Frame of Mind

It was the calico cat that started it all on a Saturday morning.

Not even his cat, though he had let her inside a few times since moving to Old Town.

Ambrose had stripped the king-sized bed first thing, taken everything to the laundry room, then brought fresh lavender-colored sheets and pillowcases. He had stretched the last corner of the fitted bottom sheet over the mattress corner when he noticed the calico cat staring in through the bedroom window.

Taking the cat to be scanned for a micro-chip was on his to-do list as none of the neighbours seemed to know whose cat it was. He had kept the cat carrier and other equipment from his previous cat, so it wouldn’t be too difficult.

Losing the petite black cat to a hit-and-run driver a few hours after his fiancée threw her engagement ring at him had literally been the worst day of his life. Of course, when he eventually got hold of Julia by phoning her parents’ house, she blamed him for the tragedy.

The calico didn’t have a collar and might need medical attention, though there wasn’t anything obvious wrong. He knew that cats, being predators, were experts at concealing pain.

Today might be the day.

He would have let her straight in by opening the window, but didn’t want her getting involved in making the bed. Le Petit Miaou once hid herself so well due to being fascinated with the process that both Julia thought she had gone out and not returned in the evening as usual, causing a huge argument before they discovered her under the covers when they finally went to bed that night.

He closed the door to make sure the calico didn’t make a beeline for his bedroom.

On his way to the kitchen, he noticed again the empty hooks festooning on the walls. He must unpack the boxes of photos this weekend, make this house more like a home. At this point, he would struggle to make a list of most of them because they’d been in the boxes so long. His punishing work schedule kept him from getting round to the task. His own fault, though, for accepting that promotion.

He suspected that part of the delay was because he didn’t want to see that one portrait photo of his fiancée. His excuse for keeping the photograph was that they were only friends back when he did that free photo shoot for her, had not had their first date yet. Of course, in the absence of the photo, the memories came to him all the time anyway because he missed her so much and sometimes tried to figure out what had gone wrong with their relationship.

He opened the back door and whistled the call of a bob white, which he had used for previous cats. This could be heard from farther away, plus had the advantage of not annoying any neighbors.

The calico had soon figured out that the bird call meant food. She came running, so she must be hungry. Normally, he had to leave the door open for her to sashay in when she made up her mind.

Ambrose emptied the stainless-steel water bowl into the sink, rinsed it out, put down fresh water, then poured cat biscuits into the other bowl. He placed three treats on top as an apology that it was only dry food. He had forgotten to buy more wet food, partly because he wasn’t sure whether she had another or maybe several other people who thought she was all theirs.

He watched her eat, pleased to be a provider, though only for a cat who might not end up being his. He admired her markings and reminded himself that taking some photos of the calico was also on his to-do list, but that would be better in the backyard sometime with a more natural backdrop.

He hadn’t touched his camera equipment since moving in and felt guilty. His mother used to tell him all the time that he must continue using his gift whether or not he managed to make it his main job. He missed it, though obviously not enough to take his camera for a walk around Old Town which was full of photo opportunities.

He looked at the coffee machine, but he’d already had his morning java earlier, so he resolutely poured himself some orange juice. New house, new start, though he fuelled himself with coffee in the office during the week. He didn’t need to be as caffeinated for his weekends.

Ambrose hadn’t resumed jogging yet, but one thing at a time. He wanted to get his health back, definitely, though that was going to be a harder journey with nobody to encourage him, tease him, and jog alongside him. He shouldn’t have let himself turn into a couch potato at his age, but at least he had made a start by using his weight training equipment daily which fit nicely into the smallest spare bedroom. He hadn’t decided whether to wallpaper that room or simply paint over the pink.

Maybe he should get a dog. He could imagine jogging with a dog. But then he had been a cat person all of his life. Getting a dog might be too much of a learning curve when he was having to expand his mental horizons at work. Besides, the dog would be miserable when he was away at work. Also, would he get the hang of dog psychology which must be quite different from cats?

He finished drinking the orange juice, rinsed the glass and put it to one side of the toaster against the wall for breakfast later. He hadn’t seen this cat jump up on the counter but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t when his back was turned.

He looked down as he opened the bedroom door to make sure the calico wasn’t launching a ninja strike to get in there before him. So, it wasn’t until he entered the room that he saw the woman lying on the lavender fitted sheet.

She was fully dressed apart from shoes. He didn’t recognise her. He probably wasn’t dreaming since she had clothes on. Not that he usually had that kind of dream since his teenage years.

He belatedly remembered to close the bedroom door and looked around the room to check that the cat hadn’t gotten in while he’d been distracted. No sign of the calico, but when he looked back at the bed, the woman was gone. He tried to convince himself that his mind was playing tricks, but his full body shiver told him this was something else entirely.

It was happening again.

#

Ambrose supposed it wasn’t entirely a bad thing to be out jogging this early on a Saturday morning. He had gotten into the bad habit of sleeping late on weekends due to living alone. This was definitely an improvement, although what motivated him to get out of the house was not good.

By the time he had dug out and dragged on an old Beach Boys t-shirt, some grey jogging bottoms and his running shoes, the calico had established herself in the angular but comfortable blue chair in the living room.

Perfect position to be scooped up and stuffed into the cat carrier, but he didn’t feel that was so urgent any more. He doubted, to be honest, whether he could deal appropriately with the vet’s receptionist, much less talk coherently to a vet about a cat whose name he didn’t know. If it was the vet in Pacific Beach, it might’ve been okay, but not a new vet.

He hadn’t disturbed the calico as he wasn’t that bothered if it happened to scratch on the furniture while he was out jogging. He had a live and let live attitude with the cats he’d shared space with over the years. Maybe he should have stuck to felines and not invited Julia into his life.

He pushed himself but allowed intervals of brisk walking, too, what with being out of shape. His first goal was to run all the way up to Mission San Diego de Alcala without needing to slow down, but this ambition would take a while to achieve. Today, though, he chose Heritage Park where he could scope out the historical houses with photography in mind.

He tried to focus the whole way on his breathing, the steady impact of the soles of his running shoes on the sidewalk, and the sights and sounds around him.

When he reached the pastel cluster of houses, he stretched since he was feeling it in his legs.

“Amby, what are you doing in Old Town?”

Only one person called him that. He’d always preferred Ambrose, but Mandy had never taken that on board. He didn’t interrupt his stretch, partly to give himself time to decide what to reply.

When he turned toward her, he saw that his high school sweetheart was much as he remembered her, though a decade older like he was. Slim, easy on the eyes, looking surprisingly good in her jogging gear. Her smile seemed to say she’d forgotten their past history.

He gave her a less enthusiastic smile and said, “Moved here recently from Pacific Beach. I needed a change after breaking up with my fiancée.” He didn’t go into detail that he’d stopped jogging on the beach and become a couch potato because the ocean front, like everywhere else in P.B., reminded him of Julia.

 Mandy made a sad face. “That’s a shame, but you know what they say, if one door closes, another opens.” She began doing her own stretches as he recalled how fond she was of cliches.

“Yeah, that’s what they say.” Had she forgotten that she was the first to break his heart?

Well, there had been that girl with braces and braids in fourth grade whom he had a crush on. In those early days, reading about King Arthur’s knights and the chivalry of Charlemagne had inspired him. Sir Walter Scott had a lot to answer for, in his opinion, considering the influence of Ivanhoe.

He’d needed a lady to devote himself to, without understanding all that entailed. Maybe he never would understand the finer points. That could be why Julia gave up on him in the midst of deciding how many people to invite to their wedding.

Ambrose finally disentangled himself from the conversation with Mandy which had dredged up high school memories as well as informing him that she was hoping to be walking up the aisle soon herself. Maybe it was best to stick with cats although they, too, were not known for being loyal. Possibly his idea of getting a dog instead was not as farfetched as he initially thought. This depended on whether or not the calico belonged to anyone.

As he began walking around Heritage Park, he tried to think like a photographer. Without his Olympus camera in his hands, this took more effort than he liked to admit. He refused to try and remember when exactly he had last taken a roll of 36 to Dean’s Photo to be developed.

#

Saturday afternoon turned into more of a rabbit hole than Ambrose was expecting.

He jogged back to the house and unlocked the kitchen door. He tended to go in that way in case he picked up anything yucky on his running shoes. Lesson learned in childhood, but this one continued to make sense.

As he opened the door, the calico streaked out into the garden, so that put paid to the idea of taking her to detect a possible microchip. He had decided to do it, of course, during his jog. Maybe the cat picked up on the vibes. He wouldn’t be surprised.

When he walked into the kitchen, the woman who had been lying fully clothed on his bed was standing at the counter and making gestures as if pouring liquid into an invisible glass with empty hands.

Ambrose felt sick to his stomach as he removed his running shoes and put them near the door. He circled the kitchen table to avoid approaching her and ducked into the living room.

When he sat down in the blue angular chair, he focused on the sunrise mural that covered one wall of the living room. He tried to relax the tension out of his body, taking slow, deep breaths which were helpful to ease a panic attack.

This was only a hallucination. But he had hoped this would never happen again. The psychiatrist that he consulted after the breakup suggested, once other possibilities were ruled out, that the hallucinations were his rather unique way of responding to stress.

Basically, she explained to him that he wasn’t seeing a ghost after the breakup because such things existed. He was continually imagining a ghost because his mind couldn’t handle being alone again after so very nearly achieving the more permanent societally approved commitment of marriage.

Ambrose apparently understood reality well enough to not recreate the circumstances of his fiancée still living with him, but admittedly, the young woman his stressed brain kept creating to keep him company was someone that, given the chance, he actually would have chosen to date.

Given the continual frustration caused by her appearing and disappearing plus his failed attempts to interact with the ghost, the psychiatrist ultimately suggested he move house and see whether this improved his mental orientation since it would also address his ongoing depression. This strategy had, initially, proven successful, so he had stopped going to therapy.

Maybe he’d made a mistake accepting that promotion. He’d not been sure about it, but then figured if he turned it down, he might not be offered another. And it wasn’t as if the extra responsibilities would have any impact on a relationship that had already ceased to exist.

Besides, he liked the challenge. Much better than doing the same old job. Of course, this didn’t tangentially involve photography. On the other hand, if he took some professional photography job, he might get jaded or ruin his skills chasing what the employer wanted rather than following his own artistic ideas.

#

Determined to carry on regardless, a phrase he learned from a British colleague and adopted to counter his lifelong habit of procrastination, after unpacking his books onto the top three bookshelves and arranging his LPs along the bottom shelf, Ambrose treated himself to lunch at Mi Casa es Su Casa.

The family run café was so popular that waiting was almost always required, but he liked to people watch, so he passed the time embracing the normality of that. Each man, woman and child that he watched was real, so not one of them would vanish into thin air like the unexpected inhabitant of his new house.

He frowned, reminding himself that the ghost was only a figment of his overactive imagination probably brought on by the stress of his new job. Moving house had been stressful also, considering the amount of effort obtaining another mortgage and Julia’s insistence that the television they bought together was rightfully hers without any need for her to pay her share. He never liked unfairness but had yielded just to end the conflict.

Ambrose observed with interest a rider on a palomino stallion. The wide brimmed hat along with the holstered gun had to mean the actor was playing the part of a sheriff back when Old Town was the thriving heart of San Diego.

He needed to get more information about when the historical reenactments took place, so he could turn up to photograph them. He planned to ask the actors and actresses to linger after the performance to lessen the risk of accidentally getting tourists in the shot. As Old Town was a heavily touristed area, there would be no shortage of opportunities. He would keep some cash on him to pay them in case that would help persuade them.

The rider tipped his hat so Ambrose nodded to him, hoping they would meet again. The glossy sheen of the horse was definitely worth using up some 35mm film, but when paired with this actor who fit the role so well, must be photographed.

Also, he felt the oddest yearning that if only he could travel back in time, he would like to join this sheriff’s posse and help hunt down all the bad guys. Quite a different proposition from the tameness and safety he took for granted in the twentieth century.

Ambrose resolved to explore the history of Old Town. This would help him shape his photography rather than taking random pics like an uninformed tourist would do.

He vaguely remembered how the Spanish established their chain of missions before California ended up as an American state, so he would have to see if he could get a book from the library. Or maybe that little bookshop he’d noticed on the main drag would be better, then he could keep it for reference purposes.

As he watched horse and rider progress, the tourists parting to let them pass, he felt this chance encounter provided a good incentive to get back into photography. He would set his alarm tonight so he could head back to Heritage Park with his Olympus SLR first thing before the tourists arrived on the scene.

Immersing himself in what he did best might well ease his stress and restore him to a normal frame of mind. All being well, he would then not need to consult a psychiatrist to rid him of the recurring habit of seeing ghosts which, of course, didn’t exist except to uneducated people who believed in paranormal phenomena. Returning to the same practitioner would smack of failure and starting fresh with a different one felt like too much hard work.