How to Make Friends with the Dark

by Kathleen Glasgow

  What Thaddeus said, about leaving, getting out, it’s a dark thought, but it’s starting to roam around the corners of my brain.

  Karen pulls into the parking lot of the Stop N Shop and hands Shayna a card, like one of those gift cards you get for a store. There’s a picture of the Grand Canyon at sunset on it. “You two go and get what you need for the house, food-wise. This card will have money put on it the fifth of every month. It’s to be spent on groceries. To sell this card or to sell items purchased with this card is punishable by law. You can’t buy toothpaste, toilet paper, tampons, or anything like that. Only food items. Here’s the PIN.”

  She hands Shayna a piece of paper.

  “Score.” Shayna grabs the card and hops out of the car.

  Karen gives me a look. “Go with her, Tiger.”

  I run to catch up to Shayna in the parking lot, keeping my Boxes of Mom tucked tight under my arm. The Stop N Shop is nice and cool inside and Shayna sighs with pleasure. “It’s hot here. I had no idea how hot it was going to be. Jeez.”

  “It’s going to get hotter,” I mumble.

  Shayna swears, which makes me smile.

  She gazes around the Stop N Shop like she owns it, hands on her hips and her sunglasses on her head. Her tank top is pulled up a little and I glimpse the simple silver ring in her belly.

  I’m torn between being fascinated by her and hating her.

  Shayna grabs a cart and heads down the snack aisle, stopping at rows of chocolate cakes and doughnuts and Twinkies. She shovels boxes of Little Debbies into the cart.

  Then it’s a twelve-pack of Diet Coke. A bag of potato chips. A box of Lucky Charms. Ten yogurts (10 for $6! shouts the sign). Frozen egg rolls. A bag of frozen Tater Tots. When we hit the dairy aisle, she thumps a gallon of milk into the cart. My God, how does she stay so skinny?

  “Have you ever heard of vegetables?” I finally ask, exasperated.

  Her glance is withering. “Are you some kind of health nut?”

  “No, just a human being who knows the value of a lentil and some broccoli.” We round the corner to the produce section. I dump a bunch of broccoli and a bag of carrots in the cart.

  She tosses me a head of limp iceberg. “Happy now?”

  I hold my breath for an instant. Kiwis are right there. What will she do? Exclaim in delight? Or groan in disgust?

  She pokes one with her finger. “So gross. Like a testicle.”

  Not quite the most elegant answer to my DNA question, but close enough.

  She shudders, pushing the cart forward to the dry aisle, where I add bags of lentils and black beans.

  Shayna eyes them. “I’m not much of a cook. This isn’t going to be like Chopped or something. I’m easily distracted. Like, I burn things. Cooking is not my thing.”

  “Lentils and black beans, you can make a bunch at once and freeze them for later. And they’re cheap, see? But good for you,” I say. “My mom taught me to cook. She was good at it. When we had money.” My voice breaks. I pretend to examine some sale cans of peas so she can’t see my face.

  She murmurs, “That’s cool.”

  I drop a bag of rice in the cart, mentally adding up what we’ve spent so far, like my mom taught me to do, and I almost tell Shayna we should quit while we’re ahead, but I have a feeling she won’t care, because she’s heading for the rows of Hershey bars at the checkout counter.

  She dumps a bunch on the conveyor belt. Lady Spinoza is working the register. My mom always liked her. They used to joke about getting old, stuff about gray hairs and creaky knees. At my mother’s viewing, she pressed me so hard to her chest I could practically smell her lungs.

  Lady Spinoza dips our items over the scanner slowly, scrutinizing Shayna while talking to me. “I heard they had you in a home, eh? And now this, who is this?”

  I swallow. “My, um, my sister.”

  Lady Spinoza whistles. “Ay yi yi. That sounds like a big story, eh?”

  I nod.

  Lady Spinoza tsk-tsks. “She doesn’t look much older than you, Tiger. Two young girls on their own. Goddess help us all.”

  She tips her chin at Shayna, who’s chewing a fingernail with an expression of utter boredom on her face. “You better take good care of this little one, sis. I loved her ma.”

  Shayna spits out the fingernail and slings our bags in the cart. She tells Lady Spinoza, “It’s not a competition, sis.”

  Lady Spinoza raises her eyebrows at me as Shayna stalks away. “Watch out for that one, Tiger,” she whispers.

  In the parking lot on the way to Karen’s car, though, when I catch up to her, Shayna digs out a couple Hershey bars from the endless bags of snacks and hands one to me, like a tiny, sugary peace offering.

  The chocolate tastes good.

  * * *

  • • •

  Karen walks around the house making notes on a clipboard while I unpack the groceries.

  It’s been a long time since our refrigerator and cupboards have been this full. Sometimes, just a couple of times, when I was a lot younger, before she got the Bookmobile gig, I can remember my mom making food just for me, not for herself, and just drinking tea while I ate.

  I know now that she was stretching food. That she was worried.

  I swallow, gripping a can of tomato sauce so hard it feels like I could crush it.

  Shayna’s looking at her phone.

  Karen says loudly, to get her attention, “A caseworker will be doing home visits over the next several weeks. Someone should be assigned soon. I recommend some counseling as you two ease into the situation. It’s going to be complicated, but I don’t think it’s impossible, not with some hard work.”

  She looks pointedly at Shayna, who is now watching the foggy running water from the kitchen faucet with distaste.

  “I want to commend you, Shayna, for taking on Tiger’s care. I hope you don’t take it lightly. I’m not asking you to be her…parent, I’m asking you to be her guardian, her caretaker, with all that implies.”

  Shayna shuts off the water. “I can dig it. No problemo. Curfews, chastity belts, I’m down with the whole parenting thing.”

  Karen says, “Shayna. This isn’t a joke. This is a child’s welfare.”

  My sister holds up her hands. “Kidding.”

  Karen sighs. “Tiger, if you need anything, give me a call or a text. You have my number. Rhonda is assuming the cost of your phone until you and Shayna are on your feet.”

  I nod. I wonder what Thaddeus and LaLa and Sarah are doing. If my bunk is already occupied by some other sad and lonely kid. I look around my small house.

  I haven’t been here since the day after she died, and I can smell her, everywhere, in every corner and speck of dust.

  One moment she was, and the next moment she was in the hospital, and she wasn’t.

  It feels good to be back in my familiar house, but also horrible, and now I am a mess inside. I can barely understand what Karen is saying about guardianship papers, parenting classes, and court-ordered something or other. I just stand there, holding my Boxes of Mom, Karen’s voice sounding far, far away.

  After Karen leaves, Shayna jerks a thumb at the faucet, bringing me to. “What’s up with the water from hell?”

  “I don’t know. It was like that in the shower, too, before…” I pause. “I think my mom might have missed last month’s rent and the landlord won’t fix anything until he gets paid.”

  Shayna shakes her head. “Oh, no, hell no. That’s not gonna play here. You have the number? What’s the name?”

  I find it on my phone. “Gilberto. Gilberto Pacheco. He won’t pick up, though. He never does.”

  “He’ll pick up. I’ll telepathically will him to do so.” She laughs to herself.

  She takes my phone, presses his number. “Forgive me for the card I’m about to play, little
sister, but this shit cannot stand.”

  “Yes, hello, is this Gilberto? It is? Well, this is Shayna Franklin and I’m Grace Tolliver’s sister. That’s right. Grace Tolliver. Yes, the child whose mother just died. In the house you rent to them. No, no, you listen to me. You’re going to get over here and fix these shitty pipes stat or I’m calling the health department and, hell, maybe even the police, to report the unsanitary conditions that you have forced a child to live in for—” She mouths to me, How long? I shrug, not sure, so I just hold up ten fingers.

  “Three weeks, Gilberto. She can’t drink the water, she can’t take a shower in the water, and oh, Gilberto, she needs to take a shower. Don’t even get me started on this bizarre, grimy dress she’s wearing. I’ve got the health department on speed dial, Gilberto. I have an itchy finger, Gilberto. How many properties you own? Let me start Googling you—”

  She winks at me in triumph. “Super. I’ll see you then.”

  I have to admit, I’m impressed.

  “Boom,” she says. “Now show me the bathroom. I have to take a monster dump. I’ve been riding in a bus for like a million days and there was no way I was going to dump in that lady’s house with all you guys waiting in the other room.”

  I point to the bedroom. “Um, okay. I don’t think I needed to know that, but okay. In there. Turn left.”

  I sit on the floor because I’m afraid to sit on the couch. Maybe she was there…when it happened.

  Thaddeus texts me: How is it?

  I type, I mean, like literally . That’s what she’s doing right now.

  TMI! TMI! Also, two new kids. One’s a crier. One’s a hitter. I miss you already with your smelly dress.

  Thanks a lot.

  Hang in there. You want to have coffee this weekend?

  Sure.

  Don’t forget. I’m here for you if you need me.

  Shayna’s back, so I put my phone down. She’s changed into extremely formfitting pink velour Victoria’s Secret pajama bottoms and a white tank top and pink hoodie.

  I tug at the hem of my dress. She seems comfortable in herself, which unnerves me. I felt comfortable in my body when I was a little kid, but somewhere around eleven or so, when I started to get these boobs, I started feeling less so.

  Shayna tilts her head in the direction of our kitchen.

  “This,” she says, waving a hand. “This redness. Explain.”

  When I was twelve, my mother decided to spruce up the kitchen area by painting the counter and the wall red, but she also decided to paint everything on the counter and the wall red, so now we have a red kitty jar, a red toaster, a red coffeemaker, and a red microwave.

  When Cake saw it for the first time, she said, “This is like a kitchen of death, June,” which made my mother spit out the coffee in her newly red coffee cup.

  “My mom. She liked brightening stuff up,” I say.

  There’s a knock at the front door.

  Our landlord, Gilberto Pacheco, stands sheepishly on the other side, holding an enormous, rusty tool kit in one hand and series of complicated-looking pipes in the other. He does a double take when he sees my sister in her skin-tight pink outfit.

  He steps around her gingerly, like she might bite. Who knows, she might.

  To me, he says gravely, “I am very sorry about your mother, Tiger. I am now here to fix the water pipes.” He hustles into the bathroom first.

  Shayna chops a bunch of iceberg lettuce in a bowl, opens a few packets of the Little Debbies, and plops down on the couch. “Dinner and some downtime,” she announces, clicking on the remote. “My favorite time of day.”

  Everybody Loves Raymond pops on the screen.

  I stay, cross-legged, on the floor, listening to Mr. Pacheco grunt and groan in our small bathroom for the better part of an hour before he moves to the kitchen.

  My sister says nothing to me. Raymond’s wife yells at him, and so does his dad, and his mother whines. Those are the only sounds, except for Mr. Pacheco and the echoey pipes.

  Without my mom, this house doesn’t seem like a home anymore. It’s just a small adobe house with one bedroom and one bathroom, at the end of a long dirt road, with a red kitchen and mammoth sunflowers starting to poke through the dirt in the backyard. When my mother was here, the scuffed wood floor was charming and rustic, the cracks in the walls meant the house was aging in a poetic way. With a little paint, my mother turned the slivers along one wall into the green stems of flowers, and so we have daisies and roses and lilies trellising to the ceiling. The leaks in the roof when it rained meant the drops chiming into our pots and pans were an orchestra, and not an annoyance, or a potential safety hazard.

  But now, as I listen to Mr. Pacheco clanging pipes and swearing softly, it all looks lonely and disheveled. And poor.

  And I know it sounds cliché, but it’s true: love makes everything seem better, and love isn’t in this house anymore. Not that I can feel, anyway.

  Not yet.

  I feel like I’m drowning.

  The girl-bug stirs. She’s been sleeping. Unknown quantity, she whispers, motioning with a wing to my sister, on the couch. Anything could happen.

  Raymond whines to his wife and she whines back.

  This is the way it’s going to be, I guess.

  It takes Mr. Pacheco another hour to fix the pipes in the bath and kitchen, with a lot of swearing and banging. Shayna makes him drink a glass, just to be on the safe side. He starts to ask about rent, but she herds him out the door and plops back down on the couch.

  I head into the bathroom. I place my mother’s velvet bag carefully on the top of the vanity. I place a washcloth over her oatmeal soap. Cram her shampoos into the corner of the shower. Strip my clothes off.

  I don’t cry. I just stand beneath the water, letting it cascade over me.

  I haven’t eaten a real meal in so long my ribs are starting to press through my skin. Maybe I’ll gradually disappear into nothingness, my skin floating away, my body morphing into bleached bone in the desert. The animals will get me. I’ll become something else entirely, maybe, and not this terribly sad girl.

  Where do people go when they die? If my mother is somewhere, where is she? If we have souls, what happens to them? Do they just…float somewhere? Like vapor? It makes me dizzy, thinking about it all.

  When I get out, I find some yoga pants and a loose T-shirt, grab the hamper, and scoot by Shayna on the couch. She’s flipping through channels and muttering.

  The washer and dryer are in the backyard in a small building. My mom said that a potter used to own this house in the 1960s and used the outbuilding as his studio, which is why there’s running water for a washer and electricity for a dryer and two big, dusty windows. There are a lot of artist types in Mesa Luna, weavers and painters and jewelry people. There’s even a woman who makes paintings out of bottle caps, painstakingly applying them to wood or canvas. You think it’s just bottle caps, but when she’s done, there’s a pattern, and an image. She’s actually really famous. She was on the Today show once.

  It’s a pain to walk out here to do clothes in the winter, when it’s cold, but it beats having to drive to town and hope the Spin Cycle is open, which it often isn’t. It’s also where my mom stores our jams and jellies in the winter, since it stays cool. I open the shed door and rows and rows of bright jars on shelves stare back at me. Around this time of year, my mom would be checking out the Jellymobile, testing the engine, the tires, getting it ready for the summer. I look out the tiny window of the shed at the Jellymobile, tucked under its winter tarp in the backyard.

  I put my dress in the washer and reach back into the hamper and pull out the Boxes of Mom.

  “Look,” I say to her softly. “I’m doing the laundry. You didn’t even have to ask.”

  The Boxes of Mom say nothing.

  I dig into the hamper, come up
with a fistful of her clothes.

  The smell of her surrounds me and makes my heart beat faster.

  Do you wash the clothes of a dead person? What do you do with their clothes? Keep them in the closet, pushed way off to the sides? I know my mom used to get all our clothes from thrift stores, but it feels weird to think of someone wearing her clothes. Like, what if I run into Lady Spinoza at the Stop N Shop and she’s wearing my mom’s gray T-shirt with the faded tulip on it?

  A giant tsunami of hopelessness swirls through me then: What if, in the end, all we are is a bunch of dirty clothes and gritty bits of oatmeal soap, to be thrown out and left on the street? I don’t want that to be true, but maybe it is. Maybe that’s just what a person’s life ends up being.

  Maybe that’s how small our lives really are, no matter how much we try to make them big while we are alive.

  I look at the boxes. “What should I do?”

  The Boxes of Mom stay silent.

  I wash her clothes.

  I stay in the shed through the whole wash cycle and the dry cycle, folding everything up very carefully and putting it all back in the hamper. I take off my yoga pants and T-shirt and slide the dress back on. The blood on the sleeve is just a pink stain now.

  The Boxes of Mom go on top of the folded clothes.

  Shayna’s half-asleep on the couch when I get back in the house. She sits up, rubbing her eyes, then yelps. “Shit, my makeup.” She’s rubbed her eyes into raccoon eyes.

  While she’s in the bathroom, I hop into the bed, hiding my phone under the covers. The sheets and blanket smell musty and unused. I should have washed and changed them, too.

  When Shayna comes out, her face is pink and scrubbed. She looks even younger without any makeup.

  “I’m going to sleep.” I pull the blanket up to my neck.

  Shayna looks around the room. At me. At the one bed.

  “I’ll probably just fall asleep out there. I have my bag.” She points to a sleeping bag in the corner. A pink pillow that matches her pink duffel rests on top. I look through the doorway. To the couch. We only have one bedroom and my mom and I shared for years, until I turned thirteen and she said we should split up, that I needed my space. At first, I was a little put out. I liked sleeping with my mother, the two of us reading until we were drowsy and fell asleep with the lights on, but after a while, I understood, and I started to make the room my own, painting each wall a different color: blue, lilac, purple. I had glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and skate posters, and when Cake came over, we could close the door and talk about her boyfriend, the one who broke her heart.