Day 40

There it sat on the cream carpet at the bottom of the stairs, its black eyes fixed on hers and its whiskers frozen. Then its tail twitched, and she watched as Mrs. Fluffbottom emerged from behind the couch, causing the mouse to jump a foot in the air and then zig-zag into the kitchen. From the stairs landing where she stood, Jemma could no longer see the cat or the mouse, but she heard thumping and high-pitched squeaking at short intervals. Upstairs, the newborn, home only two days, began his call, a chirpy "eh eh" that sounded like he was trying to reach something just out of his grasp but really meant that he was hungry. Then came the stomping sounds of the four-year-old coming down the stairs.

"Mommy, what's the noise?" Mia said, blinking her eyes against the light and tugging at her pajama shirt, now curled up above her belly.

"Just the cat," Jemma said.

"Is Mrs. Fluffbottom okay?"

"Oh, yes, she's fine. Go back up to bed." Jemma tried to turn Mia back toward the upstairs. She felt rooted in her spot, not wanting to engage in the battle playing out below nor to leave her vantage point above the fray and expose the upstairs to the panicked flight of the mouse.

"Can I check on her?" Mia said.

"No, back to bed." Jemma lifted her and took her up the four steps to the upstairs hall. She set her down in the bedroom doorway, then closed the childproofing gate at the top of the stairs.

"Goodnight," Jemma said and hopped back down to her spot on the landing. Sounds continued to come from the kitchen below where she couldn't survey the action. She could still see Mia standing beyond the gate, eyeing her with the distrust of a toddler who has learned that parents keep secrets.

Then came the simultaneous wail of the baby upstairs and the yowl of Mrs. Fluffbottom below. Jemma's feet sprinted into action before her brain was conscious of the direction they had chosen. In two large bounds she was through the gate and inside the children's bedroom. In the crib, Jacob flailed his arms and cried between short gulps of air. Jemma felt around the crib until her hand landed on the pacifier, lost between the folds of the small blanket. She placed it back in Jacob's mouth and swaddled him in the blanket again, fighting against his angry arms. He sucked on the pacifier briefly then knocked it out before his arms were close at his sides again. Jemma placed the pacifier in once more, but she could see his face growing red. There was no stemming the tide. She felt her heavy breasts respond to his cries and begin to release drops into the small pads tucked inside her bra.

"Stay here!" she said to Mia, who still stood in the doorway.

Jemma ran down to the landing and surveyed the floor below. The squeaking had grown louder and the thumping more frequent. She moved down the remaining four steps, pausing at each one, waiting for the sounds to change. Before touching down on the carpet below the last step, she peeked around the corner. The cat, her tail slicing side to side like a sword, sat at the entrance to the pantry. Her right paw darted beneath the half-open accordion door, generating a thumping sound each time she rattle it. Loud squeaking came from just behind the door, and then Jemma noticed the light streaks of red in the carpet where Mrs. Fluffbottom's paw had rubbed as it plunged in and out of the space underneath. Jemma's stomach turned as her hands began to shake, her fingers suddenly cold as if plunged into ice water. Then she heard Mia's cry behind her.

"What's wrong with Mrs. Fluffbottom?"