amy loves books: Losing Tabitha

When I moved out on my own, I adopted a cat. I decided that I wanted a black cat, because I felt sorry for black cats and the way people considered them symbols of bad luck. At the animal shelter, I picked out a tiny, solid black kitten. I went to the front desk with the cage number and the attendant looked it up in her little card file and told me that I could not have that kitten because it was running a fever and they had already pulled its card to put it to sleep. I begged them to let me have the cat, and they consulted and said that as long as I agreed to take it to the vet before going home, they would let me adopt her.

I drove to the vet with the kitten in my lap, petting her and talking to her. By the time the vet checked her out, the fever was gone and he said that he felt confident that it had been caused by trauma and that she would be just fine. I took her home and named her “Tabitha” - after the little girl that Jesus raised from the dead.

Tabitha was the best cat ever. She would answer when I called her name and I could hold her in my arms and tell her to stretch and she would stretch out her entire body, backwards - trusting me to not let her fall. I adored her. Everyone who came to my house would comment about how amazing she was. She would climb on furniture and as I walked around, she would look for any opportunity to hop onto my shoulder. She curled herself around my neck and purred and slept while I walked around. She was the best pet I have ever had. I loved Tabitha.

In the middle of my sophomore year of college, I had an emotional breakdown. It was brought on, in part, by being dumped by my first really serious boyfriend. There were other reasons too.

It was a very, very, very bad time.

I withdrew from college after being diagnosed as “emotionally unstable” by the college psychiatrist. I later found out, that in order to get this diagnosis (which carried with it the opportunity for a refund of tuition), my case had to be argued before a panel. It was less than comforting to know that a whole group of people had discussed me and agreed that I was completely screwed up. I decided to leave town. Really, I had to leave town. I was going to go to live with my parents for a few months and then transfer to the University of Georgia. My parents had moved to Georgia while I was in college, so it was not like going “home”. It was just a temporary stop. Temporary shelter. I would put distance between myself and the past and search for a place to land.

I was all alone and I packed up everything I owned in my Ford Escort. It was packed so tightly that I could not see anything behind me. I put Tabitha in the car and drove to my parents house, through rural south Georgia with its two lane roads and unincorporated towns. I drove for a long time before I realized that I was not hearing Tabitha. I called to her. No answer.

I pulled the car over to the side of the road and when I got out, I realized that the trunk had popped slightly open. I started to panic. The trunk could be accessed from the car because part of the back seat folded down to make more space. I searched for Tabitha.

She was gone.

I drove back for miles, frantically scanning the side of the road. But I did not find her. I never found her.

I drove until I came upon a pay phone on the side of the road - out in front of a two-pump gas station and I made a collect call to my mother. I was hysterical. I had lost Tabitha. My only link to my old life was gone, disappeared out the back of a trunk that I did not even know was open.

And for the first and last time in my life, my mother cried with me. We just stood there. Me on a dusty red dirt driveway with a pay phone receiver to my ear, and her in her immaculate kitchen in a house that did not have a bedroom for me. We stood, momentarily together, and cried. For everything lost and dead and broken. We cried.