How to Make Friends with the Dark

by Kathleen Glasgow

  I spent yesterday afternoon in the shed, looking things up on my phone like:

  What happens when you die?

  Help me my mom died

  How to live without your mom

  My mom died

  The most popular searches for the last one are:

  My mom died today

  My mom died of cancer

  My mom died now what

  I wish I had that on a T-shirt: My Mom Died Now What.

  Maybe if I wore it long enough, someone would give me the answer.

  There are apps and crisis lines and places to leave notes about your grief and to find people you don’t even know to talk about your dead person. There’s a whole world of dying out there that I didn’t know existed. A whole world of crying and hearts with Grand Canyon–sized holes. A whole world of people teetering on the edges of black holes.

  I finish putting my books in my backpack. My sister looks up, her eyes red.

  “Are you crying?” I ask softly. “Is he being mean?”

  She wipes her face. “Just forget about it. You have too much to deal with, anyway. You don’t need all my crap, too. You ready to go? I have an appointment after I drop you off.”

  When we pass by the table, she looks down at the manila envelope and swears under her breath.

  “Maybe you should open that,” I say tentatively. “It looks important.”

  She grabs it and stuffs it in her bag. “Yeah. Just one more thing, right? Like I don’t have enough on my plate.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Mae-Lynn pokes me in Grief Group. Walrus Jackson isn’t here yet. Taran and Alif are on their phones and Lupe is at a game.

  “Where’s my bottle?” she whispers.

  I grimace. “About that. It’s kind of…gone. I kind of…drank it.”

  “You drank the whole thing?” Her voice is loud and Taran looks up.

  “There wasn’t that much, I mean, but yeah. And then I passed out and my sister found me and I threw up. My mom’s…the death certificates came.”

  Mae-Lynn says, “Oh. That’s hard. Really final. A lot of medical jumbo, but what it really means is: yep, still dead.”

  “Yeah.”

  Alif pipes up. “Hey, did you guys keep their clothes? I did. Is that weird? I have one of Dad’s sweaters, from this time we went camping, and it still smells like the campfire smoke. And him.”

  Mae-Lynn says, “I burned a lot of his sick stuff. I was so…you know. My mom keeps his dresser full of his clothes, though.”

  “My mom’s clothes are in our closet,” I say. “I feel weird giving them away. Like if I do, she didn’t matter or something. But her clothes meant something to her.”

  Mae-Lynn says, “The person is gone, though. The clothes aren’t the person.”

  Taran shakes his head. “But they smell like them. And they have memories, like the campfire sweater. You can’t just give those up. They are…” He pauses.

  “Last little bits of them. Last little bits of their lives with you,” Alif says. “Like if you keep giving away their stuff, eventually you won’t have anything left of them.”

  Alif rubs his chin. He’s trying to grow a goatee, and it doesn’t look like much is happening. “You know, Tiger girl, I gotta ask. The dress. What’s going on there? I mean, you used to wear funky shit, but now you’re just wearing the same funky shit like every single day. Plus a funky hat.”

  They all look at me. Outside the classroom, the janitor is running the mop up and down the hallway. There’s a leak in a ceiling pipe. I can hear the wheels of the yellow bucket clanking on the tiled floor.

  “My mom bought it for Memorial Days. The dance. Without telling me. And we had a fight. And then she died. And I’m never taking it off.”

  Taran looks like he might cry.

  “That’s hardcore love, Tiger.”

  His brother nods. Mae-Lynn smiles.

  I was afraid they’d tell me I was crazy, that I should get rid of it, stop wearing it, but they don’t.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  Mr. Jackson lumbers in with a stack of folders in his hands. Sometimes I forget now that he’s a counselor for all kids, not just us, and that he has a real job here at the school.

  “Folks, we have a development.”

  He plops his folders down on the desk and slides into a chair. “We have to find a new meeting place for next week. This is our last day of school, after all, and then they’re going to be doing some renovations. I thought we could meet at the county library, or maybe drive into Sierra Vista as a group, but then a wonderful opportunity presented itself.”

  He gives us a big grin.

  “How would you like to spend a week with horses?”

  Alif says, “What?”

  Taran says, “Like, horse-horses? The big kind? No way. No way. I don’t even know how to ride a horse.”

  “I don’t have money for that,” I say. “Camps cost money.”

  “Now, hear me out,” Mr. Jackson says. “I ran into Randy Gonzalez the other day at the coffee shop and I was telling him about you all, and our little group, and he says he often has sick kids out there to stay, kids who have disadvantages and the like. They stay in a little house, visit with the horses and other animals—oh Lord, he’s got ducks and turtles, goats, the works—they learn to ride, and how to take care of horses.”

  “Wait,” I say. “Like, the ranch ranch? Caballo Dorado?” That’s where Thaddeus works. I could see him for a whole week, practically.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mr. Jackson, well, beam. “Yes, that one.”

  “I’m afraid of horses. And what do you mean, we’d be in a house together?” Mae-Lynn says. “Like, with them?” She points to the boys.

  “There are two guesthouses on the property. You two could be in one, the boys in the other. Lupe will be at a U orientation event, so she wouldn’t be joining us. I go back home every evening. No one has to pay. Mr. Gonzalez is going to put you to work. Mucking stables, feeding the horses. You’ll learn how to care for one of God’s greatest creatures. We’ll have sessions, too. But I think being somewhere else might prove beneficial. Rejuvenating. Animals are therapeutic, you know. Even chickens, or so I’ve heard.”

  I think of the stony silence between me and my sister. The way the house seems so empty and cold and different. She’ll probably be glad to be rid of me for a while.

  And I could see Thaddeus. Like, every day. Because I miss him. Not in that way, but in a he-knows-how-this-feels way.

  “I’m in,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

  Mae-Lynn sighs. “I’ll try to convince my mom. But I’m not getting on a horse.”

  Taran and Alif look at each other. “Okay, we’ll ask our mom,” Alif says. “But is it okay if we leave a little early today? We’ve gotta get ready for the dance.”

  Mr. Jackson nods. “I’m thrilled. And yes, you can leave early. Now let’s get started.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Mae-Lynn has her mom’s car, so we drive to Cucaracha after the meeting to get blue Icees and then drive back to Eugene Field and park at the far end of the lot.

  We watch as kids hang pretty golden string lights up in the mesquite trees out front, place luminarias along the front steps and sidewalks and light them up.

  It’s the Memorial Days dance.

  Mae-Lynn slurps her Icee thoughtfully as we watch the van with the band arrive. They unload their equipment, hustle up the steps, arms full.

  “Have you ever been to a dance?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “We could go in together,” she says hesitantly. “I mean, if you wanted to. No one would even notice us. We could just watch, inside. You are dressed for it.”

  She gives me a weak smile and pat
s my dress.

  I think about that. There are some kids arriving in nice cars, probably rented, stepping out in pretty dresses, well-pressed suits, corsages pinned just so. In the fading light, the luminaria lanterns on the walkway look beautiful and magical.

  “I think you have to have tickets, maybe?” I say. I was supposed to be one of these kids, though it seems like a long time ago now. “I don’t know. But…no.”

  Cake is inside, I know that. The school band is going to play some songs first. We’ve still been quiet around each other. I feel like things are changing.

  I pull out my phone.

  I know you probably got into the music camp. I’m really happy for you. I can’t wait to hear all about it. It’s okay to tell me.

  It takes a long time for her to answer.

  I don’t want to leave you. I’m not going.

  You are. It would make me feel horrible if you missed out just to stay with me.

  I pause. Mae-Lynn is watching me.

  And I already feel horrible. Right? Nothing is going to change that. So go. Because that would make me a tiny bit happy.

  Cake writes, I hate you and I love you.

  I slide my phone into my backpack, breathe deeply.

  More cars pull up, kids spilling out. The glossy dresses, the swinging hair. Girls in makeup, girls in tuxes.

  Mae-Lynn says, “Those girls look really pretty. I like girls. I like boys, too, I guess. Does that weird you out?”

  I look at her. She looks scared, like maybe I’m the first person she’s ever told, and I probably am, since she’s lower than me on the Eugene Field Ladder of Desolation.

  “No,” I say. “Just love who you want, you know? Life is so much shit. We should just be able to love who we want.”

  “I’m too confused to even do anything about it. But I keep thinking that’s a thing about me my dad will never know. The biggest thing.” Her voice gets very quiet. “I think he would have loved me just the same.”

  Her hand finds mine across the front seat.

  “There’s so much about me he’ll never know,” she says softly. “That’s the hardest.”

  Even though I don’t look at her, I know she’s crying, and I am, too. I scoop her fingers tighter.

  Music starts to pump out the school windows. Laughter.

  Mae-Lynn and I sit in the car, not saying anything, watching everyone else have the best years of their lives.

  Someday, when people ask us about high school, and dances, and kisses, and all that stuff, I know that what we’ll remember most of all is how normal was stolen from us.

  27 days

  MY SISTER DOESN’T BAT an eye when I mention the ranch. She just keeps looking at her laptop, curled up on the couch. “That sounds nice,” she says. “A week? That will be fun.”

  “It doesn’t cost anything,” I say.

  She snorts. “Well, that’s good, because we couldn’t spare it, anyway.” Her eyes flick across the screen.

  “What are you looking at that’s so interesting?” I ask tentatively, moving around the couch.

  She snaps the lid shut. “Nothing.” Picks at her cuticles.

  I take a deep breath, just like Walrus Jackson said to when we wanted to talk about something we needed.

  “I was hoping that maybe, when I get back, maybe we could talk about calling Da— Dustin.” My heart’s beating so loud I can barely hear my voice. “I feel like it’s really important to me, to talk to him.”

  My sister keeps her eyes on her nails. Scrape, scrape, pick, pick.

  “He’s the only parent I have left.” I pause. “I mean, you still have a mom, at least.”

  Shayna keeps looking at her nails. Scrape, scrape, purple polish drifting to the floor. “Yes and no,” she says mildly. “I wouldn’t say we were ever besties, but she’s not speaking to me right now. Because I’m here. Helping you. I’m a traitor.”

  Her voice trembles.

  I don’t know what to say.

  The girl-bug says, Don’t cry!

  My sister looks up at me. Her eyes are bright. “But you know what? Fine,” she says. “It’s fine.”

  “For reals?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “For reals. But it might not turn out the way you want. I just want you to know that. But okay.”

  “I’m not trying to take him from you—”

  She stands up abruptly, the laptop sliding off her legs. “It’s fine. It is what it is.”

  Clipped, done. That’s her way, I guess.

  She slides a scrunchie down her wrist and pulls up her hair.“I’m gonna go for a walk. Your turn to make dinner?”

  Softly, I say, “It’s always my turn to make dinner.”

  She chucks me under the chin before turning toward the front door. “You do it so well!”

  She leaves.

  I look down at her laptop.

  I look at the door.

  I open the laptop, tap.

  The window pops up. Beautiful Boise! A winter wonderland. Resort jobs, benefits, natural wonders. I click on another tab. She has like twelve up.

  Come to Maine! Discover your Maine thing.

  Make Minnesota your destination, ya, you betcha!

  All the tabs, different towns, cities. Everywhere but Mesa Luna.

  I close the laptop.

  I think she wants to move, I text Cake.

  But Cake doesn’t answer, because she’s in New York, enjoying the sights with her family on vacation before music camp in Massachusetts. She left the day after the dance.

  She’s probably at a play or a concert. It’s three hours later, there.

  I go into the bedroom.

  “I think she wants to move,” I tell my Boxes of Mom. “This is the only place we’ve ever been.”

  No answer.

  I’m getting used to that by now.

  27 days, 16 hours

  THADDEUS IS THE ONE who greets us inside the big front gates. Walrus Jackson picked me and Mae-Lynn up; Taran and Alif followed in their pickup truck.

  At Caballo Dorado, I feel it the moment I get out, the same as I did the first day Thaddeus brought me here: the smell of the horses, the excitement of movement, the sun hot on my face.

  Thaddeus grins at me first, and that makes me feel special. Then he gets all serious, and leads us around, showing us the hacienda, which is the main house where Mr. Gonzalez lives, and the kitchen where we can get snacks and make food.

  The guesthouses have neat, elaborately carved wood furniture and brightly colored pillows and blankets. Mae-Lynn whispers, “It’s like we’ll be college roomies or something,” and even though I get a little pang for Cake, what Mae-Lynn says is kind of fun, and cool, because she’s right, and I’m excited to have all of this.

  Like, here is me going away to camp. Doing stuff. Like the other kids do.

  At the stables, Thaddeus turns us over to a leather-faced guy named Marco, who immediately looks at Taran’s, Alif’s, and Mae-Lynn’s shoes and clucks his tongue. “Y’all gonna get shit on yer shoes. I’ll see if we can scare up some boots. That’s a pity. Hope you’re ready for hard work.” He grins at Walrus Jackson, who laughs. Walrus is decked out in shiny cowboy boots and a tall hat and looks ridiculously excited to be here. I’m pretty sure he’s not going to be getting his boots dirty, though. I think he just likes dressing the part.

  Marco walks us down the middle of the stable. It’s early afternoon, and the horses are in after their morning routine and training, he tells us. They need to be iced, and he shows us an interesting machine, kind of like a giant bathtub. You walk the horses inside, close the door, and turn it on, and cold water floods around them, soothing sore muscles.

  The horses snuffle and stamp. Mae-Lynn looks nervous. Marco says, “They’ll smell that, girl. They’ll use it against you.
They are smart and playful and they like to tease, but they’re also big, dangerous, and heavy, and they take no shit.”

  At that, he turns to face all of us. “If I see any one of you, ever, mistreating any of my horses, you are out of here. No second chances. No explanations. You are out. There is no call to treat an animal cruelly or carelessly. Is that understood?”

  We all nod.

  “Good. The first thing is boots. Feel free to walk around, get to know our family, be gentle, and then when I get back, it’s shit-shoveling time.” He grins.

  As soon as he’s gone, Taran says, “Oh my God, this place stinks.”

  Alif covers his mouth. Mae-Lynn looks freaked out. “They’re so big,” she says, but she starts walking anyway, looking at the horses in their stalls.

  I follow her. She’s right. Most of them are regal-seeming, with kind of long and elegant necks. I remember Thaddeus telling me these were Arabians, a very old type of horse.

  Mae-Lynn reaches out, slowly, to touch one horse. The horse is utterly still, but as soon as Mae-Lynn’s fingers reach her mane, she shakes her head violently and sneezes all over Mae-Lynn’s hand. “Uhhh,” she says. “So gross. Oh my God.” But she laughs.

  “She’s so soft, you guys,” she calls out to Taran and Alif. They’re still standing by the doors. Walrus Jackson is busy nuzzling the face of a chestnut-colored horse down the way.

  Taran and Alif look at each other and then start walking, shyly checking out the horses in each stall.

  I keep walking, inhaling the smell of the stable, horses’ sweat, all of it. Is this what my mom loved? The whole thing? Last night I spent hours looking up things like bridles, reins, saddles, brushes, boots.

  At the end of the row on the right, a horse much smaller than the others stares at me.

  There’s a funny-looking kind of splint on one of her legs. She holds it a little above the ground. She flicks her eyes at me.

  “Hey there,” I say. I look at her stall gate, the sign that says her diet and name. “Opal.”

  Marco comes sauntering through the double doors, his arms full of boots. “Oh, you found our tough girl. Messed up her leg pretty bad a while back, but she’s coming around. She’s a little runty, but got a lot of heart.”