Curiosity Killed The Cat Sitter

Thirty-Four

Sunlight glittered on the sailboats rocking at anchor in Sarasota Bay. A few seagulls strolled along the sidewalk, hoping for handouts. Phillip and I sat quietly, the way people do when there’s too much to say to trust yourself to speak. Phillip’s forehead still bore an ugly channel from the bullet he fired with the intention of killing himself. If he hadn’t jerked his head back just before he pulled the trigger, he would have hit the frontal lobe of his brain. If he’d jerked it forward instead of backward, he would have hit the cortex. As it was, he was physically and neurologically intact. Psychologically, he had a lot of healing to do.

A bold seagull stepped forward and pecked at Phillip’s shoelace. Phillip waggled his foot and the gull fluttered its wings in a show of sassiness and then took flight, sailing out over the boats in a graceful swoop.

I said, “How do you like living with Ghost?”

The corners of his mouth twitched in something close to a smile. “He’s funny. He curls up in Greg’s violin case while he practices. I never was around a cat before, but I think I’ll actually miss him when I leave.”

“Did you get things squared away with Juilliard?”

“They said I could enroll next year.”

“That’s good. You’ll be completely healed by then.”

“Yeah.”

We both heard the lie in our voices and fell silent. Plastic surgeons were going to try to smooth the deep groove in his forehead, but he would always bear the emotional scars of his parents’ actions.

Do any of us ever escape those scars?