Page 25 of Whispers of Sweetwater

‘Always. What’s the situation?’

‘The pregnant cat was under the woodpile over there.’ She pointed as she raced towards it. ‘I’ve seen her lurking around town for a week, looked ready to pop, and very skittish. Today I heard this awful yowling when I was taking the short cut home, down the pathway.’ She pointed down yonder. ‘She’s lying in the little open-walled shed, just beside the house.’ Molly motioned down the side of the house. ‘She’s trying, Bri. But something’s wrong.’

Brianna followed, eyes sharp now, her mind already flipping through possibilities. The scent of old timber and earth welcomed her into the cramped shed where the cat lay panting on a nest of hessian sacks. The ginger tabby lifted her head weakly, eyes wide, belly heaving. A single kitten lay nestled at her side, unmoving. Another contraction rippled through her body, but no further progress came.

‘She’s exhausted,’ Brianna said softly, kneeling. ‘And she’s got at least two more in there, I can feel them.’ She pulled on gloves and began to gently assist, talking low and steady, her voice its own kind of anaesthetic.

Molly crouched nearby, watching in tense silence. ‘You really do have magic hands, you know that?’

Brianna smiled faintly, focused. ‘It’s not magic. It’s listening. To the body, to the rhythm. She’s just … stuck.’

She reached carefully and felt resistance, then worked patiently, gently, until the kitten slipped free. Then she cleared the airways and rubbed it down, coaxing it to life. A tiny, wet mew filled the room.

‘Oh, thank god,’ Molly whispered.

Another kitten followed not long after, healthier this time. The mother cat nuzzled both weakly, then laid her head back with a relieved breath. Brianna tucked a heat pack under the babies and wrapped the new family in a towel. ‘She’ll need fluids. Food. I’ll take them back to my place overnight, so I can monitor them.’

‘Thank you, that’s so lovely of you.’ Molly sniffled, a few tears now rolling down her cheeks. ‘This town is so much better with you in it. I really mean that.’

Molly offered an appreciative smile as they sat in the soft quiet of the shed for a moment, breath syncing to the steady rhythm of life returning.

‘You know,’ Molly said finally, her voice low, ‘Hayden’s been through this kind of thing. Watching something fragile hang on by a thread. Only the stakes were different.’

Brianna turned her head. ‘What do you mean?’

Molly drew her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around them. ‘His wife, Casey. It’s not something people talk about openly, but she passed away a few years ago. Stage four breast cancer. It was really sudden. Heartbreaking.’ She wiped fresh tears from her cheeks. ‘The whole community rallied to raise money to help her with treatment, but no money in the world could save her.’

Devoid of the right words, Brianna felt her chest clench.

‘He hasn’t been the same since. Has shut everyone out for a long time. Buried himself in horses and fencing and routines. That’s why seeing him laugh again lately … with you …’ Molly trailed off. ‘It means something.’

Brianna looked down at the motley cat and her kittens, new life blinking into the world through pain and persistence.

‘I didn’t know,’ she said softly.

‘You weren’t meant to yet, I suppose,’ Molly replied. ‘But maybe it’s time someone told you why he moves the way he does. Why he watches people like he’s waiting for them to disappear.’

Brianna didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Her throat was too tight. She simply nodded and tucked the towel around the kittens more securely as everything in her heart cracked a little wider. She understood now. Hayden hadn’t just been in hiding from the world around him.

He’d been surviving.

And that poignant knowledge made her heart reach for his all the more.

* * *

Hayden felt weary beyond his thirty-two years. By the time the last stretch of fencing was repaired and the tools packed away, the weight of the day hadn’t lifted, it had only shifted. Gavin had headed off with a parting wave, leaving behind a quiet that settled over the paddocks like dust. Hayden had decided not to go back to the house. Not yet. Instead, he ducked into the feed shed where, on a shelf beside an old tin of molasses cubes, a mason jar sat half-filled with water. Inside were the few long-stemmed white freesias he’d plucked at first light that morning. They were … had been, Casey’s favourite. He hadn’t planted them deliberately this year, but they’d come up stubborn and wild, like they always did, sprouting from the cracks in the garden beds near the old rain tank.

He grabbed the jar, carried it with him across the driveway and climbed into his LandCruiser. He had a yearning to talk to his wife, and that’s what he was going to do. The drive into town was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the intermittent crackle of the AM radio. Sweetwater’s main street was winding down for the evening, the butcher’s shop closing its shutters, the bakery lights dimmed. He drove past them all, heading for the rise beyond the school where the cemetery sat, quiet and tucked among the eucalypts and wattles.

After pulling up beneath a gum tree, he walked the rest of the way, boots crunching against leaves, the jar of flowers cradled in one hand. He could walk this path with his eyes shut. Quite a few times, especially in the first year, he’d been crying so hard he was basically walking blind. Alongside him, the headstones stood in solemn rows, some polished and sharp-edged, others weathered with time. Casey’s was newer than most, clean sandstone with her name etched in a steady hand, the kind you’d expect on a family bakery sign or a school honour board.

Casey Jane Pierce Loved fiercely, existed gently.

Now living amongst the angels.

Wife, daughter, sister. 1993 – 2021

Hayden crouched in front of her gravestone and placed the flowers in the vase beside it. The freesias leant in the late-day breeze, petals trembling as though they, too, held something unspoken. For a moment, like always, he just stared. Then, with a soft exhale, he sat down in the grass beside her, one leg stretched out, the other bent so his forearm could rest across his knee.