“L-litter box visits?” Blair asks, her brow creasing.
“No. It’s the time the cat spends checking out email or Instagram on the phone while in the litter box.”
“I had no idea.” She sounds as if I’ve just dazzled her by pulling a rabbit out of a top hat.
“Yes,” I say, nodding as I pet the soft, silky Cecily, who purrs with each stroke. “Do you think that might be preventing her from nodding back off? The blue light of screens wakes up the feline brain.”
“The blue light of screens,” Blair says, like I’ve handed her the answer to all her problems. Twofer indeed. Though Google would have told her the same thing. Maybe I should charge extra for the advice sessions.
“There you go. Maybe you . . . I mean, Cecily,” I say dryly, finally meeting Blair’s eyes and giving her the I see what you did there look, “should stop peering at her phone in the middle of the night.”
A contrite grimace twists her face, and she dips her head, hand on her chest. “Sorry, it was me. I’m having trouble sleeping, and I do check my Insta at night.”
“Yes, I was able to put two and two together. But if the troubles persist, you should see your doctor. One who has an MD. Especially if you’re going to need to take something to aid your sleep. But hopefully some good, old-fashioned unplugging will do the trick. I’m sure all those pokes and finger tags will still be there in the morning.”
“Finger tags?” Her brow knits.
“Finger taps?” Social media is right up there with broccoli for me.
“Just tags, Dr. Harris. They’re just called tags.”
“And the tags will still be there in the morning,” I revise.
“Of course.” She picks up her cat and deposits her in her carrier. “And I’ll miss you, Dr. Harris. Good luck with your move.”
“Thank you. And I’ll miss Cecily. She’s a sweet cat.” I show Blair to the door, saying goodbye to my last appointment after more than ten years of taking care of the pampered pets of New York City.
With my hand on the doorknob, a sense of melancholy settles in, but it’s mixed with opportunity too.
I’m taking off tomorrow, packing up and heading home. Though leaving hasn’t been entirely by choice, I’m determined to make the best of the change.
It’s all I can do.
Besides, no matter how annoying it is to relocate, surely moving can’t be as bad as eating broccoli.
Or checking a finger tag in the middle of the night.
I shudder.
Nothing is that bad.
But saying goodbye isn’t easy either, even for an optimist.
The next morning, I head up the stairs in my Murray Hill apartment building, contemplating the things that make moving hard. It’s not the lifting (I hired movers), nor is it the boxing and sorting of stuff (I hate clutter, so there’s not much to sort).
It’s the changing of stuff, and the way packing up clothes, books, and plates makes you think about what you want in life.
What’s worth giving in on.
What’s worth giving up.
What you truly need for the next year—the next decade, even.
This minute, though, I need to do one last check of my apartment before I hand over the keys to the next owner.
I slide mine into the lock and step inside.
An ache slams into my chest as I look around at the empty space.
There’s a particular feeling that comes from standing in the skeleton of the home you lived in for a decade.
It’s awareness that a part of your life is ending. That you’re letting go of something, perhaps a piece of yourself. That awareness burrows deep into my psyche and digs far into my gut too—the sense that not only a chapter but a whole book is ending. I have no idea what the opening scene in the next story will reveal, or if it’ll be something I want to read.
But it’s not optional.
It’s the required text for the next phase of my life.
Parking my hands on my hips, I draw a deep lungful of air, surveying the hardwood floors, the bare white walls, the cupboards. My eyes sweep over the space that now contains . . . nothing.
Nothing at all.
No furniture. No art. No bookshelves.
But I can so clearly see what was here a few days ago before the movers packed up everything.
The black leather couch that’s on its way across the country.
It’ll look smashing in my new bungalow in Duck Falls.
Or . . . will it?
Hmm. Now that I think about it, maybe I should have let go of that couch. It’s not best suited to my life these days. The leather and steel that’s perfect for a man cave doesn’t exactly work with a kid who wants to cuddle up on a comfy sofa and watch cartoons for the gazillionth time.
I picture the glass coffee table that sits on simple chrome legs, now also whooshing its way west.
