The Clone's Mother by Cheri Gillard

safely on the other side.
    Or had I? Maybe in my clumsy excitement and titillation at the prospect of a date with Dr. Mackenzie, I’d neglected to notice where my kitty was when I shut the door. Actually, I couldn’t even recall shutting the door or walking down the steps, I was so distracted when I left.
    I picked up the poor, mistreated cat—yes, it was truly Ollie—and apologized profusely as I clinked my keys around in the doorknob. It opened, but I couldn’t tell if it was even locked. What had I been thinking when I’d left? 
    Obviously, I was just a crummy mom who didn’t take notice of her baby or keep him safe the first time a handsome face came along. See what I mean? I couldn’t have real kids.
    Ollie high-tailed it to his litter box, scolding me all the way there. Good of him to have held it.
    While Ollie relieved himself, I parked myself on the wooden barstool I kept by my desk. I kicked my sandals off and played back through my mind the day’s conversations with Mack. I’d laughed so much. He’d laughed, too. Hadn’t he? He seemed to have had a good time. While my mind busied itself replaying my witty repartee in my head, and reevaluating his answers for authenticity, my hand pushed in an open drawer on the right side of my desk. My other hand moved my statuette of Curious George away from the edge of the roll top to a safer place. Then I righted my cheap tarnished brass candlestick. The candle was cracked in the middle and listing. It finally registered that things weren’t as I had left them. And if Ollie was outside the whole evening, he couldn’t be held responsible for the changes.
    My heart started beating faster and I got that winded feeling in my gut, like butterflies ramming around inside trying to find their way out. Or more like flying monkeys. What if someone had come in? What if someone was still here?
    So like the brilliant thinker that I am, I decided to have a look around. I picked up the big metal stapler from my desk for protection. When I found an intruder, if the makeshift club didn’t work to take him out in one fell swoop, I could always staple him to death. Back-up plans are good.
    I approached my bedroom door. It was slightly open. I was certain I hadn’t left it like that. My heart pounded so loudly I knew the noise would tip off anyone on the other side that I was going in.
    With one finger, I pushed the door. The hinges squeaked as it inched open. I held my stapler ready. Suddenly, something hit my leg. I jumped hard, and my weapon started lashing out toward the serial murderer who was grabbing for my leg. I shot several staples into the air for good measure.
    Actually, it was just Ollie. He was head-butting me for some attention.
    And because of it, he’d come within a whisker’s breadth of getting stapled.
    No one was in my room. Even so, I should have secured the perimeter better before breaching the entrance, locking Ollie in the bathroom, just to save myself the heart attack.
    I did a final inspection of my closet and confirmed that the apartment was secured. It didn’t look like anything was missing, either. Whoever had broken in was probably sorely disappointed to find I had little of value. I couldn’t even afford my owns bills, so I had nothing to fund their drug habit.
    I plopped back down on the barstool to let my spaghetti legs solidify. One leg of the stool was shorter than the other three, so it wobbled back and forth like a spastic rocking chair. I worked out some of my adrenaline in the movement while I chewed on a Tums. I looked up at my pricey porcelain Curious George figure. I never would have put him in such a precarious position on the edge of the desk. Clearly my intruder didn’t recognize his resale value. Good thing he was still in one piece. I’d once seen a porcelain Curious George on eBay for over $800, and that one didn’t have H. A. Rey’s signature on the bottom like mine did. George—which had belonged to Uncle Howard’s