“And my mother loved history- she was a librarian and did restoration on lots of old books. The town wouldn’t let her near the archives because the mayor, who served fifteen terms…” Mrs. Wilson poured herself the last of some wine she’d been meaning to save for her late ex-husband’s birthday in a week. She’d been droning on about the family legacy of historic preservation since Hazel and Maddy had walked through the door with takeout.

“And if the CDC thought they could take that away she would’ve told them to take their authority and shove it up their-”

Maddy held a hand on Hazel’s shoulder while her mother ranted. “She’ll pass out soon enough. See the sticker?” She whispered as quietly as she could without being completely drowned out. Both girls eyed the logo on the wine bottle for just a moment before resuming unsuspicious postures and pretending not to notice. “That stuff is for lightweights.”

There were many things Maddy knew that Hazel didn’t, but her mother’s alcohol tolerance wasn’t on the list. “I don’t think so…” How loud to whisper, however, was somewhere near the top.

“Are you even listening? I give my life to you, almost twenty years and you don’t even listen to me at my darkest time?”

“Uh, we were just wondering if there were any pictures from back then,” Hazel lied, hoping Maddy would play along. “You know, I don’t really know much about her from before she moved to Kentucky.” Maddy grinned, basking in the pitiful nature of the excuse.

“I gotta go home, but you know, it’s always fun when my dad gets the album out. You two have fun!” She excused herself and left. Maddy had been Hazel’s ride, being the only licensed driver out of the two. Her customized motorcycle always felt like something of a deathtrap to Hazel, but it was convenient.

Hazel’s mother stood up as soon as Maddy was out the door and left the room. There were many thumping sounds, and a few muttered curses. A few drawers opened and slammed. In a few minutes, she returned with a messy pile of books that slipped onto the living room floor before any gesture was made to intentionally deposit them.

“You don’t remember your grandmother?” Mrs. Wilson hiccupped. Hazel looked at the books. She’d never seen most of them before in her life. The few she had seen, she could only vaguely remember from when she was very young.

She glanced from the books to her mother, back and forth, waiting for some sort of explanation. One did not come. Her mother stumbled to a recliner across the room and turned on the television. “Just find the one with Mum sweetie, I need my news…” she said before proceeding to yell, whine and giggle at a political commentary show.

Hazel began to look through the books, not out of interest in them, but out of fear her mother would notice if she ignored them. There was one full of photos of her immediate family, starting with her parents wedding photos. They looked so much more fun-loving before she was born. The album was current, reaching all the way to her senior portrait and graduation photos. She cringed at the sight of a huge breakout the retouching couldn’t completely get rid of- not how she would’ve liked to remember high school.

Octa sprawled across the book heap, laying across only half of the tomes (though it would've been easy to cover them all) and reaching a large, fluffy paw towards a very dusty, leather cover. Hazel silently took the hint. There were no photos in the leather book. Rather than an album, it was more like a very old scrapbook. The moment she opened it, a damaged piece of paper fell out.

The paper was old and very discolored, with handwritten letters only partially legible. Much of the ink had faded away or smudged too badly to be interpreted, including the signature at the bottom. Only part of the page was accounted for. Just inside the book, the upper third was messily glued to the equally distressed first page. Octa purred loudly, prompting Hazel’s mother to look over.

“Oh there are no pictures in that one- that’s older than Mom,” she explained before returning her attention to the television.

For just a moment, Hazel considered her options: ask questions now and hope her mother wasn’t too drunk to be trusted or risk waiting until later and losing the book. “Hey mom, do you know what it is then?” She carefully turned the pages, looking for anything in promising condition.

A small scrap of canvas with a painting of a cat caught her eye. It was patterned like Octa, but looked much too petite to be a match. She pretended to stretch and pushed the book close to the massive feline, who in turn, rubbed against the painting, not leaving behind hair, but drawing attention to a few long strands stuck in the glue. They matched well enough.

Hazel’s mother leaned over the arm of the recliner, but didn’t get up. “It’s older than pictures. At least, the kind we're used to… Think it was great-great-grandpa Clyde. My great-great-grandpa, not yours. Him and his wife… I forgot her name. They were Balls.”

Hazel thanked her and returned to the book. There was another painting sewn into the binding only a few pages later. It was in very poor condition, but showed a man who looked an awful lot like the sailor who adopted… Could she even be sure Octa was fully a cat and not part mountain lion? Bobcat? Panther, even? Regardless, the cat had helped get her a name: Clyde Ball. The next question to answer was when he died.