'Mercy for a Kitten'

Editor's note: This is the first in a series of 12 winning stories from the 2009 S.C. Fiction Project.

My sisters and I knew Momma didn't have long to live, and we didn't want her to die alone, so we were taking turns sitting with her in the hospital.

I'd just settled into the chair next to her bed when she said, "Francie, there's something I need to tell you while the drugs have worn off and I can think straight."

I leaned closer. "What Momma?"

She whispered, "I killed your kitten, the little gray one."

"Wiggles?" I'd been heartbroken when Wiggles disappeared. Mourned for weeks. I thought he'd abandoned me because I dressed him in doll clothes and pushed him around in my little buggy, thought he'd walked off to find a better home. "Did you run over him or what?"

"No, it wasn't an accident."

Not an accident? That stopped me cold. When we were growing up,

Momma wouldn't even kill the bugs that got in the house. She'd catch them and carry them outside. Now here she was telling me she'd killed my kitten on purpose?

She turned her head to look at me, her faded gray eyes pleading for understanding. "He got caught in the fan belt, I guess, as you all left for church. It was my turn to stay home with Abigail that Sunday, and when I went out to water the tomatoes, I found him in the carport limping around. He was so pitiful, meowing and all bloody, black with grease." She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders jerking.

"Oh Momma." I reached over the rail to rub her arm, then grabbed a couple of tissues and forced one into her thin hand.

She blew her nose and went on talking as she clutched the wadded tissue. "We only had one car back then and I couldn't have left Abigail anyway. There wasn't anybody around to help. All the neighbors were at church. The vet, too, most likely. I could see his little leg was broken, and he had a gash across his shoulder and another one across his head clear to the bone."

I wanted to stop her, to erase the picture from my mind, yet some part of me needed to know. And she seemed determined to tell it.

She paused to take a deep ragged breath. "It seemed kinder to — you know, to do away with him."

How could she do such a thing? The cuts could have been sewn, the bone set. But then there was the money. They simply didn't have it. Because of my sister's surgeries, we never had enough. Even after she died, it took them years to pay off the hospital bills. Again, I found myself resenting Abigail.

Growing up, I'd often wished her dead. I'd been the youngest of three girls, the adored baby of the family. Then Abigail came along when I was 5 — Abigail and her many problems. She required all Momma and Daddy's time and attention. Our whole world revolved around her. Once I found Daddy crying — that big man alone in the basement, sobbing his heart out like a lost 3-year-old.

My first-grade teacher called Momma in for a conference because I was chewing my nails until my fingers bled. Momma hadn't even noticed. So yes, I resented my little sister — even hated her — and hated myself for being so mean and selfish.

Momma coughed and wiped her eyes. "My daddy used to get rid of the unwanted kittens. There was no money for vets. He'd probably never even heard of spaying. It was kinder than letting them starve."

"I guess so," I said, though the thought of those helpless kittens tore at my heart.

I reached my hand over the rail again. Momma took it and squeezed it with a strength that surprised me. Her eyes locked on mine and begged for understanding as she spoke. "I let Abigail go through six operations. Poor little thing never had any kind of life. It was all suffering — and for what? She could never get any better. Don't you see? I couldn't have more mercy for a kitten than for my own child. So I ..."

She let go of my hand and curled on her side facing the wall, crying hard, gasping for breath. A chill ran through me. My mind raced, trying to remember. Four — Abigail had been 4 when she died in her sleep — right after her last surgery.

I waited, knowing, yet unable to comprehend. "You what, Momma?"

"I held a pillow over her face. I ..."

She rolled to her back to look up at me, searching my face as she waited for me to grasp what she couldn't say.

I'm sure she read my astonishment, but on the heels of shock came the certainty that I could easily have done the same — or worse. Hadn't I fantasized about choking her those nights I lay on the other side of the wall listening to her whimper in pain? Hearing Momma soothing, rocking, singing — sometimes all night long.

"It's OK," I whispered, stroking her cheek. "It's OK." I lowered the bed rail and held her tight, rocking her in my arms as my tears dampened her hair. "You did the best you could, Momma. We all just did the best we could."

About the author

Betty Wilson Beamguard has published more than two dozen stories, 10 poems and numerous nonfiction pieces. Three of her how-to articles have been featured in The Writer. Her work also has appeared in such publications as Women in the Outdoors, Draft Horse Journal, Sassy, The Petigru Review and Moonshine Review. Her new passion is paddling the waterways of South Carolina. She lives in York.