Linda M. Bayley

Listen to Linda read her story:

because he’s always on the wrong side of the patio door. Comes inside when he wants a treat or a sliver of warmth, stays maybe for a belly rub or a quick nap. Gets what he wants then turns right around again to scratch at the patio glass. Half-feral: he doesn’t belong to her, or to anyone.

Back outside, he stops at the bushes to look back at her. She gives him a wave. Like he cares if she says goodbye.

Will any of them care? Her suitcase has been packed for weeks, since Mother’s Day, the day that was supposed to be for her. But the kids left their breakfast dishes in the sink and ran out to meet their friends, with hollered goodbyes thrown over their shoulders. Greg pecked her on the cheek and left to play golf. None of them looked back to see her alone in the centre of the kitchen holding a wet dishrag. Now everything she can’t live without is packed and stowed in the closet of the guest bedroom, behind her wedding dress, behind the rest of the detritus from her past lives, where Greg and the kids won’t find it. They know better than to open that closet. The one spot that’s hers.

The walls of the house press in on her. Schedules, rules, Greg’s drycleaning. The kids’ sports teams. The promised vacation in Cancun Greg keeps postponing.

Some days she takes the suitcase out of the closet just to look at it. Some days she takes it as far as the top of the stairs. Some days, like today, she brings it all the way to the front door, where it waits while she decides which side of the door she wants to be on.

She presses her nose to the patio glass, and watches the tip of Tugger’s tail disappear into the trees, into adventure. Into a world that’s dangerous, new, exciting. Yards, fences, alleyways, trash cans, a feast of sights and smells. Or so she imagines. She should have put a tiny GoPro around his neck so she could have some of that feral freedom for herself, if only until the batteries died.

The freezer is packed with tuna noodle casseroles, and she’s left a stack of fast food flyers on the kitchen table in case the kids decide they don’t like tuna, after all. They’ll be fine if she goes. They’ll all be fine.

She backs away from the glass door, wipes away her noseprint with her sleeve. Tugger circles back into the yard and settles himself beside the bushes, staring at the house.

Come outside, says his swishing tail. Come follow me.

She imagines pulling off her shoes and socks and stepping out the patio door, suitcase be damned. The feel of green grass against the soles of her feet, the heat of the sun on her face. She closes her eyes, hand reaching for the door handle.

Her cellphone rings and she opens her eyes, jerks her hand back. It’ll be Greg calling from the office, or one of the kids sick at school. She pulls the phone from her pants pocket without checking the number, puts it on the kitchen counter, lets it ring.

It rings as Tugger disappears back into the trees, rings as she walks to the front door. Rings as she opens the door and picks up her suitcase.

Maybe it’s important. Maybe she should answer. She looks back over her shoulder, just like Tugger as he was leaving the yard, just like her family never did. And then she hears a meow over the sound of the phone.

Tugger is sitting on her front step. Are you coming? asks his tail.

The phone won’t stop ringing. A good mother would answer it. Or a nice, tame wife. But she’s leaving now. She’s leaving right now.

What Linda said about the prompt:
It’s not inspired by any cat I know in real life, but my own girl Daphne makes sure to supervise my writing as often as she can.

Linda M. Bayley is a writer living on the Canadian Shield. Her work has recently appeared in voidspace zine, Five Minutes, BULL, Short Circuit, FlashFlood Journal, Underbelly Press, Stanchion, Does It Have Pockets, Roi Fainéant, Frazzled Lit, Trash Cat Lit, and Tiny Sparks Everywhere, the National Flash Fiction Day 2024 Anthology. She is a two-time Genrepunk Awards nominee.
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