She Dims the Stars

by Amber L. Johnson

  That thought is the only thing that gets me through the remainder of the drive to my house. We pull up in front of my little one-story home, and I take a second to look at it with fresh eyes. I try to see it like Audrey might. It’s small, sure. But the lawn is well kept and my mother’s flower garden is in full bloom. She keeps hanging plants along the front porch, and she’s just had the front door repainted crimson red. It may not be the most glorious place, but it’s ours.

  The smell of chicken fried steak hits me as soon as I open the door, and I almost fall to my knees. I’m ravenous, and there is nothing better than my mom’s cooking. Except maybe my grandma’s, but she’s been dead for a couple years now.

  “Ma! We’re here!” Without even thinking about it, I head down the hallway toward the kitchen, kiss two fingers and press them to my father’s picture as I pass. “Are you in here?”

  She’s standing over a pot at the stove, her hair pulled up into a clip, the steam from the pot making her curly hair even curlier around her ears. There’s music on, and she’s doing this thing with her feet that I’m sure at one time she thought was dancing but now it just looks like an unsure shuffle. I crouch down low and sneak up behind her, then grab her ankles and yell as loud as I can.

  Her scream is even louder, and I swear she jumps a foot into the air, her arms flailing out, and the wooden spoon in her hand goes flying across the kitchen before it makes contact with the wall and bounces to the floor. Roseanne Clark, all five foot nothing of her, pins me with her icy blue eyes, her hands to her chest and breathing ragged.

  “Hey, Ma.” I go in for a hug but she slaps my chest instead. Then she pulls me in for a hug and pushes me away to slap me again.

  “You’re the worst,” Audrey speaks up from behind me. She hooks a thumb toward Cline and shakes her head. “I should have made a t-shirt for you instead. You made your mom throw mashed potatoes at the wall, Elliot.”

  Mom thrusts a kitchen rag into my hand and then composes herself. “Clean that up. Set the table. I’m going to change my clothes, and then you can introduce me to your friends. Also, I agree. You are the worst.” She hugs me again, turns around, and leaves the room.

  Cline wanders over to the stove and starts touching pans. “I think you made her piss herself.”

  “Shut up.” I start to laugh and then stop. What if I did?

  “Earlier statement retracted. Cline still holds the title for The Worst.” Audrey heads over to the cabinets.

  I have just finished cleaning up the wall when I look over and see that Audrey has set the table for the four of us. She sees me looking and shrugs.

  “I’m hungry and you’re slow. I don’t want to wait any longer because that smells amazing. I figured I’d help. No big deal.” she says.

  My mom reappears in different clothes, making some excuse about not wanting to smell like oil or grease, but now I’m worried I did make her pee herself, and that only means that Cline is a shithead, because scaring each other is a thing with me and my mom. She woke me up for the first day of high school dressed like Freddy Krueger with one of the knife fingers pressed to my throat, telling me if I didn’t get up she was going to turn me into a motorcycle.

  Cline sucks.

  Audrey and my mom have clicked and are talking up a storm while I stuff my face with as much good food as possible. Cline is watching the exchange with narrowed eyes, and I’m starting to get the feeling that maybe he’s the problem in all of this. Not her.

  My mom’s a pretty open book. She’ll talk to any and every one, and her body language is always welcoming. Audrey is responding to it, leaning in like she’s stuck in her tractor beam. There’s a fleeting thought in my head that it must be nice for her to talk to a motherly figure. No wonder she feels so comfortable.

  “How is your game coming along?” My mom’s attention is on me, and I chew what is in my mouth quickly to answer her.

  “It’s still in the early stages, but once I have everything I need, it should be pretty easy from there.”

  “That’s why I’m here. Elliot needed another character for the game, so I said he could use me.” Audrey smiles and it’s genuine.

  “What’s it about again?” Mom asks before taking another bite of food.

  Audrey opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off to talk over her because I haven’t told my mom anything about the real project. I have no idea how she’ll respond to using my dad’s old journals and letters. I don’t know how it will affect her. So I say, “It’s a fantasy game like Game of Thrones meets Candy Crush, and Audrey’s character rides around on a unicorn and kills people with rainbow-colored unicorn poop cookies.”

  There’s a barely muffled, “Jesus,” from where Cline has his face buried in his hands.

  My mom hardly bats an eyelash. “Turn it into an app, and I bet you’ll make a million bucks.”

  Lying in my old bed feels familiar and odd at the same time. It’s been this way every time I’ve come home for the last three years. Sometimes I wonder if my mom would like the extra space for a treadmill or an office, but then I’d have to sleep on the couch, and it would feel like this wasn’t my home anymore, so I let her keep everything the way it is. Sometimes we need a little bit of constant in our ever-changing lives.

  My bedroom door creaks open, and I turn over to see Audrey slip through the crack and close the door again as quietly as possible. “Sorry,” she whispers. “Did I wake you?”

  I sit up and reach for the light, but she waves her hand to stop me. “I wasn’t asleep. You okay?”

  She’s hovering at the edge of my bed in these little shorts and a tank top, her hair pulled up into that mess on her head again. “Don’t be weird, but can I get in with you? Is it against house rules to have a girl in your room?”

  “Isn’t your whole ‘thing’ —your whole existence—about breaking the rules?” I ask and pull back the covers to invite her in.

  She slips between the sheets and rests her cheek on my pillow, so I turn and mirror her position, looking at her face in the muted moonlight of my pre-teen bedroom. This girl is really pretty, but she’s full of so many secrets. Her eyes search mine for a moment before she inhales deeply.

  “I’m working on that. I promise.”

  “Okay.”

  Her body heat quickly warms up the space between us, and the bed becomes toasty under the covers. I fold the comforter down a few inches, and she smiles up at me as she adjusts her hands under the pillow.

  “How many girls have you let sleep in this bed with you?”

  Eyes wide, I lean back and feign insult. “None. I would never.”

  “Liar.”

  “Fine,” I concede in a whisper. “I’ve had exactly ninety-nine, so I was really hoping you’d come in here tonight so I could round out my number.”

  “You’re an idiot,” she manages out through her laughter. The bed shakes and creaks a little, so I press my hand on her hip to get her to stop shaking.

  “Shh. The walls are thin, for real. I don’t want my mom to think we’re in here doing anything.”

  “Of course not.” Audrey lies on her back and looks up at my ceiling for a few quiet moments. “I really like your mom. You take after her a lot. Mannerisms and stuff. She’s nice.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Why did you lie about the game?”

  I close my eyes and try to think of the best way to say it, but it’s hard to explain without getting too detailed, so I decide to go with, “I don’t know how she’ll react to having a game made that’s so close to real life for us. If you know what I mean.”

  “Sure. I get it. And I agree that the unicorn game would make a million dollars in the app store.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh, and she has to place her hand over my mouth to keep me quiet. She’s hovering over me, our noses almost touching as she quietly speaks. “Thank you for doing this. For taking me to Ruth’s. It means a lot to me.”

  I pull her fingers off my mouth and nod, curling her fist in
to mine and laying it on my chest. “You’re doing me a favor, too.”

  “Is it safe to say we’re friends, then? I have people I like or know, but I don’t usually say I have many I would consider to be friends. But I think you and I are, yeah?”

  Puckering my lips, I pull my eyebrows together. “I don’t know, man. You stuck your tongue down my throat and everything.”

  “As a friend!” She whisper yells and pinches my side, making me gasp and jerk, then giggle before I man up and stop that shit.

  “Alright! You stuck your tongue down my throat as a friend. Fine. Now, are you sleeping in my bed as a friend? Is this a friend snuggle here?” I motion between us.

  “Yes. Now roll over that way so I can big spoon you. It’s safer like this. Plus I can pretend I’m a jetpack while we sleep. Maybe you’ll dream about being in outer space.”

  I do as she says, and she wraps her arms around my middle, but I pull her hands higher. “This is the safe zone,” I tell her as seriously as possible. “I cannot be held responsible for the things my body does in the night or in the morning if your hands wander outside of the safe zone. Friends or not.”

  “Jesus take the wheel. This is going to be a long night,” she pretends to cry into my back.

  Then she starts making jet pack noises, and that combined with the warmth of her embrace helps lull me to sleep much faster than I care to admit.

  I had snuck back out of Elliot’s room about an hour before we were supposed to be up and just rested on the couch with my eyes open, wondering what the day was going to bring. Three states are all that separates me from something life changing. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach as the rest of the people in the house begin to stir. A quick breakfast, a heartfelt goodbye, and we are on the road into the morning sunrise.

  Saying goodbye to his mom was difficult for some reason. Her hug was warm and inviting, and maybe it was the way she embraced me and held me like she meant it, but I didn’t want to let go until I had to.

  The mood in the car is much lighter today, and it feels like we get through Georgia rather quickly. Maybe it’s because we listen to music and don’t fight. I’m lost in thought for a while, adding license plates. Somewhere between the edge of The Peach State and South Carolina, Cline and I both fall asleep, and Elliot has to fend for himself. I wake up a couple of times when we hit the odd pot hole, and I glance up to see him focused intently on the road, so I drift back off.

  Not far from my grandmother’s house, we are all awake, hopped up on sugar and hot boiled peanuts as I dole out an impossible game of Hump, Marry, and Kill.

  “Cline, you’re up next. Ready?” I turn in my seat and survey his face as he groans and frowns.

  “Your choices blow,” he complains.

  “They are scientifically chosen. I’m not just throwing any old name out there for you to choose. Here are your choices: Matt Dylan, Dylan McDermott, Dermot Mulroney, and Rooney Mara.”

  “Bite me,” he responds.

  Elliot shoots me a grin and laughs silently as he grips the wheel tighter.

  “Fine! Fine. Let’s do this. Anna Kendrick …” I offer.

  Cline perks up. “Yeah?”

  “Kendrick Lamar. Lamar Odom.”

  “I hate you with the fire of a thousand suns,” Cline says.

  “You flatter me so, Cline Somers. You really do.” I blow him a kiss. He, in turn, pretends to catch it and rolls down the window to throw it away.

  The car begins to slow, and all joy slowly fades from my body as if I can feel it leaking out of my veins through my fingertips into the open air. Ruth Dewitt’s mini mansion comes into view, and Elliot almost brings the car to a complete stop as he faces me.

  I move my hand to tell him to keep moving forward. “Don’t look so shocked. This is it. You’re in the right driveway. Go ahead and pull up and then just go around the loop and park on the left where you see the other cars. I think that’s where the maids and other people park.” I don’t know this for sure, but it seems like the most logical explanation, because there are old Hondas and a Toyota Tercel sitting there today.

  I know that’s not what Ruth would drive. If she drives herself at all.

  “We should have dressed nicer,” Cline says from the backseat.

  “She won’t let us inside. I don’t think it will matter.” I tell him quietly.

  Elliot parks as I’ve instructed and turns to look at me. “Do you even have a plan? What are you going to do if she doesn’t let you in?”

  I run my fingers through my hair and wipe at the mascara under my eyes, hoping I haven’t smeared anything. “She’s a lady. The least she could do is let me use the bathroom.”

  “Powder room. Say powder room. Be fancy.” Cline is leaning across the console now so he can look up at the top of the house through the windshield. “Holy shit. Too bad she hates your guts.”

  “Yep.” I grab my purse and exit the car. Once outside, I rummage around and find the flowered bag within, locate the correct orange bottle, pop the top and slip a yellow pill onto my tongue quickly, then swallow. I should have done it at least twenty minutes ago, but I wasn’t expecting to be this overwhelmed.

  Too late now.

  The place is huge. Fountain out front in the circular driveway. Full staircase leading to the wraparound porch. Two stories with pillars running the length of both. It’s essentially the cover of a V.C. Andrews book without the seduced cousin staring out of the upper window in a rainstorm.

  I count my steps on the driveway and then count the stairs on the way up. There are no creaking boards as I cross the porch, and once I make it to the door, I pause. I can’t believe I’ve actually made it this far. I know I’m crazy, but this is legitimately insane. I should have called Cara first. There is a moment of hesitation where I think maybe I should walk away, but before my brain can stop my hand, it’s raised, and my finger is pressing the doorbell. There’s a booming bell chiming throughout the expanse of the house.

  My instinct is to run, but my feet are firmly planted as if they’re glued to these white-painted wooden planks.

  A voice inside my head is assuring me that she won’t be the one to answer the door. Surely she has a person for that type of thing. It would be too low of her to open the door for—

  “Can I help you?”

  I take a step back under her scrutiny. She’s smaller than I imagined, as I’ve built her up to be a larger-than-life evil villain in my head. We’re about the same height, give or take the three inches of silver hair she has elegantly piled atop her head. She’s dressed formally like she’s about to attend an early dinner.

  My voice is gone.

  Her eyes narrow, and she takes a step back, her slipper-covered feet not making a sound as the floral skirt of her dress sways around her ankles. All I see is a bunch of green.

  “Ruth Dewitt?” It’s all I can manage before she shuts the door in my face.

  It cracks back open again, and she purses her lips. “Yes. Again, can I help you?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so overwhelmed. I can’t remember the last time I saw you. It’s me. Audrey.” There’s a strange ringing in my ears, and the tips of them have gone red hot. I can’t feel the ends of my fingertips.

  Her posture goes rigid, and her face pales as she takes me in with one long look. “Please leave my property.”

  “Grandma—“

  “Don’t.”

  “I’m sorry. I apologize. Look, I know you don’t want anything to do with me, and I can live with that. Really. But I’m twenty one now, and I just want to know about my mom. Patrick doesn’t ever talk about her, and I don’t know anything. You’re the only person who I thought could possibly give me any information on her. What she was like. Who she was.” My voice cracks and I try to tuck away the bit of desperation I’m starting to show.

  “She was a wonderful daughter until she met your father. And then she died.”

  I close my eyes when she says it, because I know what she’s implying. “I
’m sorry. Would you please just give me five minutes of your time?”

  Ruth’s eyes flick to a huge grandfather clock standing in the hallway to my right, just in my line of vision. “I have a dinner. Today is not a good day.”

  I nod. “I understand. I did come a very long way, though. Would you mind if I used your powder room?”

  The look of distrust in her eyes would destroy anyone else, but I’ve experienced much worse. And I’m simply putting on a show to gain entry into this house. Stooping to conquer, if you will. She only nods the slightest bit and then moves out of the way to let me pass.

  “You’ll have to use the one upstairs. The one down here is being renovated.”

  I take the stairs two at a time and locate the one she has mentioned, turn on the light and fan, close the door, and step back out into the hallway. There are multiple doors on each side of the hall, and I tentatively open each one, hoping not to make a sound as I try to figure out which room used to be my mother’s. It’s nerve wracking trying to be quiet, keeping my footsteps light, listening out for her to come barreling down the hallway, calling me a heathen and throwing holy water at me.

  I’m disheartened each time a door reveals another room that is nothing more than a guest room, an office, or storage. And then I see it—the last room at the very end of the hallway. Opening it is like stepping back in time. The walls are a faded yellow wallpaper with little embossed canaries all over it. The bedspread has massive flowers embroidered everywhere, and a crocheted blanket of contrasting colors hangs off the side of four-poster bed. Framed concert posters adorn the wall, and pictures are tacked up on corkboard that’s aging and missing chunks.

  There’s a suede fringed purse hanging from the back of her closet, a flower wreath sticking out of its pocket. I reach out to pull it down, and the closet door eases open enough for me to see plastic containers stacked inside the closet, arranged one on top of the other. All of them labeled: Wendy.