Melissa had severe cerebral palsy. The tendons in her wrists were stiff and curled her hands up into unusable appendages. Her neck was spastic, making her head bob uncontrollably. Not a single part of her body cooperated with what she wanted to do, including speaking clearly. How she wished she could say what was on her mind!

She had grown up in special education classrooms that were completely separated from the rest of the “normal” kids. While her mind was sharp, her body wouldn’t communicate her intelligence to the rest of the world. She was confined to a motorized wheelchair, which, in turn, confined her to only the places her wheelchair would fit.

Melissa loved her Mama and Daddy with all her heart. They were the ones who bathed her, fed her, lifted her in and out of her chair, and at the end of the day, still found the emotional strength to lie down beside her and talk for a while. They were starved for alone time, while Melissa sometimes felt like she was drowning in it. But you would never hear Dawn and Willis complain. Everything they did was for Melissa.

In her quiet time at home, Melissa liked to look at a family photo album that her Mama had put together. There were pictures of her grandparents and great aunts and uncles, cousins she had only met a couple of times, a young Dawn and Willis, and a baby Melissa. She was always careful not to stare at people in person –simply her presence made people uncomfortable enough—but photos allowed her to study the forms of healthy and happy people. She stared at the images for hours at a time, imagining the lives of others.

Willis drove log trucks until his diabetes got the best of him and put him on permanent disability. Dawn worked 52 years at the same insurance agency where she managed the office. Once Melissa aged out of public school, she started going to what they called the “Center”, a place for developmentally disabled adults to stay during the day. Melissa loved it. Much better than being isolated and feeling like one of the “others”, everyone at the Center WAS one of the “others”, and they became an extended family. At the Center, they got to participate in music and movement therapy led by local college students. They had reading time and movie time, and occasionally they got to travel to small concerts and school plays. But Melissa’s favorite activity was painting. Over time, she had learned to manipulate the brush with her mouth. She swirled and swooshed and swooped the color across the paper or –when the budget allowed—canvas. Painting allowed her pure self-expression in a way that her limited speech and motor skills could not, and it calmed her racing thoughts.

Out of the gazillion thoughts that stirred around in her head, Melissa had never considered outliving her parents. Even after her Daddy died, she couldn’t fathom a life without her Mama. Even when she found out her Mama had breast cancer, she took it as just another obstacle that they would overcome together. But one day, tucking her into bed as she had done a million times before, her Mama lie down beside her and explained in the calmest of terms that she was dying. The cancer had spread. She would not get better. They had about a month.

Dawn called a lawyer and set up a plan for Melissa’s care. The house and all their possessions, including her Daddy’s prized blue ’57 Chevy, would be sold and the money put into a trust. She would go to live in a group home, where her friend Cory from the Center lived. Even though they couldn’t talk to each other, at least they were familiar and could give each other a friendly nod of recognition from time to time. She would get to keep her bedroom furniture and the family photo album.

In three and a half weeks, hospice was called in, and after another couple days, Dawn was gone. Melissa was immediately taken to the group home. Orphaned. Disabled. It was the loneliest she had ever felt in her thirty-three years.

Dawn was cremated and a small service was held at their little brown country church. Melissa knew she had some family out there on her Mama’s side, but she didn’t know how to contact them. She recognized a few people from her Mama’s office at the service, but that was all.

After the funeral, Mrs. Sarah, the attorney, took Melissa back to the group home. She was late for lunch, but Mrs. Pat, the older widowed lady who worked there, had set aside a plate for her. Melissa parked herself at the round oak pedestal table. Mrs. Pat microwaved her plate and set it in front of her. The smell of warm cornbread dressing filled her nostrils and touched her soul. She cried her first tears at that table. It felt good to let it go. Mrs. Pat fed her small bites and let her cry, knowing the tears needed to come, not trying to stop them. When all the food was gone, she held onto Melissa’s curled up hands, not saying a word.

In the months that followed, Melissa found comfort in routine. Wake up, eat breakfast and get on the bus with Cory. After a day at the Center, get back on the bus home, eat dinner, sponge bath, TV time, and bed. Still, she missed the nightly talks with her Mama. She missed the song of the crickets outside the window at her old house in the country. She wished the lamp lights in town weren’t so bright, and the occasional midnight siren startled her. So much was the same, and nothing was the same.

Soon, the holidays came and, between the staff at the Center and the group home, they all made sure Melissa didn’t have time to feel lonely. There were parties for days, carolers that stopped by, church services to attend, dance recitals to watch. For weeks, it was all she could do to stay awake for her bath. She was grateful for the diversions while they lasted.

On New Years Day, Mrs. Pat cooked black eyed peas, collard greens, fried pork chops, cornbread, and sweet potatoes. The food was comforting, but Melissa felt a dark space in her heart. The holidays were coming to an end. Tomorrow, the Christmas decorations would start to come down and make room for more solitude. She wasn’t ready for the “new normal” to resume. She asked to be excused for a nap, and Mrs. Pat obliged.

Rolling into her room, she picked up the family photo album and sat it on the bed. Mrs. Pat strapped her into the motorized lift and gently laid her down on her side so that she could flip through the pictures. Once Mrs. Pat closed the door, Melissa’s tears began to fall. It’s not supposed to be this way. I was supposed to die first.

A high-pitched meow interrupted her downward emotional spiral. Melissa looked up to see an orange tabby saunter across the room and hop up onto the bed. The cat circled and nestled down in the crook of Melissa’s arm, right on top of the photo album. She looked down and noticed that the tip of the cat’s tail was broken and stuck out in the wrong direction. It can’t be. No, it can’t be, can it?

Dawn had often told stories about her childhood cat, Rusty, an orange tabby with a tail broken from her accidentally shutting it in the kitchen door. Dawn had adored the cat, and it had shown her great affection, allowing her to dress it in baby doll clothes and feed it ice cream from a spoon. She used to tell Melissa about the cat’s purr that sounded more like the trill of a bird than a feline and how the tabby would hop on all fours if you made a popping sound with your mouth. It was a clever cat with impeccable hearing that would find Dawn immediately when she called his name.

Rusty. Melissa nuzzled the cat with her nose, and he turned around and put the little pink pads of his paw on her cheek, making her giggle. To see what would happen, Melissa called the name, which came out “Ussy”. The cat purred a strange, high-pitched sound that she hadn’t heard from a cat before. A great calm fell over Melissa, and both she and Rusty fell into a deep sleep.

As her mother would say, she must’ve needed the rest, because Melissa slept soundly through the rest of the afternoon and all night, waking at 5:14 a.m. The album had fallen to the floor. Rusty was gone, but the peace of the surprise visitor remained.