I don't believe in death.
Neither did my grandmother. 'When our loved ones move away to heaven,' she'd say, 'they'll still come by and visit.' My youth was filled with stories of her experiences with the returning dead: How her mother appeared as a dove on her wedding day; how great-uncle Ernie came by each Christmas in a squirrel's body; how old Father Talbot slept on the church steps as a Beagle until his old body was buried.
My elder sister died in 1979, six years before my birth. I met her for the third time on my tenth birthday: She padded in through the kitchen wall and sprung onto my lap. My grandparents were setting up birthday streamers in the yard. No-one saw her but me.
"Hi, Camille!" I held her to my chest. "Grams told me you were coming." Her whiskers tickled my neck, a smooth rolling purr spilling from her throat. She wriggled out of my grasp and climbed onto my shoulder, draping the length of her ghostly form around my neck. She felt solid, but light. The tip of her orange tail twitched against my nose. I giggled.
'Happy Birthday,' she said. Her voice echoed within the confines of my skull. 'You're a little lady today, aren't you, Ammie! You've hit the big one-oh.' Camille nuzzled my unblemished cheek with the soft fur of her own. I squirmed bashfully at the kitchen table, picking at my plastic bead bracelet.
"Am not." I tapped her pink nose with my fingertip. She sneezed reflexively. "I don't want to be a lady yet." I regarded my skirt and blouse with contemptuous eyes. Camille slipped from my neck and landed in my lap.
'Why not?'
"'Cause then I'll hafta act proper, says Gramps." I turned my gaze towards the kitchen window and surveyed the yard. Grandma was talking to our neighbour, Mrs. Johnston, over the fence. The summer sun shone on their silver hair and the balloons anchored nearby. "Means I can't do all the fun things, like climb trees or play with worms and make slurpy munchy sounds at dinner." I scrunched up my nose. "It don't sound like much fun."
Camille laughed, and her voice rang like wind chimes in my head. 'You're such a little tomboy.'
I reached for the pitcher of orange juice at the centre of the table. My arm was too short, and I barely touched the sweating glass. Camille leapt onto the tabletop and nudged it towards me. I thanked her and poured myself a drink, whistling all the while. My feline sibling curled up where she stood.
'Do you have a birthday wish?'
"Yeah, but... not telling," I murmured against the printed glass. My voice echoed within. "That'll jinx it."
'No it won't.' Camille stretched and yawned. 'You can tell me. I'm just a cat.'
I heard the smile in her disembodied voice. Returning the gesture, I put down my glass. "Fine. But you'll hafta promise not to tell Grams or anyone else who's not an animal. You'll ruin it." My dark eyes narrowed gravely.
'Sisters' promise.' Her white paw shot up in salute.
A brief glance out the window revealed the party preparations were nearly complete. In the little time we had left to our lonesome, I held Camille close and whispered my wishes into her ear. Though I tried to keep a solid front, it wasn't long before she was lapping the tears from my cheeks with her small feline tongue.
'Oh, Amelie.' She dried my face with the fur on her head, 'I'm sorry. I wish Mom were here for your party, too.'
I wiped my damp nose and cheeks with the sleeve of my blouse. "Uh-huh." Camille nudged my half-empty glass towards the pitcher, tipping the latter so as to pour me a drink. Once it was full, she offered it to me with her nose. I received it gratefully.
'Let's look on the bright side. She'll be out of jail before Christmas.' The cat sat on her haunches at the edge of the table and tilted her head. 'Did she send you a card?'
I nodded, downing half of my drink in one breath. A deep exhalation followed. "And a letter to Grams and Gramps."
Silence descended upon us like an old familiar quilt. Camille nestled into the warmth of my lap. I stroked her back, content with the quiet. Then my grandfather summoned me to the kitchen window.
"Ammie! There's a castle out here in need of a princess." He nodded across the lawn, out of sight, in the direction of the new tree house. Grandmother stood beaming at his side. My breath hitched; my pulse soared. I had been begging him to finish my tree house for months.
"Coming!" I cried, and turned on my heel. Camille was sitting beside the water pitcher on the table, regarding me with expectant green eyes. "It's the tree house," I hissed, bouncing with excitement. "Gramps finished it for my birthday!"
Before Camille could respond, Grandfather's sandals came slapping against the stone path leading to the kitchen door. I turned back towards the window and saw him approach, stroking his bristly chin. "Now, where'd I put that camera?"
Grandmother called after him, "It's by the breadbox, dear."
Camille sprung from the table and landed on the tile. Grandfather was viciously allergic to cats. He'd throw a fit if he saw one in our home.
'That's my cue.' I watched the colour fade from Camille's body until the green eyes, orange fur, and pink nose were naught but empty blue outlines. 'Love you, Ammie. Have fun at your party.'
A broad smile crossed my lips. "Love you too," I said, and Camille padded off the same way she came: Through the kitchen wall.
Gold trophy winner
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