Of course, they'd all heard the ghost the other night, too.
Come to think of it, maybe she would have believed it.
It was Chrissie who finally put a stop to the show and dragged her upstairs to their apartment. Angela didn't realize until they were behind closed doors, until she gratefully sank into the couch, how bone tired she was. It was as if all of a sudden everything caught up with her, and her body, which had been running on adrenaline, finally succumbed to the stress of the day and collapsed in on itself. She stared numbly at the television while Chrissie turned it on.
"Do you think it'll be on the news?" her roommate asked.
"I don't know," Angela admitted. "It just happened. And I didn't see any news cameras there. But maybe word's leaked out by now."
Chrissie, too, accepted without question that what Angela said had actually occurred, and she thought that for someone who claimed not to believe in "ghosts or gods or anything supernatural," Chrissie seemed oddly uncritical. She wondered if her friend was changing her mind.
Angela was so exhausted and stressed-out she could have sat there for the rest of the evening, unmoving, unthinking, but she felt dirty-soiled and contaminated by her contact with those carcasses-and what she wanted more than anything else was a hot shower to wash off whatever freakish germs had attached themselves to her, to scrub her skin totally clean. She'd sat down only a few moments before, but she got up again, quickly, as though staying on the couch even a second longer might infect it with some incurable disease. "I'm going to take a shower," she announced. "Could you burn my clothes in the incinerator for me?"
"We don't have-" Chrissie began, then laughed. "Oh. Joking."
She was joking-but not really. She honestly didn't care whether she saw the clothes she was wearing ever again, and she knew it would be a long time and a lot of hard washes before she put any of them on.
Angela went into the bathroom, turned on the water to warm it up, then took off her clothes, dumping them on the floor rather than in the hamper. There was a black spot on her skin where the corpse had first grabbed her. It was not a bruise but looked more like mold or rot. She saw it first in the mirror, then examined it more closely by sitting on the toilet and holding that section of arm as close to her eyes as possible. The mark was not in the shape of fingers or a hand, as might be expected, but was instead an amorphous blob that resembled an amoeba. She touched it, picked at it with a fingernail, but, though the spot somewhat resembled paint or ink, she could not scrape any of it off her skin. In the shower, she used a loofah and Comet cleanser, scrubbing as hard as she could, but again was unable to remove the stain or even lighten the blackness. The skin around it grew red and raw, but the mark remained.
She was worried and scared. She thought she should tell Chrissie, thought she should go to the emergency room at the hospital, but instead, irrationally, decided to sleep, telling herself that it would be all right in the morning, that everything would be fine. Angela finished showering, put on her pajamas, dashed into her bedroom and locked the door before climbing into bed and getting under the covers. "Good night!" she called out to Chrissie.
"Angela!"
"Good night!"
"Are you-"
"I'm tired! I'm going to bed! We'll talk about it in the morning!"
In the morning, the black spot on her skin was gone, but dark mold grew on each of the four corners of her top sheet in identical amoeba-like blobs. It seemed thicker than it had when it was on her skin, hairier mul somehow more malevolent. Disgusted, frightened, Angela kicked the covers off and dashed away from the bed. She quickly slipped on her robe, unlocked the door and called Chrissie, who came running into the room, obviously hearing the fear in her voice.
"What is it?" Chrissie demanded, but she saw even before she finished the sentence. Her eyes widened at the sight of the sheet's black corners. "Oh, my God!"
"Don't touch it!" Angela shouted.
But she was too late. The sheet was lying half on and half off the bed, tangled up with the comforter, and Chrissie reached for the corner closest to the edge. Her finger poked the black mold, then jerked away instantly. A look of revulsion transformed her face, and Chrissie backed toward the door as though she were being menaced by a slow-moving knife-wielding maniac.
"It was on my skin last night," Angela said. "The black stuff. I should've told you, I should've gone to the hospital, I should've ... I don't know. What do you think it is? It looks like some kind of mold. Should we take the sheet in to-"
"Bitch!" Chrissie shouted. And slammed the door.
What the hell? Angela hurried after her roommate, opening the door and following her into the sitting room. "Chrissie?"
Her friend turned, and the expression on her face was angry, threatening.
Black, she thought. They call that kind of look black.
She stared at Chrissie's pointing finger, looking for mold, but the skin was clear.
"Stay away from me, you stupid brown bitch," Chrissie ordered, and there was real venom in her voice. She shoved her way past a stunned Angela and returned to her own room.
The door closed.
Locked.
Eleven
Bear Flats, California
The kitchen smelled of bacon, eggs ... and booze.
Jolene's jaw clenched, the muscles under her ear hurting in that tight tense way she remembered from childhood. Her mother was sitting in her usual spot at the breakfast table, dipping toast into the last bit of yolk on her plate, smiling and humming softly to herself. Jolene remembered this from her childhood as well, the "good" time, as she'd always thought of it. This was her mom at her peak, not drunk enough to be abusive, not sober enough to be self-pitying, with just enough of a buzz on to make her feel calm, content, at ease. If her mother could have stayed this way throughout the day, perhaps life at home wouldn't have been so bad, but this stage was merely a respite between the desperate highs and lows, and although it was the best stage in the cycle, it was also the shortest.
"Hurry up and eat your breakfast," Jolene told Sky-lar. "We have a busy day."
The boy sat down silently at the table while Jolene got him a plate of bacon. He was still a little shy and nervous around his grandmother, and although Jolene pretended not to notice, she did.
And was grateful.
She didn't want him feeling too comfortable with her, getting too close. He would only end up being hurt.
"Here," she said, setting the plate down. "Orange juice or milk?"
"Milk," Skylar told her.
She was finally going to try and enroll him in third grade at Bear Flats Elementary this morning. It was strange to realize he would be attending the same school she'd gone to when she was his age. He was dreading the prospect because it meant that this was not just a vacation or hiatus but a permanent move, and she had mixed feelings for much the same reason.
If they really were going to relocate here, maybe it was time for her to start thinking seriously about finding a job.