Free Warpaint by Stephanie A. Smith

tomatoes. Mom tried to give me a home, but all we had were rentals. Even so, she taught me how to cook with fresh everything. That’s how come her restaurant did so well. She grew her own, before it became all the rage. Now I want to do it. I want a home, a horse – and cat, too.”
    â€œA cat I can understand. They’re no bother. What kind of a cat?”
    Quiola’s cheeks colored. “Siamese. Actually, I’ve already found one.”
    â€œYou have, have you? That’s funny. Did you know Liz used to raise Siamese?”
    â€œNo! Did she actually breed them?”
    C.C. nodded. “When I was a kid. She had about twenty at one point. Kind of scared me, all those tiny pairs of wide blue eyes. Where did you find your baby?”
    â€œOnline. While you were recovering, I spent some nights on the Internet. Just to pass the time. I couldn’t read and I didn’t want to bother you with the television, so I surfed. Eventually, she found me.”
    â€œ
She
found
you?
”
    After they made their order, Quiola explained. “Petfinder is a website that searches rescue shelters and such, by preference. I decided I wanted a Siamese kitten. So I just kept typing in my preferences until Amelia’s face popped up. She’s perfect, just three months old.”
    â€œOf course. Everyone’s cat – or dog – is perfect.”
    â€œNo, she’s really –”
    â€œYou
are
in love, aren’t you.”
    Quiola made a sheepish grin. “Guess so. I can’t get her until she’s old enough, and the shelter spays her. That’ll be next month.”
    â€œWell, now that the question of the cat is settled, I think we’re going to have to find you that horse, hmm?”
    And so they talked about pragmatic matters, how much they might get for the City flat, what to do with the Paris one, and what they might expect to buy in Connecticut because Quiola wanted to be to hand when C.C. needed help. Tacitly they avoided talking about the real nitty-gritty of what kind of help but soon got a taste of it later, when the younger woman was jolted out of bed by C.C. crying, pitiful and terrible – “Quiola! Quiola – Oh god –”
    Quiola bolted downstairs from the loft, her heart-valves shutting like a submarine in dive. Breathless, she found C.C. kneeling on the tiled floor of the bathroom, cradling the toilet, as if drunk. The floor was lousy with vomit, pasta marinara redux. Quiola put one hand on the older woman’s shoulder, while her other hand felt for fever. But C.C.’s forehead was cool.
    â€œCan you stand up? Has it passed? Is it over?”
    â€œOh, god, oh god –”
    â€œOkay. Just rest. Tell me, when you’re ready to get back in bed. Tell me what you need. When you can.”
    â€œJesus,” said C.C. violently. “Look at that. Would you look at that?” She lifted her head, and pointed in the toilet. The water was a bright, fire-engine red.
    â€œYou’re bleeding? Where’s the damn phone, I’m calling 911.”
    C.C. blinked, like someone coming to from a coma and started to laugh.
    â€œC.C., what’s
happening
?”
    C.C. put her arms around Quiola’s waist. “Oh God, I thought I was bleeding too, and the sight of it scared me so much I puked my guts out. But you know what that is? Not blood – it’s the dye. From the chemo. Nurse Barbara warned me about peeing red, but I forgot.” She smiled weakly. “Silly me.”
    Â 
    â™¦
    Â 
    â€œWould you have enough space, here, do you think?” asked the real estate agent, Molly Limon, had already shown Quiola two weeks worth of properties.
    â€œBest we’ve seen so far,” she said, but she wasn’t impressed. She’d miss the City flat, right in the middle of Chelsea. The well-seasoned wood floors, warmed by an old oriental rug, and the kitschy plastic beads of the kitchen entry