The Cat That Wasn’t There

“Sometimes the scariest part isn’t the crash you see coming—it’s the one you’re sure was meant to happen.”

The old Datsun rumbled down the street, its engine's uneven purr a discordant soundtrack to the silence that filled the car.

The motor coughed occasionally — a mechanical wheeze that Dad kept saying he'd fix but never did. Or wasn't allowed to. One more thing on the list of things that didn't work properly in our family, maintained in their brokenness by forces I didn't fully understand.

We sat there, the three of us, each locked in our own private space. The weight of unspoken words hung in the air like fog — thick, suffocating, impossible to see through. Five minutes had passed since we'd left Jamie's house. Five minutes that felt like an eternity, filled with unspoken fears and half-formed suspicions.

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the road. Winter sun in Adelaide had that particular quality — weak but persistent, painting everything in shades of amber and grey. The familiar suburban landscape took on an eerie, dreamlike quality, as if we were travelling through some parallel universe where nothing was quite as it should be.

The houses we passed — all those identical brick boxes with their neat gardens and Hills Hoists — seemed to watch us through their windows. Witnesses to whatever was about to unfold.

I found myself fighting a losing battle against the pull of sleep. My head nodded forward, then jerked back up again, each time bringing a momentary disorientation that left me feeling untethered from reality. The excitement and physical exertion of the afternoon had taken their toll. My legs still ached from the unaccustomed jumping. My arms were heavy with the good kind of tired — the kind that came from using your body for joy rather than endurance.

The rhythmic motion of the car was lulling me into a false sense of security. The vibration of the engine through the vinyl seats felt almost hypnotic. The world outside blurred into a smear of muted colours, punctuated by occasional flashes of sunlight reflecting off passing vehicles or house windows. Each glare made me squint and sink deeper into drowsiness.

After the last nod, I glanced over at Paul, seeking some sort of connection. Some reassurance that we were in this together.

Paul was slouched in his seat, his lanky frame contorted into a position that looked far from comfortable. His knees pressed against the back of the passenger seat. His face wore a mask of studied boredom — the expression he used when he was trying not to care.

But I could see the tension in the set of his jaw. The way his fingers drummed silently against his thigh in a nervous rhythm I recognised. He was on high alert. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for our mother to unleash whatever was building behind her unnatural calm.

I turned my gaze to the front of the car, studying her reflection in the rear-view mirror.

Her eyes were fixed on the road ahead, her face an unreadable mask that seemed carved from stone. The afternoon light caught the side of her face, highlighting the tight line of her mouth, the slight tremor in her cheek muscle.

But there was something in the way she gripped the steering wheel — knuckles white with the force of it — that sent a chill down my spine. The tendons in her hands stood out like cables under tension.

This wasn't the calm acceptance she had projected when picking us up. This was something else entirely. Something dangerous and unpredictable that set my nerves on edge like fingernails on a blackboard.

As we approached the main roundabout near our home, I felt a shift in the energy of the car.

The engine's pitch changed. Rising to a higher, more urgent tone that seemed to vibrate through my very bones. The gear shift groaned as Mum pressed harder on the accelerator.

We were accelerating.

The houses and trees outside blurred into a smear of colours that made my stomach lurch. Fifty kilometres per hour became sixty. Then seventy. Far too fast for these suburban streets.

I was still hovering on the edge of consciousness, my mind fuzzy with fatigue, but a growing sense of unease kept me from fully surrendering to sleep. It was as if some primal part of me recognised the danger we were in, even as my conscious mind struggled to make sense of what was happening.

Then it came.

A bright flash passed before my eyes — the intensity of it knocking my head back against the seat with an almost physical force. It wasn't external. No sun glare or passing headlight. This was something that seemed to explode from inside my skull.

In that brief moment, suspended between waking and dreaming, I caught a glimpse of something. A vision too fleeting to grasp fully, yet vivid enough to leave an indelible mark on my psyche.

It was like watching a film strip played at impossible speed. Each frame burning itself into my retinas before I could process what I was seeing.

I saw twisted metal.

Heard the screech of tyres and the sickening crunch of impact. The sounds were so real, so immediate, that for a moment I was sure they were happening right then and there. Glass shattering — that distinctive crystalline rain of windscreen fragments. The smell of burning rubber. And something more acrid, more terrifying — the unmistakable scent of fear and pain, metallic like blood, sharp like terror.

And through it all, I felt an overwhelming sense of inevitability. As if I was watching something that had already happened. Or was definitely going to happen. Like those dreams where you know the ending even as it unfolds.

Yet despite this knowledge, I remained eerily calm.

It was as if I had stepped outside of myself. Observing the unfolding events with a detached curiosity that seemed at odds with the gravity of the situation. My body felt distant, unimportant. Like I was floating somewhere near the car's ceiling, watching the boy below who looked like me but couldn't be me. Because I was up here. Safe and separate.

And then I felt it.

A presence. Warm and comforting. Wrapping around me like a protective cocoon.

The temperature in the car seemed to rise — but not unpleasantly. It was the warmth of an embrace. Of being held. The kind of warmth I hadn't felt since the hospital, since the nights when another presence had shared my darkness and made it bearable.

Gloria.

Her name floated through my mind, bringing with it a rush of memories and emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. The scent of peach shampoo — impossible but unmistakable. The sound of her laugh, that infectious giggle that had once filled hospital corridors. Her arms tightened around me. I couldn't see them but I could feel them, more real than the seat beneath me.

And I heard her whisper, clear as day: "Don't be afraid."

The words seemed to echo in the confines of the car, though I knew they were only in my mind.

Or were they?

In that moment, the boundary between real and imagined seemed meaningless.

The car continued to accelerate. The speedometer climbing steadily past seventy. Past eighty. The old Datsun shook with the effort.

I saw Paul sit up straighter in his seat. His earlier facade of boredom replaced by wide-eyed alarm. His hand gripped the door handle, knuckles white. He opened his mouth as if to say something — Mum, slow down! I imagined.

But before he could form the words, our mother jerked the wheel sharply to the right.

The front tyre was the first to hit the kerb of the median strip.

The impact launched the old car inches off the ground. A moment of terrible weightlessness that seemed to stretch on forever. My stomach dropped as if on a roller coaster — that sick feeling of falling even as we rose.

We were airborne.

The undercarriage of the car brushed against the blades of grass below. A surreal juxtaposition of metal against nature. I could hear the grass whisking against the car's belly — a sound like violent brushing. Time seemed to slow down, each second stretching into an eternity as we hung suspended between earth and sky.

The initial jolt as we hit the kerb drove the last vestiges of sleep from my body. Adrenaline coursed through my veins like electricity.

Paul's scream pierced the air.

A sound of pure terror that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him. A primal cry, raw and unfiltered. It spoke of a fear beyond words — not just fear of death, but fear of the madness that had taken hold of our mother. The understanding that the person meant to protect us might be the greatest danger we faced.

Our mother — as if suddenly realising what she had done, or perhaps coming back from wherever her mind had gone — slammed her foot on the brake while the car was still in flight.

The wheels locked. Useless in the air.

Then we came down with a bone-jarring thud that rattled my teeth and sent shockwaves through my entire body. The screech of tyres finding tarmac again filled the air. The smell of burning rubber instantly overwhelming.

Time seemed to slow down even further.

I could hear the screech of brakes from both our car and another vehicle travelling toward us. A white sedan — I could see now — its driver's face a mask of terror that probably mirrored our own.

Through the windscreen, I saw a pair of headlights growing larger at an alarming rate. Twin beams of light that seemed to herald our impending doom. They were already on, though it wasn't dark yet — a safety measure that now seemed pointless in the face of this chaos.

We were on a collision course. Hurtling towards what seemed like certain destruction.

The distance between us was closing impossibly fast. Fifty metres. Thirty. Ten.

In that moment, I was sure this was it. That the vision I had seen was about to become reality.

But then, miraculously, our car continued to turn right. The momentum of our wild swerve carrying us away from the oncoming vehicle. The tyres screamed in protest, leaving black marks on the road that would remain for weeks. Evidence of our near miss.

It was as if an unseen hand had reached down and guided us to safety. Defying the laws of physics and probability.

Gloria's hand, I thought wildly.

We came to a grinding halt. The smell of burning rubber filled the air, making my eyes water. The engine stalled with a shudder. The sudden silence was almost as shocking as the chaos that preceded it.

The other car managed to stop just short of where we had been moments before. Its horn blared in a long, angry blast that seemed to go on forever. I could see the driver — a middle-aged man in a business shirt — his face white with shock and fury in equal measure.

My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. In my temples. In my fingertips. Every beat was a reminder that I was alive. That we had somehow survived.

My senses were heightened to an almost painful degree. I could hear every tick of the cooling engine. Smell the cocktail of burned rubber and fear-sweat. Feel every bump in the vinyl seat beneath me.

I heard the driver of the other car open his door — the metal creaking — his hurried footsteps as he ran towards us, leather shoes slapping against asphalt. Behind him, another car screeched to a stop, narrowly avoiding a rear-end collision, its driver adding to the chorus of angry horns.

And from behind us, a third vehicle that had been following our erratic journey pulled over to the side of the road.

The world seemed to be closing in around us. Witnesses gathering to observe the aftermath of our near-tragedy.

In the sudden silence that followed, I heard our mother take a deep, shuddering breath. Her whole body seemed to deflate, as if whatever had possessed her was leaving.

"There was a cat," she muttered. Her voice barely above a whisper. The words emerging automatically, like a rehearsed line.

Without another word, she opened her door and stepped out of the car, leaving Paul and me alone in the suddenly too-quiet vehicle.

"Are you alright?" the first man asked as he reached the car, his voice tight with concern and residual fear.

His face appeared at the window — red and sweating, eyes wide and searching as he took in the scene before him. Two young boys, obviously terrified. And a woman who seemed to be in shock.

"Oh my, there was a cat," our mother repeated. Her voice taking on an eerily calm tone that sent shivers down my spine. It was her public voice. The one she used with doctors and teachers. Smooth and convincing. "I didn't want to hit it."

"Are you sure?" he questioned. Scepticism clear in his voice. His eyes narrowed, looking back at the road, the skid marks, the trajectory of our wild ride. "I didn't see—"

He cut himself short as he noticed her hands, which were shaking uncontrollably. A violent tremor that seemed to start in her fingers and travel up her arms.

"Oh, you poor darling!" exclaimed a previously unnoticed woman, emerging from the third car.

She wore a floral dress and had the kind of concerned, motherly face that reminded me of the nice lunch ladies at school. She reached out and took our mother's trembling hands in her own, rubbing them soothingly until the shaking subsided.

The gesture was one of simple human kindness. But in that moment, it seemed like a lifeline thrown to a drowning woman.

"The shock of it all," she said. "These things happen so fast."

"You're very lucky that nobody got hurt," the first man said. His tone softening slightly, though suspicion still lingered in his eyes. "A cat is not worth risking your life for. Or your children's lives," he added, looking pointedly at Paul and me still sitting in the car.

"I know," our mother replied. Her voice cracking perfectly on cue as tears began to roll freely down her cheeks.

The performance was flawless. I'd seen it before — in hospitals, in doctor surgeries, whenever she needed sympathy instead of scrutiny.

"It was just instinct."

She reached into her trouser pocket, pulling out a white and pink handkerchief to dab at her wet eyes. The handkerchief was one I recognised. Dad had given it to her for their anniversary, embroidered with tiny roses.

I looked over at Paul, seeking some sort of confirmation that what I had experienced — the vision, Gloria's presence — had been real.

But Paul's face was a mask of barely contained emotion. His jaw was clenched so tight I worried his teeth might crack. His hands were fisted in his lap. I could see the glimmer in his eyes.

He looked like he was on the verge of tears, but I knew he wouldn't let them fall. He was always strong like that. Always trying to be the protector, even when he was just as scared as I was.

In that moment, he looked both older than his years and terrifyingly young. A child forced to confront the fragility of life far too soon.

Paul met my gaze. His eyes wide with a mixture of fear and dawning realisation.

"I think she fell asleep again," he said. His voice low and urgent, meant only for my ears. "I didn't see a cat at all, and we wouldn't have sped up if there was a cat. We would have slowed down instead."

But I knew it wasn't sleep.

The pills made her sleep, yes. But this was different. This was the other thing. The thing that happened sometimes when Dad wasn't home. When something set her off. When the world didn't match whatever story she was telling herself.

"I know," I responded in a hushed voice. The words barely making it past the lump in my throat. "I think we were supposed to hit the car."

The words felt heavy. Laden with a significance I couldn't fully comprehend. It wasn't the first time I'd wondered if she actually wanted something bad to happen. If all the hospital visits and episodes were building to something worse.

"What do you mean?" he questioned. His brow furrowing in confusion.

"I saw it," I said. The memory of my vision flashing before my eyes once more — the twisted metal, the broken glass, the stillness that followed.

"Saw what?"

"The accident. Well, it was just a flash, but I felt it." I tried to explain, knowing how crazy it must sound, yet needing him to understand. "Like it had already happened, or was meant to happen."

"So why didn't we hit it?" Paul asked. His voice tinged with a mixture of scepticism and fear.

"Gloria," I whispered. My eyes wide with the realisation. "She was here. She stopped it."

Paul's face went pale.

He knew about Gloria, of course. Knew she'd been my friend in the hospital. Knew she'd died. But this was different. This was me claiming she'd intervened from beyond death.

I could see him struggling. Caught between wanting to dismiss it as trauma and desperately wanting to believe we had some kind of protection.

We were both startled when our mother climbed back into the car and slammed her door shut.

The gathered witnesses were dispersing, getting back into their cars. But I saw how they looked at us. With pity. With concern. With the kind of knowing that said they'd remember this. Maybe even report it to someone.

"Are you both okay back there?" she asked.

Her voice was eerily calm. As if the last few minutes hadn't happened. As if we hadn't just nearly died. Once again, she didn't turn to look at us. Her gaze fixed firmly ahead on the windscreen, though there was nothing to see but the suburban street.

We both responded with a quiet "Yes."

Neither of us daring to say more. What else could we say? No, we're not okay, you nearly killed us? That would only make things worse later, when the witnesses were gone and we were alone with her again.

"That's good," she said. Her tone flat and emotionless. The tears from moments ago completely gone, as if they'd never existed.

She turned the key. The engine coughed back to life on the third try.

"Let's go home. And don't go telling your father."

The threat in those last words was clear.

Dad couldn't know. Dad could never know. About this, about the pills, about any of it. That was the rule. Unspoken but absolute.

We sat in silence for the remaining five minutes it took to get home. The tension in the car so thick it was almost suffocating. Every turn she took made my body tense, waiting for another sudden swerve. Another "cat."

I felt a profound sense of relief when we finally pulled into the driveway.

Dad's bicycle wasn't there yet. He'd be home soon from work, but not soon enough.

As we exited the car, I caught Paul's eye.

We shared a look of understanding. A silent agreement that what had happened would stay between us. Dad would be home soon, and for now, that knowledge was enough to keep the fear at bay.

But as we walked towards the house, I couldn't help but wonder how long we could keep up this facade of normality. How many more near-misses could we survive?

And what would happen when our luck finally ran out?