How to Make Friends with the Dark

by Kathleen Glasgow

  “I fought with her. I said I wanted her to just leave me alone. And then she did. The very last thing she heard from me was horrible. Can you imagine?”

  My voice cracks.

  “And the last thing she wanted me to do was to wear this dress. So I did.”

  Teddy is quiet for a long time. I can hear sounds from the television down in the next room. The show Shayna liked. Chung, chung.

  Teddy’s voice is soft. “Tiger, the last thing your mama probably wished for you was to be happy. Not to wear a dress until it’s falling off you. Not to hurt yourself in her memory, and to lash out at others. No mother wants that.”

  She holds the dress to her chest.

  “You don’t honor your mother by wearing a dress, honey. You honor your mother by remembering her, and holding her dear, right here.” She taps her heart.

  * * *

  • • •

  I ask her if I can have it, though, and she wraps it in a bag and gives it to me.

  I don’t think I am going to wear it again, but I don’t want to treat it like it’s nothing, either. I don’t want it to end up in a box on the side of the road, a pink-stained curiosity for a stranger.

  The phone on her desk rings. She picks it up. “Yes,” she says, her eyes grazing over me. “Yes, she’s coming right out.” She hangs up.

  “It’s time,” she tells me.

  I walk slowly behind her, not looking forward to another long car ride with Karen, who will deliver me to yet another house. Maybe I will end up with Brownie and Blondie again, way out in the middle of nowhere with Georgia and her late-night prayers and boiled meat.

  When Teddy opens the door, the sunshine catches my eyes, and I close them briefly against the brightness.

  When I open them, Shayna is standing at the curb, next to a black car I don’t recognize.

  “Come on, you,” she calls out. “I’m starving. I’d let you drive, but that’s not allowed for the next year, you stinking criminal.”

  She grins.

  “Thank you,” I say softly to Teddy.

  I start to cry.

  Teddy nudges my back. “You be a good girl, all right? Remember what I said.”

  I step over the feather carefully on my way down the steps.

  My sister hugs me long and hard. “You didn’t think I was just gonna up and leave you, did you? Nah,” she says. “I’m in it to win it, Tiger.”

  Just before I get in the car, I turn back to Teddy. “I forgot to ask, what’s the feather for?”

  She smiles at me. “Blessings. All who come and go from this house receive blessings on their life. This feather can change things.”

  She puts her hand on the doorknob of the house.

  “Really?” I ask.

  Teddy shrugs. “Sometimes you need to open yourself to the possibility of the miraculous, Tiger Tolliver. Sometimes you just do.”

  53 days, 14 hours

  OVER GREASY HAMBURGERS AND too-salty French fries at the Triple T Truck Stop , my sister tells me everything.

  “I’m an alcoholic.” She gives me a sad smile “That’s where I would go at night when I went out. To meetings. I realize now I should have told you right away, but I was afraid you wouldn’t have any faith in me. Does that make sense? I mean, your mom died, do you really want an unreliable alkie coming to take care of you? I kind of know how that feels, after all.”

  She wipes her hands on her napkin. The truck stop diner is too cold from the air conditioning, and goosebumps prickle up and down her arms.

  “I was sober for almost six months,” she says softly. “And Ray, you could see, he’s not. And when Karen called me about you, and then my dad, and he told me to come to you, that whole ‘blood is blood’ thing? It’s weird, but I thought, this is my chance. This is fate. This is a reason for me to be. I have a purpose now, you know?”

  She shreds a paper napkin.

  “It was hard, being the only one with my parents. Taking care of my dad, watching my mom fall apart. And, like, now the universe was giving me a sister, you know?

  “Anyway. Ray. I tried to leave him there, in Hawaii, but he found me. It’s why I went to Utah, to try and throw him off the scent. But a friend of a friend told him where I was headed.”

  Her face has turned pink and her eyes well up.

  “It’s why I called you, about the road trip. I was going to make us run. I knew he was on his way. I thought I had time, but he was…he was farther along than I thought.”

  She starts to cry.

  “What Ray said was true. I did have an abortion. And I don’t regret it. Not at all. Because not only would I never have a baby with someone like Ray, I’m not ready to be a parent. And that was one hundred percent the absolute right thing for me to do.”

  I stare at her, hurt. She takes my hand.

  “But that doesn’t mean I’m not ready to be a sister, okay? Does that make sense? We can do this, together. I know we can. I want to.”

  “Does he…did he…hit you? That day?” The words feel thick coming out of my mouth. I’m scared to hear the answer.

  She looks at me for a long time before answering. “He has, and he did. But someone called 911. I pressed charges. He’s not going to bother us again. Please believe me.”

  “That was me,” I whisper. “That night. I did. I’m sorry I left you.”

  Shayna’s lips shake. “It’s okay. That’s why I told you to run. So he wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “Okay.” I take a sip of Coke. “Are they going to let me stay with you?”

  “Yes, but we have a lot of work to do. I’ve been busy for the last couple of weeks.” She takes a deep breath.

  “I went to Tucson, and I rented us a house. I got some money from my mom and my…well, our grandparents. Dad’s parents.”

  She pauses. “They’re excited to meet you, by the way. They’re a little sick, and old, but very sweet.”

  “We’re moving? For real?”

  “I can’t make a living in Mesa Luna, Tiger. And I think we need a fresh place, a place for just you and me, you know?”

  I nod.

  “But I have some ideas. I’ve been meeting with Louise and Mary about the alpacas and the jams, and I think if we’re careful, and make a good plan, it’ll work. Obviously, the Jellymobile is inoperable, but I think we can join forces with Louise and Mary and sell our stuff together, on the Internet. A virtual store. Alpaca mittens and scarves, jams and jellies, you name it. We might have to learn some shearing and knitting, and you’ll have to teach me your mom’s jam secrets, but we’re resourceful girls, we can do it, right?”

  “Wow,” I say. My brain is feeling a little overloaded. “That’s a lot.”

  “I know. But you know what? We’ve already had a lot this summer. From now on, I feel like everything is going to be easy-peasy. I got a job in Tucson. Waiting tables. Grandpa Al’s going to help out a little. I might go back to school next year. I was thinking of nursing. Which reminds me.”

  She digs into her backpack and brings out two books.

  “I know I can never be a parent-parent to you. I can’t be your mom. Your mom is always your mom, you know? And I didn’t have the best role models growing up. But I’m going to do better. I swear. Look, I’ve already started studying.”

  She holds up Parenting for Dummies and How to Raise a Teenager.

  I laugh. “Seriously?”

  “Totally. There’s good stuff in here! Like, I have to register you for your new school. And I think you might need shots, like immunizations. I’m not sure. I kind of skimmed that chapter. And there’s all sorts of stuff about college and savings accounts and peer pressure and sex. For the sex part I’ll just rely on the wisdom of Tami Taylor in Friday Night Lights.” She shrugs.

  I suddenly feel overwhelmed. Grandparents. Moving.

&nb
sp; After a lifetime of just my mother, it seems like I have more family than I ever thought possible.

  The burger is sticking in my throat a little.

  Shayna says, “There’s more. Are you ready?”

  “I don’t know if I can take any more.”

  “Try. As per conditions of your release, you can’t get a license or drive a car for a year. You have to do drug tests once a month, join another grief group, attend teen AA, and you have to write letters of apology to Walrus Jackson, because it was his mailbox you totaled, and the dude who owned that ugly lawn ornament, and you have to do two weeks of community service with that Lupe girl. Got it?”

  Shayna reaches out her hand. We shake.

  Her hand is warm in mine and her smile is hopeful.

  I have lived through more than I ever thought possible in two months and come out the other side. It doesn’t feel bad. It doesn’t suck. It feels scary. But it feels doable.

  It almost feels right.

  I’ll never not be sad. I’ll never not be a girl without a mother. I’ll never not have a ludicrously big hole in my heart.

  But I am a girl with a sister now, and a chance, and I have to take it. I want to take it.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Egg-cellent,” she says. “Now, let’s finish dinner. I’m starving and we have a lot of packing to do.”

  60 days, 14 hours

  IT’S SORT OF LIKE that poem: I thought I was done with death, at least a little bit, but death wasn’t done with me.

  I thought I was done with the details of grief, like viewings, and services, and caskets and songs to say goodbye, and which clothes to keep and which to give away. I’ve started packing for a new life in a new city. I shouldn’t have any more last details.

  But it’s Cake, back from music camp, shyly sitting on my bed next to Mae-Lynn, as I fold and box clothes and throw out odds and ends, who reminds me that I’ve never written my mother’s obituary.

  Mae-Lynn nods. “You have to do it.”

  * * *

  • • •

  On Monday, Cake drives the three of us to the office of the Arizona Daily Star in Tucson. Mesa Luna has a paper, but it’s a weekly, not a daily, and Cake feels sure we should do this properly.

  “After all,” she says, “this is like a public statement of love. On the record, for everyone to see.”

  In the parking lot, she says, “I’m coming with and don’t argue.”

  “Me too,” says Mae-Lynn.

  Inside the Daily Star office, the secretary punts us to an older woman at a messy desk in the corner. “Esme!” she calls out. “We have an obit.”

  Esme looks surprised to see the three of us. “We usually do this online.” She puts on her glasses, which rest on a shiny silver chain around her neck. “But here, have a seat.”

  She has to get up, though, and move a mound of newspapers off a series of chairs to make room for us.

  I hand her the piece of paper I carefully typed up the night before and then printed out at the library at Eugene Field. Walrus Jackson let me use it.

  He said, “I really like my new mailbox. It’s very roomy.”

  Esme starts reading. She taps each word with a pencil.

  “This is really nice,” she says. “Did you write it? I’m impressed.”

  Cake says, “She likes words. She’s a good writer.”

  Esme says, “I see that.”

  She punches out some numbers on an old-fashioned calculator, the kind with paper on a roll. It makes a sound like chugga ehhh, chugga ehhh.

  “We charge by the word. Here’s what your total would be.”

  My stomach sinks when I see the number. It’s way more than I had saved from selling jam. My eyes fill with tears. How can it be so expensive to place an obituary? It should be free, practically, because it’s the last thing, right?

  Mae-Lynn makes a startled noise over my shoulder. “That’s a lot.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t have that,” I tell Esme. “Maybe we could edit it, a little? Here’s all I have. What can that get me?”

  Esme takes the envelope from me and counts out my money. When she’s done, she chews on her pencil for a minute. “I can work with this, because these are good words. Good sentiment. You’ll definitely be a writer someday, yes?”

  “No!” I say, embarrassed. “I don’t think so.”

  “She will,” says Cake.

  “Listen to your friend. She’s a smart woman,” Esme murmurs.

  She starts crossing things out.

  As she edits, she says, “I’ve been doing this for quite some time and you know what? It’s a shame that it costs so much to tell the whole world that someone you love mattered to you, it really is. And I know we want to put every little thing in here because we want to show such a good, full life, don’t we? Even if it was a short one.”

  She draws lines through some sentences on the paper and erases others. “But sometimes…”

  She gazes down, crosses out more words. “What’s really important is the essence of the life lived. A college degree isn’t going to tell me how well somebody lived, now is it? Does having a boat mean you lived a good life? Or a summerhouse? What about saving each valentine your son made or even working a roadside jam stand? A million, what do they call it?—selfies—on some silly website. What does it all mean, in the end?”

  She says, “I knew your mom. Every year I buy five jars of prickly pear jelly and send them to my grandkids for Christmas. They live in Memphis, of all places. Go figure. And they are crazy for that jam.”

  “We still make it,” I say. “I mean, me and my sister. It’s going online. JunesJamsdotcom.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  She pushes the paper back to me. I read it.

  “Are you sure?” I ask. I’m trying hard not to cry, but then I think better of it. Like hospitals, maybe the people who work the obituary section at newspapers are used to tears, so what does it matter?

  She nods. “Not to toot my own horn, but I think that’s the loveliest thing I’ve read in nineteen years of this job. Now, do you have a photo I can scan? We have a charge for that, too, but I’ll give you our special prickly pear discount. It’s only good for—” She peeks over her glasses at the clock on the wall. “Two more minutes. Lucky you.”

  I slip the photo from my backpack. I’d stored it carefully between two pieces of cardboard, so that it wouldn’t bend.

  Esme examines the photo. She peers at me over her glasses again.

  “Well,” she says. “Wasn’t your mother a lovely young girl.”

  She closes her eyes. “Your mother made a damn fine jam.”

  “She did,” says Cake. She’s crying a little. So is Mae-Lynn.

  Esme dips her head, as if in remembrance, and so do I.

  HERE IS A SHORT list of the things you will wear and find when you are performing community service with Lupe Hidalgo, or perhaps some other person, on the side of a road for two hours:

  A bright orange vest that makes you look like a deflated pumpkin.

  Heavy work gloves.

  A brimmed hat and reflective sunglasses, provided by the County Detention Center, that kind of make you look like a covert operative or a drug dealer, and which, you are sad to say, kind of make you feel cool and important and mysterious, which is good, because:

  You will pick up some disgusting stuff.

  There will be the usual smashed beer cans, tossed from cars. Some of these will still be a little full and you should know that beer in cans in 115-degree heat smells like the worst possible pee ever, so don’t spill it on yourself. Assume every can is loaded.

  There will be cigarette butts, some lipsticked, some not. They, too, smell horrible in the heat.

  There will be odd papers, Post-it notes with strange scribbles.
/>   Candy wrappers.

  There will be ID cards, like driver’s licenses and debit cards and EBT cards, strewn in a kind of line along the road, which makes you think of the mystery of how they got there. Lupe is interested, too, and whispers, “Bet there’s bodies out here they haven’t even found yet,” and raises her eyebrows. That makes you shiver, but the foreman glares at you, so you keep spearing cigarette butts with the stick.

  There will be underwear. Also disgusting.

  There will be diapers. See above. These are difficult to pick up properly if they are fairly fresh, and you never want to think of it again.

  There will be makeup, pens, lone shoes, socks, hats, needles. And packets of what might be drugs, which have to go to the foreman immediately.

  Sometimes, there are animals, but you aren’t allowed to touch them. The foreman has to call animal control.

  “Disease, yo,” says Lupe knowingly, leaning on her pincher. Lupe is working hard to keep her scholarship. She wrote letters of apology to Mr. Jackson, the owner of the lawn ornament, the neighbors along the path the Jellymobile traveled. You go to teen AA meetings together that meet in Sierra Vista and you’re surprised who else is there, but you keep it quiet.

  Lupe says, “Not my business. Not yours. Move forward, Tolliver, not back.” After the meetings, you go to Los Betos and gobble tacos. You swear you’ll never drink again. You like Lupe now, her humor and her hardness, her big heart and big mouth.

  When she gets to the University of Arizona this fall, you’re going to meet up at the student union for coffee once a week. You made a promise. Your new house isn’t far from the university, just a bus ride and a short walk.

  64 days, 16 hours

  ONE DAY, LUPE DROPS me off at my house and I’m tired and thirsty and sweaty and annoyed, and not looking forward to packing more boxes, choosing one memory of my mother over another.

  My sister is waiting inside, and she has a very serious look on her face.

  I drop my ugly city-issued hat on the floor and grunt, “What? What did I do now?”