Best Friends

Layla sat at the back screen door looking in. We'd been through the ritual of sliding the door open, closed, and open again, all the while her green eyes on me - a silent exchange. "Come sit outside," those eyes said, "Let's sit on the grass together. You can pat me and call me pretty girl."

"I'm sitting inside," I say, "Are you in or out?"

She settles on the mat and I slide the door closed once again. Her wide eyes stay on me, then narrow with consent as I sit back down at the table not more than six feet from her and in plain sight through the screen. I grip the handle of my mug and grin as the logo faces me "World's Greatest 50 Year Old". I take a long sip. It's cooler than I would like so I follow it with two more finishing the milky brew. Never thought I would get a coffee machine as I view latte's and cappuccinos as a treat whilst out, but my niece, bless her, had recently acquired a stainless steel monstrosity and gifted me a no longer required pod machine. Let's just say I am now a home brew convert and leave it at that.

Rising I take the cup, a gift from my big sister, to the sink for a wash. Eyes on my movements, Layla meows her now discontent at sitting outside the screen. She stands in anticipation of yet another successful manipulation of me and inside my head I picture Ben shaking his head and tutting, "You're not very bright are you kitty?" My thoughts brighten and a grin spreads across my face as I imagine Matt's voice counter, "Yes, but what she lacks in brains she makes up for in flexibility!" He'd say fondly as she went about the business of cleaning house.

Cup rinsed, I go to the door and slide it open. She hops lightly inside with a "Brrrrrrp" of thanks and trots across the white tiled floor, through the open passage door and around the bookshelf to her downstairs throne room, situated opposite the toilet door. So well house-trained that she comes inside to pee!

"Are you digging to China?" I call to the extensive amount of scraping I hear coming from the tray as I settle back down into my seat at the table. Next to me my mobile phone vibrates and screeches an obnoxious tune, "Don't wanna be an American idiot!" I pop the catch and flip open the black leather cover, exposing the screen. Mary, in white letters hovers above a green phone and a red phone. I don't answer. Billie Joe's voice stops abruptly and the silence returns. I wait for the tone from the voice message I know she will leave - its shrill sound makes me jump anyway and I realise I've been holding my breath.

Consciously breathing deep draughts of air in, and out, I feel the tension in my shoulders and the pounding of my heart in my throat. My mouth is dry and I can feel the blood moving through my veins, and my head loses its grip on the tornado inside it.

I count five things I can see, the window, the chair, the pattern on the table cloth, the metal heart with the bells hanging from it on the hook above the window, the door mat. I listen for five sounds after which I will move to five smells, engaging the senses to steer my head away from the grip of anxiety - just like Jill has taught me in our sessions. But the voice begins,

"Why are you calling? What do you want? Leave me alone! Go away! I don't want to talk! I can't. No! Mind your own business! Leave me alone! Stay away!" Head pounding, body tense. I'm holding my breath again.

In the quiet I look up and discover it's dark. What time is it? How long have I sat here? Again? Rising from the hard wooden chair my hips complain with a dull ache and slow my steps. My knee threatens to give way on the third step and I stop to flex it, hanging on to the kitchen bench for balance and clinging to the pain to remind me I'm alive. I make my way to the light switch and chase the darkness from the room. Squinting, I cross the room to close the blinds and lock the back door and Layla appears at my feet to lead me to her bowls, reminding me she needs to eat.

"Sorry mate," I say and scratch behind her ears and stroke her back. A flurry of fur follows my hand and floats to the floor. "Forgot myself again. Can't forget you, hey!" I top up her biscuits and pour some lactose-free milk. From under the sink I grab a sachet and tear off the top. They always seem to open so much easier on the ads. She takes a sniff as I load her dish but continues nibbling away at her biscuits. She is a grazer and I know this wet food will be mostly gone by morning. The milk is optional - it will be either consumed or left to solidify and collect tiny bugs. It washes out easily enough and I know she prefers water straight from the tap. She has claimed the bath tap as her own and I leave a plastic jug on the side of the bath filled for her when I am not on hand to operate the tap. The level in the jug lets me know if she has been drinking or not.

A fond memory of Floyd from long ago surfaces. He would perch on the toilet seat and pee right into the bowl, no mess, no fuss, just as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him. Layla on the other hand, will announce her use of a litter tray and await my inspection knowing full well I will tidy up after her. But after a poo she gives a victory dash through the house in what I imagine is some kind of feline celebration of liberation.

I rinse the traces of her food from my hand under the kitchen tap and as I dry my hands on the small towel hanging from the fridge, I catch myself reflected in the mirror that hangs on the wall at the end of the kitchen. The family wall. It's an old roughly made lead-light frame of pink and blue topped with a big yellow flower and has hung in many homes, and holds many memories - a most nostalgic piece. It is surrounded by pictures of my boys and me. Moments, memories framed. We've all danced in this mirror as it silently reflected our lives back at us - joys, sorrows, triumphs and pain; without judgement. Look into it long enough and your soul looks back.

At my feet Layla daintily washes her face with a paw, reeking of satisfaction. "I'm going to bed Moo," I say. She looks at me patiently, squints her eyes as if in consent then promptly flops to one side cocking one rear leg in the air, and continues the business of cleaning. "Flexible alright," I mutter as I turn on the stair lights and return to turn off the kitchen light.

Outside the wind has picked up. I hear it whistle through the eaves, testing the roof iron and howling its strength at the fence. Indiscriminate in its ferocity it can curl a welcome breeze through the afternoon heat bringing sweet relief, or dance with destruction across homes and gardens, blowing birds haphazardly across the sky and flinging boats tight against their moorings. Coastal winds, blessing or beast. Tonight by the sound was building to the latter.

The flashing light on my phone caught my eye from the table. I left it there as I turned off the light and headed up the stairs without bothering to listen to the message. Mary is my friend that lives on the other side of the country. We had worked in the same industry for a time and remained friends. I think she can talk under water, but she is a good friend. I can't talk to her, not now. It's not just her, I can't talk to anyone and I have come to hate the phone. I'm not sure why I leave it on.

After the accident I had returned to work but it wasn't the same. I struggled and did not know how to cope. Simple tasks became impossible challenges and a sense of dread crept in. It's like my brain just gave up on me. I couldn't learn. Frustration turned to panic and anxiety and slid me into depression. My world of fierce independence disappeared into a blur of numbness, uncertainty and fear. I was sent home from work, examined, questioned and medicated. Life was not life anymore - just a passing of time from moment to moment without awareness except for coming back into focus now and then. My thoughts that stress, anxiety and depression were scapegoats for the weak had not only been tamed but captured and held prisoner by my own bleakness.

Medicated and without bothering to shower, I slipped into the sanctuary of my bed. Ears ringing, thoughts racing, I listened to the angry wind as I lay in the darkness waiting to escape into sleep.

Morning light streamed through the break in the curtains waking me from a fitful sleep filled with disturbing dreams where I'd been hanging from a window on a tall building, waiting for the inevitable fall but finding my arm wedged into the window and Floyd sitting on my hand so I wouldn't fall, his calm eyes reassuring me "You've got this." He turned into Layla, then back into Floyd as the sunlight brought me to. I clucked a too dry tongue and found I was shaped in a U around a sleeping Layla curled comfortably in the middle of the bed snoring softly. With the dream lingering I adjusted myself into a position that resembled comfort and wondered, not for the first time, whether Layla was Floyd re-incarnated. Both had entered my life decades apart but at times when the world seemed very big and I felt small and alone. Bonded by vulnerability our mutual needs keeping each other going. "Floyd would sleep at the foot of the bed at least," I mused and counted the blessings of unconditional love that only a best friend can give.

By Jo Mulraney