Mama was always a bit strange so it’s no wonder that her cat, Esme, a smoke-gray, yellow-eyed long hair, was also strange.  I brought Esme home with me the day before we went to clean out dear departed Mama’s house. It seemed to me the best course of action what with my brother and his wife and my husband packing boxes, tossing junk, and going in and out of the doors for a week.

Esme was not of the same opinion. She clawed me every morning as we headed out the door to go to Mama’s, shrieking and howling like something possessed. After the first day, even though the summer heat was stifling, I wore heavy jeans, just so I could get out the door only semi-wounded.

The first night I brought a few of Mama’s things back to my house, my choices from among Mama’s things. Esme inspected each item, low growling in her throat as she stropped back and forth against each object. That first day? I chose an antique lamp, not Tiffany but still the brass work and stained glass made a wonderful addition to my desk. I also picked a small oriental rug, also put in my office and an intricately carved shallow brass bowl that I put on a table also in my home office. Esme took up residence in that room, chasing out my other two cats and keeping them out.

The second day I came home with Mama’s herbal tea collection. Esme bounded into the kitchen as soon as I came through the door and leapt up onto the counter where I put the plastic sack of teas. She stuck her head so far into the bag I feared she’d suffocate so I dumped the baggies of tea out on the counter. The cat checked each baggie. My husband, Flynn, raised an eyebrow. “Maybe there’s catnip in one?”

I shook my head, “No, they’re all labled, none of them are catnip.”

The cat settled down over the baggies, paws folded neatly under her and began to purr, eyes half closed in contentment.

By the end of the week, the fur ball had inspected everything I brought home from Mama’s. In the evenings, with several of Mama’s things in my office, the cat curled up on the corner of my desk, it seemed as though Mama was there with me in the room.

The last day, all that remained in the house was a tattered book of recipes. My brother handed it to me. “You’re the daughter, and I don’t cook. Seems like this should go to you.”

I flipped through it. The handwriting wasn’t Mama’s. “This maybe from Grandma, you sure you don’t want it?”

He shook his head. “Nah, if it was Grandma’s, it makes a nice legacy for you. Something for you to pass onto Marie.”

Marie was my daughter. A dark haired, dark eyed quiet girl, a young image of my mother, now seven, it had been hard to explain about death to her. “Sure. I think she’d like that.”

That night, I was flipped open the book as I sat at my desk. Esme sat in front of me, at the very edge of the book, gold eyes staring at me. I read the inscription written in a very fine-lined Spenserian script, different than Grandma’s handwriting. I read it out loud to Esme.

From One to The Next,

From the Beginning Until the End.

The Lot is Passed,

Your Path to Wend.

I no more than said Wend, when Esme gave a yowl fit to wake the dead. The cat spun around and hissed as a gust of wind blew through the office and a mist appeared in front of my desk.

I dropped the book as the mist consolidated and formed a woman’s shape. Esme hissed again, back arched and tail fluffed out until it was three times its normal size.

“Welcome, daughter,” the misty form said.

The voice was familiar. “Mother?” I stood up.

“Yes.” The shape condensed until in front of me stood a very young version of my Mama.

My mind raced as I stumbled over my desk chair as I tried to back up. “How…?”

“It’s your turn,” the ghost told me. “Since the early 1800’s when that inscription was written, the gift has passed from mother to daughter upon the mother’s death.”

Esme jumped down and circled the ghost, a rumble deep in her chest, made my arm hair stand on end.

“What gift?”

“You can help people,” she told me. “You have the herbs, the book,” she pointed at the book, still open on my desk. “The recipes look normal but now, when you read it, cures and curses are laid open for your eyes only.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to curse anybody.”

“Yet it’s available to you daughter, if you need it. Use your gift wisely.” The form began to evaporate.

“But, Mama,” I didn’t know what to say, what to ask. “Don’t go, you have to explain.”

“It’s all in the book, dear,” she began to wisp away. “Keep the book safe.”

And then she was gone. Esme yowled and hissed again at the spot where the wraith had stood.

Flynn shrugged the next week when I told him I wanted to put in an herb garden. He thought it was nostalgia for my mom. Marie joined me in the garden, learning each plant, how it grew, its everyday uses. It’s been sixty-two years and Esme’s kittens have come and gone. Marie is old now, too, she has the latest of Esme’s line, a regal Calico with too many toes. I’m preparing her. It’s too much power to just dump on an unsuspecting daughter.

 

The End

957 Words

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