All the time we spent together, he knew so many things hurt me, yet he refused to do anything about them. He met all of my friends, of course, but he refused to let me meet any of his friends or acquaintances, never his family. Why? Because he didn’t trust me, because he felt I was
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