Part 2
“Two weeks ago,” Nora said.
Lena’s expression did not change, which was worse than anger.
“You could have called.”
“I thought I was imagining it.”
“You measure half-inch hems by sight from across a room.”
Before Nora could answer, Clover gave a low cry and rolled onto her side. Her abdomen tightened again.
Lena moved closer to the closet but kept her hands in her lap. “We can argue later.”
The second kitten came fifteen minutes after the first, a calico female whose voice filled the small room before Clover had finished cleaning her. She crawled blindly over her brother and settled against the mother’s belly.
The third, an orange male, arrived after a longer pause. Nora kept checking the clock until Lena took her phone away.
“You’re making yourself crazy.”
“The vet said to watch the intervals.”
“I’m watching.”
“You’re also answering Riverbend messages.”
“I can do both.”
“That is exactly what you always say.”
Lena looked at her then, tiredness showing beneath the annoyance. “Not tonight, Nora.”
Clover rested. The kittens nursed and pushed against one another with tiny, unfinished limbs. Rainwater still ticked from the eaves outside, but the storm had moved east. In the sudden quiet, Nora could hear Clover purring.
It was not the soft, contented sound Nora remembered from childhood pets. It was deep and uneven, almost mechanical.
“Is she all right?”
“Probably. Cats purr under stress too.”
Nora studied the mother’s face. Clover’s eyes were half closed, but one paw remained curved protectively around the kittens.
After nearly an hour, the cat rose and began circling inside the closet. She pushed at the fleece, stepped over the three kittens and strained.
The fourth kitten was smaller than the others and gray from nose to tail. Clover opened the sac and licked, but the kitten gave only one faint sound.
Nora’s hand moved.
“Wait,” Lena said.
“She isn’t—”
“Give Clover a second.”
The mother worked vigorously over the tiny body. When the kitten remained quiet, Lena called the emergency line and put the phone on speaker. Under the technician’s direction, she cleared the kitten’s nose with a clean cloth while Nora rubbed the small body in warm fleece.
No miracle happened. There was only work: rub, check, return to the mother, watch.
At last the kitten squirmed.
The movement was slight but unmistakable. Clover pulled her close and resumed licking.
Nora sat back on her heels.
The technician asked about Clover’s contractions and condition, then advised them to keep observing. If the mother continued straining without producing another kitten, became weak or showed abnormal bleeding, they were to call again and prepare to come in.
For the next two hours, there were no more births. Clover drank water when Nora held the dish near the closet. Her body gradually relaxed, and all four kittens gathered against her.
Lena counted them again.
“You’ve already counted six times,” Nora said.
“Seven.”
The old ease of the answer caught both of them by surprise.
Lena looked down at the notebook. “Black-and-white male. Calico female. Orange male. Small gray female.”
“You can tell that already?”
“I’ve done this before.”
“Yes, I remember.”
The warmth left as quickly as it had come.
By dawn, Clover was asleep. The kittens formed a moving knot against her belly. The smallest one kept losing her place between the stronger bodies. Nora eased the orange kitten aside just enough for the gray female to reach a nipple.
Lena stopped her after a few seconds.
“Don’t keep rearranging them unless she needs help.”
“She was being pushed away.”
“And now she’s nursing. That was useful. Hovering for the next three hours won’t be.”
Nora removed her hand. Clover opened one eye, then closed it again.
In the kitchen, Lena called Riverbend’s foster coordinator. Nora poured coffee and reheated it twice while Lena described Clover’s condition, the birth and the available room.
When the call ended, Lena placed her phone facedown.
“They have no open foster homes.”
“What about yours?”
“I have a mother with three kittens in the downstairs bathroom and two ringworm cats in the spare room. Dad is sleeping in the living room until he can manage his steps again. I can’t bring in another family.”
Nora looked toward the hallway.
Lena continued. “Riverbend will cover scheduled veterinary care, vaccines, spaying, neutering and approved supplies. Someone can teach you the foster routine. But the family needs to stay together until the kittens are weaned.”
“How long?”
“Usually at least eight weeks. Possibly longer for the little gray one.”
“Eight weeks?”
“You can say no. If you do, we start calling farther out. There may be a foster in Ohio or West Virginia, but moving a nursing mother immediately after birth isn’t ideal.”
Nora went to the guest-room door. Clover had shifted onto her other side. The gray kitten was still attached, one paw resting against the mother’s white chest.
Eight weeks would carry Nora through the busiest part of wedding season. The guest room doubled as a fitting room when clients brought daughters, mothers and opinions. She had six formal dresses waiting, three bridal parties booked and a prom gown whose beaded bodice had already broken two needles.
“I can move fittings into the workroom.”
“Can you do that for eight weeks even if the work backs up?”
“I’ll have to.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Nora looked toward the guest room again. “Yes.”
Lena retrieved a foster agreement from her bag and placed it on the kitchen table.
Nora read every line. Daily observation. Weight records. Veterinary appointments through Riverbend. No unapproved medications. No unscreened visitors. All placements handled by the rescue.
She signed her name.
Lena tapped the final paragraph. “Every adopter goes through Riverbend. Friends and clients too.”
“I understand.”
“No private promises, Nora…”
To read the rest of the story – CLICK the NEXT button 👇👇👇