One Mo Reason

ONE MO REASON

There are ten reasons why I can’t stay here anymore and only one reason I won’t leave. But if Mo-short-for-Morris left me behind like you did, there would be no point in staying, so I’m afraid to let him out, scooping him from underfoot as I shut the door behind me. 

Reason Ten arrives with today’s junkmail. I stopped counting them when the pile turned into a mountain, burning them as my sole source of heat in this place. It’s only a matter of time until they come after me, trying to squeeze water from a stone. They are all still addressed to you, “Past due”, “Urgent”, and “Last Notice” screaming red across white envelopes.

I wouldn’t blame Mo if he ran away, probably be better off fending for himself rather than waiting for me to scrape together enough change to get him a can of food. And even if I had the cash, I can’t remember what kind of food you bought that Mo would actually eat. “He’s gone, Mo. Zeb isn’t coming home. No sense going to look for him either.” Mo is looking at me sideways, his chin ducking down as though in deference to the dead.

Number Nine is sitting on the mantelpiece, not quite making eye contact with me. The photo was taken the summer before we met, before there was a “we”. That sideways smile is the part of my brother, Aaron, I’m proudest to share; it’s gotten me out of more jams than I’m worth. But it’s no good to me now, and Aaron won’t be smiling anytime soon; besides, anyone who knew him before the accident, also knows I only borrowed that grin to prove we were related. 

I shuffle over to the fridge, knowing it will be just as empty as it was last night. The container of salad dressing (the one you insisted was like the restaurant’s) rattles on the door shelf next to the dried out bottle of mustard. “Not even a slice of processed cheese to give you, my faithful friend.” Can’t remember the last time I ate a full meal, been making a buffet out of the wasabi containers and ketchup packets from some take-out I must have ordered in my previous life. 

The Eighth One won’t stop calling me, stuffing my voicemail with lopsided conversation. “You can’t hide forever, Abigail. You know Zeb wouldn’t want it this way. Please come for dinner, so you can at least see your brother. Aaron can still hear, you know. He blinks when we say your name.” Parents are supposed to support you, but my mother’s cheerleading makes me feel like I’m drowning while pretending I know how to swim. 

Your cat won’t respond unless food is involved, or a good ear scratch. I hold out the last lick of peanut butter from the end of a knife to lure him out of the kitchen. I still think of him as a kitten, because it reminds me of when you were around full time and we had our future mapped out like a road trip. Now it looks like I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. The U-Turn I took after my last visit to the hospital is leading me down a path I never thought I’d take, and I have no one to light the way except this furball who remains devoted to me in spite of my neglect. I have run out of love to give, so Mo is taking up the slack.

Unlucky Seven hangs in the otherwise empty closet. The sliding door fell off its tracks when I whipped a can of beans at it a few weeks ago, unable to look at the white gown without gagging. The can opener had broken and the beans were the only thing left to eat. The tin split against the frame, smearing the white fabric with a russet brown stain. If only some beans had escaped, at least Mo would have had a small snack. Now the dress is more like a ruined costume than the promise of a day that will never happen. “I’ll wear blue,” you assured me, to ease my foolish superstition, but it turns out blue is all I know how to wear now.

Mo is winding his way between my legs, his hunger dance becoming more frenzied. I can feel his purr like a breeze through my unshaven leg hair, and I want to tear out a chunk of my own flesh just so I can feed him. Would likely be the most he’s eaten in a week. “Have some water,” I offer, spilling most of the pitcher onto the dirty mat underneath the plastic bowl. “That’s what I do to trick my insides.”

Six is a secret I never told you, or else you knew not to ask. I can still feel the warmth of your hand on my belly; perhaps you suspected, but it was too soon to know for certain. When the lights went out in your eyes, I missed my chance to beg your forgiveness, and it was too late to ask if I could use your middle name. Then suddenly, I was empty, and it no longer mattered.

Mo curls into the crook of my arm as I scratch the sweet spot behind his left ear. He must know that snow is on its way, like a fuzzy barometer of impending weather conditions. The weight of his small frame is a temporary replacement for what I lost. I carry him out to my balcony, his soft fur rippling in the wind snatching at my face.

The Fifth One taunts me each time I open the decrepit laptop by my bedside. I cannot bring myself to delete it, nor am I able to continue. My unsent grant proposal is going nowhere just like me, and will likely turn into cobwebs spun in the dusty rafters of my memory. I find my loophole: If I don’t send in the proposal, it will never be turned down.

Mo hops onto the couch, nosing his way across the cushion, kneading the pillow, his ragged claws digging into the worn fabric. I rub my face into his tickling whiskers; erasing images drawn by my mind’s eye, muffling unspoken words still hanging midair, muting the voices all clamouring to be heard. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. 

The Fourth Reason hasn’t returned my call since I was discharged. I avoided Zara at the funeral, so technically, it’s her turn to pretend we can return to normal. There is nothing to say to someone who once finished your sentences, who knew how you felt before you did, who stuck around even when you told them to leave. Now Zara has jumped ship before I can put on a life jacket. My almost sister-in-law remains a ghost on my friend list.

Mo is picking his way around the clutter on the coffee table, pointy paws carefully placed between corks, cans, and caps. Calories drunk do not count as sustenance, but rather as reminders that it’s too much trouble to make real food. The weight gain is an added insult. 

Number Three is buried deep in the ground. I haven’t touched clay since I lost the feeling in my thumbs, and the leftover argil hardens in crumbled lumps. “Find the form, it’s hidden inside,” I used to assure you while coaxing your hesitant fingers through the clay. Returning earth to earth comes full circle after burying you, along with dreams left vacant and wanting.

Mo leaps onto the pottery wheel and sits in a perfect, furry circle of acceptance, still and silent. I crawl over and press my fingertips against the pedal, careful not to push too hard for fear of spinning him off the plate. He rotates once, twice, three times, before leaving the cool surface and landing on the carpet. Sometimes, I still feel the clay between my phantom vestiges, melted into the webbing in wet splotches of ochred grey.

The Penultimate sits silently in the night table on my side of the bed. The single sheet of paper declares the college’s intention of renewing my contract, but the thought of facing a studio full of eager art majors, ready to tackle the mould, to bring on the muse, makes my ears ring in echoes. I have no space left for their optimism.

Mo remains perched beside the wheel, twitching his tail and blinking in the lamplight. He knows I can’t resist the tug of the bowl, the call of the clay, indefinitely. I glance at the clock as I hear my phone buzz. Who needs an alarm when you have a mother? I pick it up to answer and I don’t know who is more shocked to hear my voice, my mom - or my cat. “I’ll call you later,” I promise, before hanging it up and placing it in my housecoat pocket.

The Last Reason I can no longer be here crawls under my skin every night, insistently relentless. But today I invite it to sit with me in your favourite, our only, chair, and share my lap with Mo. It makes promises it cannot keep, then laughs in my face like a bully with no bite. It senses there is a shift, a letting go, a letting in. Mo moves over, making room for the new tenant.

I collect my regrets like fallen leaves, dead and rotting, taking stock of their breadth and depth, the weight of their scope. A is where I began, Z is where you end. Now, I am searching for a reason to begin on my own again. And when I find it, Mo will be there, too. Making something from nothing is the only thing I know how to do. Now I must learn to be something with nothing.