Bono

For all its challenges, an author’s life has expanded my world in ways I would never have imagined. No doubt the contrast between emptying garbage at home and being treated like royalty in an Austrian castle or strolling the shores of Lake Como with my Italian translator had contributed to my restlessness.

At book fairs and on tour in various countries there were encounters that will stay with me a lifetime—the woman in Warsaw who stood up and said through an interpreter that our family was Poland’s family; in Japan weeping with tsunami victims who simply wanted to express their pain. I’ll never forget giving a reading in Vienna in an exquisite room where Mozart had performed, or meeting high school students in Portugal to learn they faced the same challenges as Australian teenagers. Wherever I go I meet people whose animal guardians have helped them through loss and pain.

The emails are often deeply moving, too. I try to respond to them all. Every now and then, a reader travels across the globe to meet Jonah. He has received guests from Italy, Canada, Switzerland, and France. They’ve all been women with a happy blend of intelligence and charm. While Jonah holds court, I serve homemade banana cake, which seems a trifle considering how far they’ve traveled.

The machine hummed to life and the screen lit up with an expectant air. I drew a breath and typed “Huffington Post Blog.” Headings are always easy. Two coffees and a fruit tart later, I raised my fingers to the keyboard again.

Bono was the strangest looking cat I’d ever seen . . .

Chapter Twenty

BROKEN WINDOW, OPEN HEART

A woman’s best bodyguard is her cat.

I finished the first blog post and pressed send. Though words can be powerful and enduring, I wasn’t confident they’d be enough to change the life of my four-legged lodger. No matter how much I played down his illness and how appealing I made him seem, the notion of a Huffington Post reader wanting to adopt him was nothing short of fanciful.

With my newfound freedom, it was time to get out and among it. If the buzz of the city couldn’t lift my mood, nothing would.

Since trading in my boots for a pair of running shoes with marshmallow soles, I’d started to appreciate walking. Like most New Yorkers, I was probably averaging four miles a day, but the sidewalks were hard on my feet. Even if I owned a thousand pairs of shoes in this city I’d still end up wearing soft-cushioned sneakers every day.

I clomped down the hill toward Grand Central Station and stopped outside the dress shop Lydia had loved so much. There was no point going inside to look at clothes that didn’t suit or fit me.

I needed to be around people, so I headed to Times Square. The Naked Cowboy tipped his hat. He wasn’t technically nude, but there was still a mountain of flesh on display. I remember how amused Lydia had been by his strategically placed guitar. I stood under the National Debt Clock and watched the numbers spin at a dizzying pace. The clock seemed to be warning that everyone’s lives were flicking away at great speed and it was about time we took notice. Times Square used to be fun when Lydia was here. Now it was just crowded and tawdry.

The blazing neon signs hurt my eyes. A hawker in a matted Elmo outfit pestered me to pose for a photo with him. After I sent him away, he wandered off to a bench, took his head off, and lit a cigarette. The man under the Elmo mask looked so disillusioned and exhausted, I went over and tossed him some coffee money.

From Times Square I escaped to the relative sanctuary of the diner where Lydia and I had shared our first meal. Without her, I felt vulnerable trying to keep pace with the tide of humanity, at the same time fighting my antipodean tendency to veer left.

Maybe I’d taken on this adventure thirty years too late. What if I fell over, dropped my wallet, or lost my passport? Getting mugged didn’t worry me so much. Out on the street, I was a single blood cell pulsing through a vein—too anonymous to be singled out for attack. Besides, there was no sense in worrying about something beyond my control.

“S’cuse me, Ma’am,” a male voice said as I paused to cross at a red light. “Your shoelace is undone.”

It was a casual act of kindness but it cheered me up. Perhaps New York would one day feel like home to this stranger from another land.