the guardian (5)

Christine was pounding away at her mother’s old piano. Marshmallow was dozing in a patch of sunlight from the open window, looking as if he was hearing Chopin or Mozart. Laura came out of the study, a pencil stuck in her coiled hair, her eyes squinted against the bright afternoon light.

“For God’s sake, can’t you shut that racket up? I’m trying to work in here!”
Christine recoiled. She stopped playing and put her hands in her lap. She sat there, not moving, not looking at Laura.

“It’s not music, Christine,” Laura continued. “It’s noise. Noise. Honestly, one would think your mother taught you something useful.”

Christine looked at her clenched hands, and a small flare of anger—no, of hatred—blossomed in her chest. That hateful tone. That hateful voice. That hateful woman.

Mom, her heart cried out. Mommy!

Marshmallow, half-lidded and drowsy, suddenly shot to his feet. A strangled little meow! came out of his mouth and his fur stood on end.

Laura, about to go back to the study, stopped in mid-turn and gaped at the cat.
“What in hell has happened to that stupid cat?”
In spite of herself, Christine began to giggle. “He sees his pet dinosaur. It’s invisible.” And she giggled again.

Now Laura looked quite cross. “Nonsense. You have cotton for a brain.”

“No,” said Christine, serious now. “Sometimes he looks at nothing and rumbles for hours, like a motorboat. Daddy says he looks like he’s in love when he does that. Marshmallow sees things we don’t see.”

“You would want to stop it, kid,” said Laura. “That’s a lot of bullshit. I might be in a hitting mood today.” She walked over to where Marshmallow crouched. The cat’s muscles were taut, trembling. It stared at her with a fierce intensity that Laura did not like one bit.

Laura kicked the cat. It was hard enough to send him tumbling, sprawling across the living room. He landed near Christine’s feet, looking comically surprised.

Seemingly in one motion, Christine was up and in front of Laura. “You don’t kick Marshmallow! You are mean! My mother would not do anything like that to a cat!” she screamed.

Laura stepped back, and a flicker of unease crossed her face. Then it took on a calculating look. A hating, hurting look.

“Your mother," Laura said, "I’m sick of hearing about your good, kind mother. If she was so bright, then maybe she wouldn’t have been run over by a truck in the middle of the morning, would she? And I wouldn’t be your father’s wife. Which brings me to the point. You watch your mouth. Your mother is dead, and I run the house now.”

Christine felt something bitter come up her throat, seemed to see Laura through a film of red. Her face was flushed and her fists were clenched so tight the knuckles were white.

“You can never be my mother,” she said. “You might be Daddy’s wife, but you can never be what she is. You can never take my Mommy’s place, even in this house.”

For a moment, Laura was totally, unexplainably afraid. Then, pale and shaking, she hit Christine openhanded across the face.

The child fell, stunned. Her hands groped and found Marshmallow, tugged at him, held him close. Laura’s fingers were imprinted on her cheek. The tears were not coming yet.

The cat stared at Laura, its green eyes momentarily flashing fire.