The Sleepwalking Cat

Flash Fiction

When she was little her father spoke three languages.

When she was seven she wanted two things: To be a cheerleader and to have a sleepwalking cat.

Her father had promised her a sleepwalking cat in one of his languages, Sorry.

Tracy wasn’t sure what a sleepwalking cat was like, but it sounded fun, much more fun than the cheerleading dream she discarded when Cassie Watson got a concussion from it.

Late mornings and early evenings, sporadically and sometimes repeatedly, Dad promised the sleepwalking cat, with the bottom lip that never seemed to catch up to the rest of his face.

Dad’s other two languages were Sweet Drunk and Mean Drunk.

Years went by like breezes with dead leaves and chills, and Dad stopped promising the sleepwalking cat in any language.

Sorry Dad became sober Dad, and the promises became more concrete, more achievable, and Tracy got to a place where she fulfilled promises for herself and relied on no one else.

Her little dental practice in a converted cottage near a lake made her happy, with a small circle of friends who spoke languages she wanted to learn.

Her parents were proud, yet somehow Tracy knew that they knew they hadn’t been instrumental.

She gave her parents gifts she thought they’d like and gifts she thought they needed and through all the crumpled wrapping paper she never knew if she got them right.

Then one day a patient mentioned that she was saving money to buy the gas station off 94 and convert it to a coffeehouse and bakery.

“It’s a little bit of a pipe dream,” the woman said.

Tracy asked how much she needed and the woman turned the color of healthy gums.

It’s a lot of a pipe dream,” the woman said.

Tracy repeated herself.

The woman answered