Raising Little Tabby Jack

Tabitha Jackie Moore’s eyes stared fearfully at the policewoman who had escorted her as the paramedics transported her to the hospital for rape tests and treatment for shock and dehydration. The woman didn’t seem particularly sympathetic, and Tabby Jack, as she often insisted on being called, desperately needed someone to comfort her!
She’d been catatonic from screaming and crying for hours when the SWAT unit had charged into her home and rescued her from the three home invaders who had brutally murdered her father and mother. It came out as they were interrogated they had particularly enjoyed raping the pretty thirteen-year old as her mother was forced to watch. Both she and her mother had been strangled and raped repeatedly. A concerned neighbor with acute hearing had thankfully detected Tabby’s shrill screams of terror and reported them. Unfortunately, her mother had died from the horrible treatment before the police arrived
That’s where I come into the story. I’m Jack Wilson. The police had found the papers in my best friend’s desk assigning me power of attorney over the couple’s concerns and called me. I’d been shocked and enraged to hear of the murders, and dropped everything and somehow managed to avoid being arrested for speeding as I rushed to my Goddaughter’s side!
The hospital room door opened and a nurse showed me in. The policewoman had to physically restrain Tabby from leaping from the bed and running to me! “Tabitha,” the woman spoke,”be careful, you’ll rip out your I.V.” I quickly walked to the other side of the hospital bed and picked Tabby up, she clung tightly to me and sobbed.
Tears of rage, loss, and sorrow for her streamed down my own face and fell on her gown as I held the young teen, all that remained of my two best friends. The nurse told me, “We’ve put her on enough sedatives to knock out a horse, but she’s refused to give in to it. She must have incredible willpower!”
“She’s been in survival mode. She’ll rest with me here, she trusts me to protect her,” I told the nurse. Rest she did for the next two days, as I sat in a chair and held her in my arms. I spent most of those long hours adoring her beautiful face and stroking her long auburn hair as she so loved for me to do. One of the cutest tricks she’d learned as a toddler was to climb into my lap, meow, and beg me, “Pet the Tabby, Jack!” Thinking of the torture she’d gone through and the bruises on her slender neck made my eyes stream bitter tears. I so wished I’d been beside her dad in his final fight for their lives as I’d been with him in so many fights!
I only put her back in her bed when I went to the restroom or showered, and when the doctors and nurses examined her or bathed her. The nurses were very kind in bringing meals to me. They knew the whole story now, and I suppose they knew I couldn’t bear to leave her side to go to the cafeteria. The murders had made the front pages of the papers and the news channels all over the country, “Police Officer and Wife brutally slain!” The doctors and nurses seemed to accept my presence as part of her therapy treatment.
I left her room only once in those first two days to go to my truck for the fresh clothes and my shaving kit I had there. I made one of the nurses promise to stay by her side while I rushed to and from the truck. Tabby was just waking up when I walked back into the room and she desperately reached for me. I put my bag down, cradled her in my arms, and sat back down in my chair beside her bed. She kissed my cheek, hugged me, and went back to sleep, feeling safe in my arms.
On the third day they reduced her sedation. I talked reassuringly to her as she awoke. I asked her if she had any relatives or other friends she was close to she wanted to see, or might want to visit or stay with, and she told me there was only me. She cried for a long while then as I held her close. She needed this time to grieve her terrible losses, as did I.
Her father, Bob Moore, had been my best friend since boot camp years ago. We’d helped liberate Kuwait in the same unit and did one H.A.L.O. (High Altitude Low Open) night jump behind the lines on a mission into Iraq. We were closer than most brothers. After I’d been blown damned near to hell by a land mine another troop had been killed by stepping on, he had his wife visit me in the hospital stateside until he got home and could take over most of the bedside vigils. He had picked up on his civilian job as a police officer when he returned, and often visited me in uniform before or after a shift.
They’d insisted I move in with them when I was discharged from the military hospital, so I’d have a home to go to, then each had assisted me to and from my rehabilitation appointments until I could drive again. When the baby came along the proud couple had done me the great honor of naming me her Godfather, and giving her the middle name Jackie.
I had been given a full disability retirement from the military, due to various permanent problems, both physical and mental. I bought my own place so Bob and his wife would have their privacy again and a nursery room for the baby, but we’d visited at least weekly ever since. I was invited to every poker game, fishing trip, vacation, birthday, and anniversary party.
Tabby Jack had become my best buddy too, to the point of her insisting I was the only person she would allow to babysit her whenever it was needed. Have I mentioned she was a strong willed child? She would beg her mom and dad to let her spend nights or weekends playing at my house. We played ball, went swimming, camped out (usually in my yard) and went fishing. I always insisted she put the icky bait on my hook and hers, but it never seemed to work out that way. She had been the darling daughter I would never have, and now it appeared she was mine to finish raising for the worst possible reasons.
She told me she was hungry and I buzzed for a nurse to see if she was allowed anything to eat yet. I spoon-fed her some broth for her first meal of her hospital stay. They’d been feeding her intravenuously.