Leonard (My Life as a Cat) by Carlie Sorosiak (best memoirs of all time .txt) 📗

the sandwiches, lifting the bread. “You don’t want to put anything else on them? No mustard? No pickles? We’ve got some lunch meat in the fridge.”

“Just cheese,” Olive said, packing the sandwiches in a wicker basket. Stanley decided at the last moment to join us in the truck—because there was food involved, and he was quite a fan of food.

The four of us drove with the windows down, the sun simmering low in the sky, the scent of salt tickling our noses: no matter where you were in Turtle Beach, you were never far from the ocean. Olive stuck one of her hands out the window, letting it swoosh in the breeze. From the back seat, I watched her—and something in me said, I’ve known you forever. Not just an earthly forever, but a deep sort of always, like I’d met her before even saying hello. There is an expression on this planet, that someone is an old soul. That they are wise beyond their years. I can tell you, without hesitation: this describes Olive perfectly. She may be only eleven, but her soul has lived and lived.

“Almost there,” she said, as Norma turned down a rocky path, the water gleaming in the distance.

The whole thing was different from how I’d imagined. We did not spend the afternoon folding cloth napkins into elegant swans. There were no polished silver spoons, no glazed hams glinting under the light of a chandelier. But there was Q in a Hawaiian shirt, waiting for us by a sand dune, a six-pack of root beer in his hand.

“No party is complete without root beer,” he said very seriously, then smiled.

Olive unfurled a picnic blanket on the ground and unpacked the sandwiches. “Thanks for coming.”

“What, are you kidding me?” Q said, bending down to scratch my head. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Not every day that you get to dine with the king of cats.”

Norma snorted—but in a nice way, like Stanley laughing through the sprinkler.

We ate from paper plates. We spoke about the aquarium and the penguins. We watched the tide roll out, sloshing in waves. Nothing about it was fancy. I’m embarrassed to say that I didn’t even like the cheese sandwiches. The bread stuck to the roof of my mouth; the cheese soured on my tongue. And halfway through the meal, my belly gently rumbled. I thought maybe my food was digesting improperly—that I was lactose intolerant after all—but then it began to travel: up, up, up through my throat. It burned slightly. I started to retch.

“It’s okay,” Olive said, concern in her voice. “It’s probably just a hair ball.”

Just a hair ball! I smarted at the word.

I won’t go into any further details, because it really was too terrible to describe; let’s say that I don’t wish the experience on anyone. It itches. It burns. But afterward, the five of us dipped our toes into the sea. Olive rolled up her overalls and splashed in the water with Stanley, who shook his furry mass, droplets flying everywhere.

As for Q, he kept studying me, watching me with careful eyes. Eventually, his feet kicked through the sand, and he came to stand by my side. “You know,” he said, “Olive told me that this dinner was for you. When you find someone who loves you like that, Leonard, you never let them go.”

But I would have to let go—and soon.

I had four days left on Earth.

After the picnic, we strolled along the boardwalk. It was early evening, the last bits of light dappling the sea. Stanley was particularly interested in the cotton candy stands, in the humans fishing off the pier.

Q and Norma trailed in front of us, chatting like old friends do—and when they were out of earshot, Olive pulled me quietly to the side, bending down on the boardwalk. She said she had something to tell me. “I’ve figured it out,” she whispered, eyes glistening. “How we will get to Yellowstone. There’s a train station just outside of Turtle Beach, and if we make the right connections, we can go all the way to Salt Lake City, Utah. I called, pretended to be Norma, and reserved a ticket as an ‘unaccompanied minor.’ Then we take a shuttle to Yellowstone. We leave in two days.”

I was speechless. Olive was willing to put herself on the line—for me. She was bringing me to back to the hive: helping me to safety, to home; and for that, I owed her everything. It took a few seconds before I could pull myself together—emotion was flooding my chest—but I managed to purr, nudging my face against hers. Thank you, the gesture said. Thank you for the plan.

“Welcome,” she said, understanding me perfectly.

The next hour came and went, the cheese settling in my stomach. Q purchased one of those pirate hats with the faux parrot on the side, and challenged Olive to a swordfight; they dashed along the sand, clutching dried stems of beach grass. Stanley continued his seagull hunt, stalking them on the shore. And Norma—Norma excused herself to take a phone call. I watched her with curiosity as she paced through the surf, her free hand carving the air.

It was a long phone call.

So long that Olive stopped beach-grass fighting, her silhouette illuminated in the dying light. “Who do you think she’s talking to?” Olive asked Q.

Q appeared slightly worried, an expression I wasn’t used to seeing on his face. His jaw tensed as he said, “Dunno.”

We found out quickly enough.

Norma ended the call and stood there for a long moment at the edge of the shore, foam collapsing around her ankles. My first night on Earth, I was blown away by the sturdiness of her. Now, against the backdrop of the ocean, I couldn’t imagine anything smaller. I could see Olive in her, in the lines of her face, the nimble stretch of her fingers. Finally, she trudged over to us—Q, Olive, Stanley, and me, waiting by an