Caleb - Cat Whisperer

For two weeks, I barely saw her.

Aika evaporated. Not in a literal way. She simply began slipping out of rooms before I entered them. Switching shifts. Running errands. Taking deliveries instead of counter duty.

I wanted to apologize on how the outreach day we did together ended. I wanted to praise her for her God given talent. I wanted to tell her that she’s got a natural way with kids. I wanted to tell her a lot of things. Mostly appropriate. Forgive me Lord.

Every time I walked into the café, even at odd hours, random days, strange times, someone else stood behind the counter.

‘Ah, Thatcher-kun!’ Miho-san chirped one day. ‘Hot tea today?’

‘Yes,’ I glanced around. ‘Is Aika working?’

 Oh! She’s helping the church farm today.’

Another day. 

‘Is Aika here?’

‘She’s out delivering food to the elderly.’

Another.

‘She’s volunteering at the library to repair damaged books.’

Another.

‘She’s reorganizing the pantry at the community hall.’

Each answer was a gentle dagger. Aika was everywhere. Except near me. I shouldn’t have taken it personally, but I was hurt anyway. 

This distance is random. She is avoiding me. She must hate me…

Before I could mend the friendship we barely started, the seminary sent me to preach in a larger city nearby. A more populated and busy one. Not like Izu. But the people needed someone. So I went. Every time I returned, exhausted, I told myself not to look for her everytime I pass by the cafe. Every time, I looked anyway.

Once, I caught a glimpse of her through the café window. Hair tied up. Focused on the milk frother. But when I stepped toward the entrance, she vanished behind the storage door like a puff of smoke. 

I froze mid-step, thinking of what I was doing with my life. The cats stared at the empty doorway, then to me, as if saying, “She outran you? Impressive.”

At least the cats kept me company. Every afternoon they gathered by the church steps, waiting for anything. Me, her. Food. All the time judging. Sometimes meowing as if yelling too. I’ve never met more vocal cats.

One day, taped to the bread bag I left for them, was a note. It was her handwriting.

I might be late feeding them. Please give them the canned sardines too. Only one spoon. Except Bingo. Three spoons for Bingo.

I smiled despite myself. She doesn’t hate me afterall.

Another day.

If you see the gray one not eating, tell me. She’s old.

Another.

Don’t let the ginger one bully the others. He’s a menace.

Another.

Thank you.

That note alone gave me too much relief that I exhaled too loud, startling the passing priests. I folded that last one carefully and I hid it in my Bible. Her thank you felt like a crack in a closed door. Just a hairline, but still, a light slipped through.

She’s just like a cat I couldn’t win over. Well, not just yet anyways.

Another month went on where I only received news (or instructions really) from her, through her small notes. I was returning borrowed hymnals to the small community library when I saw a familiar shape kneeling on the floor. Aika, finally.

Her hair was down today, a few strands falling around her face. She looks unkempt, unlike when on her pristine cafe get-up. She was sorting through a box of damp, water-damaged books.

Some looked like picture books, fairy tales, maybe a few old novels. She lifted each one with reverence, as if saving them from drowning. Gently flattening wrinkled pages. Setting them aside in careful stacks. Her fingers brushed each cover like a quiet prayer.

I didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched her in silence, overwhelmed by how much care she gave to things the world had thrown away.

‘Oh! Thatcher-kun! You’re here for the donation pick-up?’ A librarian spotted me.

Aika’s head shot up. Her eyes widened. She looked like a deer caught mid-bite. She looked ready to run any second now.

‘I—I can go,’ she said as she scrambled to stand.

‘No! Wait—‘ I stepped forward, palms out in peace. ‘Please don’t leave. I’m not here to bother you.’

She clutched a book to her chest like a shield. And I recognized it. A children’s book. One I’d read to a group in the calamity zone. She didn’t let go of it.

‘You…restore books?’ I asked carefully. ‘I didn’t know that.’

Her blush rose instantly. 

‘It’s nothing,’ she murmured.

‘It’s not nothing,’ I said softly. ‘It’s kind.’

She didn’t say it but her eyes looked happy. She didn’t speak, but at least she didn’t run.

I knelt beside her, picking up a water-wrinkled book.

‘This one can be saved,’ I said.

She hesitated whether to engage with me, but eventually spoke. ‘How do you know?’

‘My mother repairs old hymnals,’ I smiled. ‘She hates throwing anything away. Says if God breathed life into paper, we should respect the breath.’

She giggled, which turned into a laugher. Her smiling face hit me like a warm wind. I forgot how to breathe. 

Wow. So beautiful.

I must have stared, cause she covered her mouth quickly, embarrassed by the attention.

‘Sorry,’ she whispered.

‘Don’t be,’ I said with a smile. ‘I like your laugh.’

She froze. I froze. The air froze. Why did I say that?

She whispered to the book she was holding, ‘No matter what I do… you just keep showing up.’

She sounded confused, annoyed, defeated and secretly relieved all in one.

‘Today, I wasn’t trying to find you,’ I admitted. ‘But I won’t pretend I’m unhappy I did.’

Her cheeks flamed. She grabbed another book and shoved it into a stack aggressively.

‘This is not…this isn’t intentional,’ she murmured. ‘I’m just trying to live quietly.’

‘I know,’ I said gently. ‘And I’m not trying to disturb that.’

She stopped mid-motion.

‘But I think, sometimes paths cross because they’re meant to. Even if the people on those paths try very hard to run the other direction.’ I whispered to her ear.

Her eyes glistened, not with tears, but with fear.

The only person whose eyes I couldn’t read, was now laying it all on the open for me.

“If I let myself feel this, allow someone in, something bad will happen.”

Of course. I don’t know what burden she’s carrying. I stepped back slightly to ease her tension. No pressure, no closeness. Just space.

‘I’ll help with these,’ I said softly. ‘Then I’ll leave you to your quiet.’

She nodded slowly. As we sorted books together, I made sure our hands never touched, our shoulders never brushed.

As we worked through the pile in silence, one loud reality smacked me in the face.

She wasn’t avoiding me because she disliked me. She was avoiding me because she cared.