Keepsake

The movers had finally gotten the last of the cardboard boxes removed from the bowels of the semi-trailer and into the house. They looked tired but determined—scurrying about in that way one does when one gets paid by the job and not by the hour. They hurried from room to room, leaving boxes stacked high and irregular, like half finished games of Jenga. The boxes were all stamped with the moving company logo—the big smiling faces of three corporate-looking hipster dudes who looked like they had just dropped a tab of PCP. Their busts were underscored with the caption, 3 MEN AND A TRUCK. WE MOVE SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO!

Funny, Julie thought, the men in the logo look nothing like the poor slobs who are here doing the actual work. They’re probably just sitting in some plush office, getting high and laughing about how much money they’re making at other people’s expense. Julie wiped a droplet of sweat from the bridge of her nose. All caretakers know how to do is exploit the weak. Julie’s current caretaker, Katherine—she referred to all the adults in the foster system who were paid to make sure she didn’t escape as “caretakers”—had spent the bulk of the day monopolizing the mover’s time, carefully checking that every box that came off the truck was deposited in a room according to its label and all the furniture was reassembled and put in its proper place. That left Julie and Katherine’s husband Arnold, who, in Julie’s opinion, was a woefully inadequate excuse for a man, the unenviable task of putting away all the boxed items and orphaned knickknacks that littered the rooms and hallways. Julie was wary of Arnold. She was convinced that he was a card-carrying pedophile—a “pedo” as the kids at the agency liked to call his type. She hadn’t caught him doing anything weird, but he was always staring at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention.

What these freaks don’t know, Julie thought, is that Julie Cabierra is always paying attention.

Julie was what the administrators at the foster care agency called “a lifer.” Someone who could never seem to develop a bond with her foster parents and who eventually ended up back at the group home, like a misbehaved dog returned to the shelter. The administrators always assume that I’m the problem. Julie, they’d say, you really need to try to be more open and accepting of the families we place you with. You’re getting to the age where no one will want to take a chance on you. They will opt for someone younger and more...moldable. The thought pissed her off. If she weren’t inside the house she would have heaved up a giant snot ball and spat it out in disgust. They never consider the possibility that their precious caretakers could be freaking monsters. Julie had been in and out of foster homes for much of her fourteen years and there was one valuable skill she’d come to rely on—an innate ability to sniff out the adults who don’t give a shit. And after six months with the Jamiesons, Julie was pretty sure Arnold and Katherine didn’t give a shit about her. If someone were to ask her what evidence she had to come to that conclusion, she wouldn’t be able to point to anything in particular, but she knew.

Julie mopped more sweat from her brow with the tail of her T-shirt. This is bullshit. As much work that she had been forced to do since being placed in the Jamieson household, Julie was certain that their sole purpose for fostering her was so she could serve as slave labor.

“Don’t look so glum,” Arnold said, as he weaved through the dozens of open cardboard boxes strewn around the living room like unwanted Christmas gifts. He had that stupid pedo grin Julie hated so much hanging under his nose like a lopsided booger. “If we work together we’ll have all this stuff put away in no time.”

Julie frowned. I’m not glum, you stupid dipshit. I’ve just been slaving away for hours in this hot, stinking armpit of a house. I’m exhausted and I need some goddamned food. It was a very hot and humid August day and inside the house the stifling air made the heat feel even worse. Despite Julie’s complaints about the heat, Katherine refused to turn on the air conditioning, claiming the cool air would “just go out the front door” while the movers were bringing stuff in. Julie didn’t like Katherine’s decree, but she learned that it was better to pick one’s battles with one’s caretaker, especially with the plantation overseer types like Katherine, so she let it go and resigned herself to just being uncomfortably hot.

Bitch could at least spring for a pizza, Julie thought as she brushed a wayward strand of her hair back in place with the back of her hand. Her long red hair was being held in a ponytail with a scrunchie, but loose strands still found a way to plaster themselves across her face. I still don’t understand why I’m being forced to help move their stuff. I’m not part of this family. The state pays these two weirdos to pretend to be my parents while expecting me to play the part of the grateful child. What I really am is a prisoner. It wasn’t her intent, but she exhaled in frustration loud enough that it got Arnold’s attention. He looked up from the box he was digging in and flashed her another sideways booger-grin. She didn’t return the gesture or even acknowledge that she’d seen it. God, he’s such a perv.

She waited until she felt Arnold’s eyes were no longer focused on her back, then grabbed another cardboard box from the stack at the front of the room. Though it was the same dimensions as every other box she’d handled today, this one did not have the telltale blue label with the words “Living Room” stenciled on it in black marker. Instead, it sported a bright red label adorned with the words “Katherine's Room.” Hmm, Julie thought as she turned the box over in her hands, Katherine missed this one. I wonder what’s in it?

Katherine was very secretive about her personal possessions, especially around Julie. So it didn’t surprise her that Katherine wouldn’t let the movers handle the boxes with the red labels. Katherine would take each red-labeled box off the truck herself and carry it into the master suite, which she and Arnold kept locked at all times. Julie didn’t care that Katherine and Arnold kept their personal belongings behind locked doors. She was used to the general mistrust between caretakers and the kids they housed for cash. As long as they feed me and leave me alone, I don’t care what secrets they keep.

But this misplaced box did present a unique opportunity. Katherine was always breathing down Julie’s neck, micromanaging her entire life. If the box contained something embarrassing, it would give Julie some leverage in the relationship; leverage she could hold over Katherine’s head to make her keep her distance. A wry grin broke out on her face. I hope it’s some kind of gigantic sex toy, Julie thought as she pulled the packing tape from the top of the box and peeled back the cardboard flaps. A mound of packing peanuts swelled to greet her. “Let’s see what priceless treasure Katherine has buried beneath this pile of toxic peanuts,” she mumbled to herself as she plunged her arms into the packing material, causing a few of the styrofoam nuggets to stick to her sweaty skin. Her hands closed around a solid rectangular object. In her excitement, Julie lifted the object a little too quickly from its cardboard tomb, causing the packing peanuts to spray out of the box and splash onto the floor around her feet. “Shit!” Julie hissed.

Arnold was on the opposite side of the room, his back to Julie, staring nostalgically at a boxed set of souvenir shot glasses. He’d won them playing several hundred games of skee ball at a Dave-n-Busters he and Katherine went for their fifth anniversary dinner. He’d spent twice what the shot glasses were worth on tokens, but when he saw the way his wife had gleefully pointed at them on the prize shelf, going on and on about how she just loved them, he knew he had to win them for her. He smiled at the memory of how happy she was when he presented them to her; how they laughed as they read the words engraved on each glass, corny missives about the joys of getting drunk on whiskey. Julie’s expletive drew him out of his daydream. He turned to face her. “Young lady,” he began, “that kind of language will not be tolerated in this—his eyes grew wide when he saw what she was holding—“WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THAT!”

Startled more by the panic she heard in Arnold’s voice rather than the look of pure horror on his face, Julie reflexively released the item she held, snatching her hands away from it like it was hot. Her eyes only focused on what it was as it was falling to the floor.

It was a keepsake box.

Julie knew that’s what it was because it was something she’s always wanted. She’s dreamed of having a beautiful box to keep all the things that reminded her that, every so often, good things—memorable things—happen in her life.

This box was made of wood and painted in a satin egg shell white with gold edging. It was secured with a delicate gold clasp. And there was something etched into the wood, engraved in a cursive style that made it seem as if its owner made sure the box could always be claimed as their own.

It was a name. MEGHAN, it read.

The long edge of the box hit the floor with a soft thump, cushioned from a more destructive landing by the layer of packing peanuts that had landed on the floor before it. However, the landing was hard enough to force the clasp to pop off its anchor, causing the lid of the box to open and some of its contents to spill onto the floor.

“Get away from it!” Arnold screamed at Julie, waving his arms wildly while rushing toward her.

“I didn’t mean to drop it,” Julie blurted, taking several steps backward, her hands shaking. “You scared me!”

“Just….just don’t touch your mother’s—I mean Katherine’s things,” Arnold said. He was kneeling now. He scooped the box and the few items that had escaped from it up with both hands, caressing them like a newborn baby. He looked up at her. “She doesn’t want you touching her private things, ok?”

Julie could feel the heat rising off her skin as her face flushed with anger. I have had enough of this fake family bullshit! She cut her eyes at Arnold as she backed away from him. Overwhelmed at the prospect of spending the rest of the day being berated by Katherine’s “who do you think you are?” attitude, Julie decided that she had had enough. She would retreat to her room and let Arnold—the world’s most pitiful excuse for a man—deal with his wife on his own. “I think I’m done for today,” she said, each word flecked with an angry stutter. “I’m going to go upstairs and take a piss and then take a nap.” Julie saw a flash of discomfort flash across Arnold’s face. God, I can’t even talk like me around these assholes, she thought.

Arnold gathered himself off the floor and laid the keepsake box carefully atop an unopened cardboard box. “Your—I mean Katherine,” Arnold began, his voice tinged with distress at the prospect of being left alone to face the wrath of their mutual slaver, “really wants all this stuff put away before dinner.” He emphasized his words by pointing in the general direction of a plastic fruit tree embedded in a permanently attached pot with his left hand, and a ceramic cat figurine posed as though it had just finished taking a dump, with his right.

“Well,” Julie said with as much disdain as she could muster, “I’m out, so she’ll just have to do that shit by herself.”

“Young lady, I have lost count of how many times we’ve told you that kind of language is inappropriate in our house!” Arnold bleated with such little conviction or authority that he might as well have been talking to himself.

Julie dismissed him with the palm of her hand and stomped into the foyer and up the formal staircase that overlooked the home’s main artery. The house had two and a half bathrooms. The half and master bathroom were on the first floor, so Julie headed to the one that was located at the midpoint of the second floor hallway, between the second and third bedrooms. As she barreled through the bathroom door, her shoulder brushed a cardboard placard that had been taped to it. Written on it, in Katherine’s neat script, were the words JULIE’S BATHROOM.

Bitch thinks she’s going to insert me into her fake family like one of her stupid cat statues, Julie thought. She slammed the bathroom door closed and sat on the toilet. She tried to hold them in, but the tears came anyway. I can’t wait until I’m eighteen and I don’t have to play these fake family games anymore. She stayed in the bathroom for what felt like forever, until her sadness—but not her anger—had subsided. After a few more minutes had passed, she cracked the bathroom door open a little. She could hear Katherine and Arnold murmuring downstairs. That hag is probably calling the agency right now to ask if she can return me for a more compliant model. She couldn’t really make out what they were saying but she could tell Katherine was on her soapbox because she was doing all of the talking. She only heard the occasional submissive grunt from Arnold. Julie felt the tears returning. She shut her eyes tight to keep them at bay. Who cares what they think about me anyway? They’re not my parents, they’re just people the state pays to keep me alive.

Julie waited in the bathroom until she was sure Katherine wasn’t going to come and try to sweet talk her into coming out and then lecture her about boundaries and being nice to her weak ass husband. She decided to make a break for her bedroom. I can establish a much better ignore-the-caretakers beachhead from there. She crept out into the hallway, tiptoeing the whole way, hoping she wouldn’t be heard. Her pace slowed as she reached her bedroom door. Her room was the first one off the second floor landing, so she was afraid she would see Katherine staring up at her from the bottom of the staircase with that “where-do-you-think-you’re-going-young-lady” face. But when she peeked down the stairwell, no one was there. Thank you Jesus, she thought, and dashed through the doorway of her room. Once safely inside, she quietly closed the bedroom door behind her then sat down at her vanity and took a long look at herself in the mirror. You look like shit. Her therapist warned her about bottling up her feelings and how stress can have a detrimental effect on her physical wellbeing. In other words, living with this wannabe Stepford family is literally sucking the life out of me.

She sighed and opened the vanity’s top left drawer. The drawer and it’s contents were the very first thing she unpacked when she arrived. Julie liked to call it her “peace casket.” To Katherine, it was just a drawer full of junk that she continually threatened to “tidy up for her” if Julie didn’t do it herself. But to Julie, the drawer contained all the joy she’d accumulated in her fourteen, mostly miserable, years. The contents were a colorful mishmash of the mementos that reminded her that her life wasn’t a complete train wreck. Just the sight of them made her feel a little less tense. Bangles, brackets, bottle tops, novelty pencils and erasers, an empty Adderall prescription bottle—if it held even a brief redeemable memory, she kept it. Her social worker, a ghetto-hardened black woman named Francine that Julie affectionately called Warden Jenkins, once said Julie kept all this stuff because it allowed her to keep the good shut up inside of her. “Other little girls keep diaries,” she told her, “you keep a mental map of your life wrapped up in these things so you don’t have to risk sharing yourself with the world.” Maybe she’s right, Julie thought, but the world hasn’t shown me its good, why should I show it mine? Her fingers played over the drawer’s mixed media tapestry, absentmindedly hovering and then touching random items. They stopped over her most prized possession—a long-bristled horsehair brush.

She inherited the brush, and her hair, from her mother. My real mother, Julie thought. She didn’t know for sure if that were true. She had no memories of her mother, just the brush and one slightly faded polaroid. Both were sent to her when she was just eight years old, by a man named James. The agency said “James”—no way to know if that was his real name—claimed to be her father and he wanted Julie to have the brush and the picture so she’d know how beautiful she would become. I would have much rather preferred that you and mom not left me to rot in this hellhole of a foster care system, thank you very much.

The thought made her shoulders droop and her mouth form a dejected pout, neither of which she would have noticed had she not been staring at that very Polaroid of her mother, which hung trapped like an oversized, multi-colored post-it note between the bevel and glass of the vanity’s mirror. Within the cracked border of the stiff, slightly yellowed photo paper was the facsimile of a young woman. She was a skinny, freckled-faced twenty-something with a beaming smile, sitting with her back turned to a vanity not unlike the one Julie was sitting at right now. She’s beautiful, Julie thought. And James was right. She did resemble the woman in the picture. Julie shared the woman’s skin tone and emerald eyes. We even have the same freckles on our face. We could be sisters if it weren’t for the hair. Julie frowned. That was the one glaring difference. Their hair was the same color, but that’s where the similarities ended. Her mother’s long and luxurious ruby red locks flowed down her neck and shoulders, perfectly coiffed and curled, like a fresh glob of red hot lava. Unlike the frizzy, ropey mess I’ve been cursed with. Julie’s hair tended to coil into a tangled mess while she slept, forcing her to wrestle with several hundred tuffs of gravity-defying fuzz every morning. “It just needs a good brushing,” Warden Jenkins would say, when she sometimes would take pity on her most stubborn inmate, snatch the brush from Julie’s cramped hand, and attempt to tame her untamable mane. “Honey, you gonna have to deep condition your hair and brush it at least fifty strokes per side if you ever hope to get it to behave,” the Warden would say, talking about her hair like it was a wild mare that needed breaking. She smiled at the memory, lifted the brush from the drawer, then began to brush her hair in slow, even strokes, counting quietly to herself each time the brush cleared her shoulders.

Brush

“One”

Brush

“Two”

Brush

“Thr—”

“Julie!” Katherine called out in a voice so pitiful that Julie almost―almost―felt shame for completely ignoring her.

“Oh, hear we go,” Julie mumbled to her reflection in the mirror. I wish she would stop shrieking my name at the top of her lungs every time things don’t go her way.

It crossed Julie’s mind to get up from the vanity and open and then slam her bedroom door closed hard enough to shake the walls. Katherine’s panties would tie into a square knot if she thought I was damaging her precious new house. The thought made her lips tighten across her teeth, forming the barest hint of a smile. Julie knew Katherine was standing at the bottom of the stairs, fuming at Julie’s flagrant disobedience. But she can’t unleash that old school, biblical “spare the rod, spoil the child” discipline, Julie mused, because she can’t risk damaging the fragile psyche of her newest detainee and losing that foster care paycheck.

Julie didn’t exactly hate Katherine. Hate was an emotion she reserved only for the most vile of the caretakers—the molesters and pedos—monsters that she had heard much about in her time in the system but never had to deal with personally. Katherine’s type was much more common, and thankfully, more benign. She was what kids in the system called a “cling-on,” someone who didn’t have children of their own and used foster children to convince themselves that God was wrong to deny them the opportunity to bear and raise a child. Poor Katherine. She’s probably staring expectantly at the empty air at the top of the landing, hoping that I’ll come bounding happily down the stairs like the perfect biological daughter she’s always wanted. She took a deep breath just as Katherine launched another salvo of pseudo encouragement her way.

“Julie, it’s time to go darling,” Katherine bellowed in that fake calm but urgent voice that Julie hated. “Arnie and I are hungry dear. Will you please come downstairs so we can go get something to eat? Ok?”

Not going to happen, Julie thought.

Katherine took every opportunity to remind her fake family that she “abhorred the thought of cooking in a disorderly kitchen,” so she insisted that they eat their inaugural meal at a local fast food establishment. Julie thought it was more than the messiness of moving that threw Katherine off her game. It was the whole house. It was big, but felt cramped. It had tall ceilings, central air, and lots of ceiling fans, but smelled old, like wet leaves and rotting wood. The house creeped Julie out. A creepy old house for a creepy old lady.

“Leave me alone!” Julie screamed back, not trying to muffle her annoyance. Julie wasn’t really hungry anymore. She had lost her appetite along with her patience for this fake family. It was the whole “let’s pretend we’re a normal family” thing that Julie couldn’t stand. Why do we have to pretend to be something that we’re not? All she wanted to do now is to be left alone to brush her hair and then jump under her favorite cherry comforter and watch old episodes of “Daria” on her phone until she fell asleep. But Katherine was a bit more persistent than most of her caretakers and Julie knew she was going to have to ratchet up the bitchiness a few notches to realize the peace she desired. She was tired, but the thought of bending Katherine and Arnold to her will steeled her nerves.

“I. AM. BRUSHING. MY. HAIR!” she screamed at the ceiling, then she grinned as she imagined the shock wave of her indifference crashing into Katherine’s perpetually serene face. She sat up straighter in her chair. Serves her right, she thought, as much as she wishes she were, she isn’t my mother—not officially anyway. It was then that she noticed the pack of Big Red cinnamon gum propped up against the vanity’s backstop.

The gum from the closet.

She shivered. God, I hate this house. And I especially hate that stupid closet.

She turned her head slowly and glanced over her shoulder, giving the closet door a wary once over. From the outside, the closet was ordinary as closets in old, creepy houses go. It was barred by a four-paneled wood door, painted a stark blue—Julie’s least favorite color—against a wall of satin white, with a jewel-shaped glass knob and adorned with a crown of ornate molding across its header. But beyond that door—inside the closet—was a much different story.

Julie shivered again. When Katherine gave her the “tour” as she called it, and introduced her to this room, she opened the closet door with a flourish and said “Isn’t this closet wonderful dear! It’s so big it’s almost a walk-in!” No, she’d thought, it is definitely not wonderful. The closet’s interior gave off an aura of creepiness that made Julie’s skin crawl. Like pervert, serial killer creepy. At first, she avoided the closet, purposely stacking the boxes marked JULIE’S ROOM in against the door, blocking it from her sight. But Katherine, in her amazingly annoying bull-in-a-china-shop manner, insisted that Julie organize her unpacking the “right” way and made herself helpful by rearranging the boxes along one wall, clearing a path to that hideously blue door. But after sulking for a while, Julie felt a little silly about her obvious irrational fear of the closet and gathered up the courage to venture inside on her own. That was a mistake. She remembered exhaling a surprised gasp when she closed her hand around the knob and turned it. It felt cold and slippery, almost wet. And when she pulled the door open, light from the bedroom spilled around her body and clung tightly to the closet’s walls, traveling no more than a couple of feet along its depth. Julie shuddered at the memory. The light didn’t even want to go in there.

The closet was tall and deep, but rather narrow. Its ceiling matched the height of the room, where a single bulb was affixed in a round fixture. The fixture looked to be made completely of rusted metal and spider webs. A brass-colored pull chain hung precariously from the fixture, daring anyone to pull it. It emerged from a cloud of spider webs and descended to a point three inches from the top of her head. When she reached up and pulled the chain, the light bulb swayed away from the fixture and shed its dusty shadow, releasing a platoon of dusty spider strands that chased the bulb’s dim yellow light like a horde of ancient insects.

“Eeeeww, gross!” Julie had shrieked as she backed out of the closet, frantically slapping herself in the head as she went. After making sure nothing alive had landed in her hair, she slammed the closet door closed, vowing never to return. She had just regained her composure when Katherine appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, hands on her hips and a scowl on her face.

“Young lady,” Katherine said in her familiar strained whisper, “why on earth would you be slamming doors? Do you know how old this house is? You could break something that can’t be replaced.”

“I’m sorry ok,” Julie said, “I’m not trying to break your precious house but everything is covered in a layer of dirt and spider webs, and some of it got on me when I turned on the closet light.”

“My goodness child,” Katherine said as she took several long strides into the room, placing herself between Julie and the closet door, “why do you insist on being so dramatic about every little thing?” She grabbed the knob and swung open the closet door. The light was still on. “I had this house thoroughly cleaned two weeks ago, but it can be drafty in places so you can expect a few dust bunnies to collect here and there.” As she was speaking, Katherine slid her fingers along the light fixture’s pull string and then pulled her hand away, rubbing the tips of her thumb and index fingers together as if she expected to feel some sort of residue. “But there’s nothing to be afraid of dear. It’s just an old house.”

Julie shrugged. “I didn’t say anything about being afraid,” she said, a little embarrassed and mad at herself for allowing Katherine to hear her panic.

“The way you screamed I thought you were being attacked by a swarm of bees.”

“No bees, just cobwebs. I’m fine.”

“Well then,” Katherine quipped, “I would appreciate it if you would hurry and get your closet in order. Your father could use your help downstairs with the unpacking.” She flashed Julie a quick grin and then executed a tight pirouette and glided out the room.

Julie’s fingernails dug into the palms of her clenched fists so hard she expected to feel blood drip from her knuckles. “Yes...Ma’am,” Julie said, her words soft and strained as she watched the back of Katherine’s head disappear from the doorway. God I hate her, her dick of a husband, and this house, she thought. Julie didn’t trust Katherine. Bitch is sly. Always acting so saccharine sweet but underneath always poking and prodding, trying to provoke an altercation. That bitch knew what she was doing when she referred to her dick of a husband as my father. Julie wanted to smack that smirk off her face. But for now her instincts said her best course of action was to bide her time and to do what she was told. Soon I’ll be old enough and nobody will be able to tell me what to do.

She took a deep breath. Katherine had left the closet door open. Its bland interior, made even more so by the dull yellow light spilling from the dim bulb above, didn’t seem so foreboding now. Julie chuckled to herself. Compared to Katherine the Hun, the creepy closet was downright quaint. She stepped over the threshold and into the closet's dank interior. On the wall to her left, there was a shelf high above the clothing rod, about six inches higher than the fingers on her outstretched hand. Katherine wanted Julie to leave all her winter clothes in the moving boxes and put the boxes on the shelf. “Make sure you put your winter things on the closet shelf dear,” she said. She even packed Julie’s winter clothes herself and labeled the boxes JULIE’S WINTER CLOTHES. She was so specific. Her behavior made Julie more than a little uncomfortable, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on why. Because she doesn’t give a shit about you, her brain shouted at her. Yeah, Julie thought, that is a fact. So why the concern about where I put my stuff?

Julie pushed the thought from her mind. She crossed the room and got the stepladder that Katherine had left for her and dragged it into the closet. Well, her and Arnold were creepy and weird. Have been since she became part of their little family. But at least they weren’t pedos or molesters, though she wasn’t quite sure about Arnold. He definitely could be a pedo, she thought. She positioned the stepladder at the shelf’s midpoint and then climbed it slowly, allowing both her feet to rest on each rung before she stepped on the next, until she was perched dangerously on the last rung—the one with the words DO NOT STEP HERE etched into it—and her nose was just level with the topside of the shelf. She scanned the length of the shelf’s surface carefully, looking for the creepy crawlies that her brain said was certain to be lurking up there, waiting to make a new home in her hair. She didn’t find any creepy crawlies but there was something else on the shelf. Something she recognized immediately.

A pack of gum.

And not just any gum. It was a family-size pack of Wrigley’s Big Red Cinnamon Chewing Gum.

Wrigley’s Big Red Chewing Gum was Julie’s favorite gum—no, her absolute favorite thing to eat (if one can be said to eat gum) in the whole wide world. She snatched the pack off the shelf for closer inspection. It was unopened. How long had this pack been up here, she wondered. She climbed down off the ladder and brought the pack of gum into the more favorable light of her bedroom. She turned it over in her hand. It looked new. Who would leave a brand new pack of gum in an empty house? And then it dawned on her who would do such a thing. She threw the pack of gum on her vanity with a snort of disgust. Katherine. It had to be Katherine, she thought. She knows I love Big Red and she knew I would find it on the shelf when I put the clothes away. Bitch is trying to turn me into Pavlov’s dog.

“Julie, could you please come downstairs and help me? I’m getting hopelessly behind in here.”

That was Arnold, Katherine’s helpless cuck of a husband. Julie closed her eyes and counted to ten. “Not too much longer,” she said to herself. “Soon I’ll be free from this god-forsaken prison!” She backed out of the room and made her way downstairs.

That was eight hours ago. The pack of gum lay there, tempting her. Julie was sure that Katherine planted the pack of gum in her closet. She wanted me to see it, to know it was from her, and to be all giddy and thankful. Well, that bitch can take her little surprise and shove it all the way up her ass. But try as she might, Julie couldn’t seem to stop thinking about the Big Red. For some reason she couldn’t shake the compulsion to have a stick of cinnamon deliciousness. Finally, after several minutes of arguing with herself, she relented. I’ll eat just one, she thought. Can’t hurt. She picked up the pack of gum, opened it, unwrapped one piece, and popped it in her mouth. It was heavenly. She winced at the tart and spicy flavor of the cinnamon. She liked how it made the inside of her mouth feel numb. She turned back to the mirror and looked at her reflection. She concluded that the teenage girl staring back at her was sad and pathetic. You shouldn’t be giving them victories, she scolded her reflection. You know these little gestures of kindness are just a game caretakers play to get you to let your guard down. She tossed the pack of gum aside and picked up her brush. Their gifts are really a Trojan horse. A Trojan horse into your heart. She set her brush against one side of her long, fire red hair and pulled down and out:

Brush

Brush

Brush

Brush

Julie sighed and let her tired arm fall to her side. She had been sitting in front of the mirror for what seemed like forever, brushing with careful, long strokes, the way Warden Jenkins had taught her, while chewing aggressively on that piece of cinnamon gum.

“Julie Cabierra!” Katherine’s disembodied voice once again wafted into her room from the hallway, “Teenagers do not run my household! You march yourself down here right now young lady so we can go!”

Julie imagined Katherine standing wide-legged at the bottom of the stairs, hands on her hips, her lips tight across her teeth, her patented steely gaze—the one that telegraphed an imminent loss of temper—glaring up at her open bedroom door. Julie stood up. Muscle memory and a touch of self preservation initially moved Julie to comply with Katherine’s request, but by the time she reached the door, rebellion had regained its hold. Who does she think she is anyway? Julie thought, I’m not a child any more, I’m fourteen years old! Instead of grabbing her purse off the door knob of her room where she had hung it, she slapped the door hard with her open hand, slamming it closed. “Leave me alone!” Julie barked, reveling in the rush of rebellious adrenaline. When the expected angry retort from Katherine didn’t materialize, Julie fell back into her chair, face flush with the heat of victory, and resumed brushing her hair, angrily snapping the Big Red chewing gum between her teeth with each stroke:

Brush

Brush

Snap

Brush

Snap

Brush

Giggle

Julie stopped her hand in mid stroke, the brush hovering just above her head. What was that noise? It sounded like someone giggled. She stopped chewing the gum and focused on the silence. There was nothing now. No noise at all, save for her heart beating too fast in her chest.

Giggle

There it was again. Definitely a giggle. A child’s laugh. It was coming from behind her. Her heart slid lower in her chest, beating faster than she thought it should. She turned away from the mirror and slowly twisted her body around in the wooden chair to face in the direction of the sound.

“Who’s there?” she half whispered.

“Daddy did it,” a voice whispered back.

Julie’s heart fluttered and fear welled up in her chest, gripping her heart like a vise. She instinctively jerked backwards, the small of her back digging painfully into the front edge of the vanity.

The voice was coming from her bedroom closet.

“Who’s there?” Julie whispered again, a little louder this time.

“Daddy did it, then he left me,” the voice said, mimicking Julie’s tone.

Julie whimpered, her eyes watering over. The voice sounded—no felt—very close. She stood up and then held up the brush protectively, like a club, as she walked towards the closet door.

“Hello?” Julie said, fear gripping her so tight that she had to squeeze the word out of her throat. The closet’s silver knob gleamed in the dusk that ducked in beneath the half drawn shade of the room’s only window. Julie hesitated, then quite unexpectedly, her legs took two or three more jerky, involuntary steps toward the closet door. Julie suddenly felt trapped, like a reluctant dog being pulled to its bath by an invisible leash.

“MOMMY! MOMMY! WHERE ARE YOU?” the voice boomed in Julie’s head, a torrent of breathless words trapped between her ears. The closet door seemed to pulse to the rhythm of Julie’s heart, which pounded against her sternum so hard she felt it in her stomach. Her lips quivered. She wanted to run; she wanted out of this room; to scream for Katherine to come get her; to save her. But she couldn’t. The invisible leash held her fast, choking her. She tried to speak again, but this time words wouldn’t come. A solitary tear ran down her freckled face.

“Mommy, mommy please help me,” the voice said, now a small whimper. Julie leaned backward, digging her heels into the carpet. But the imaginary leash would not yield. It pulled at Julie’s throat, yanking her forward. Unable to breathe, eyes wide, she scratched at her throat, tearing at her skin to remove a noose that wasn’t there, until she bled. The invisible leash around her throat suddenly loosened. Julie doubled over and sucked in a lung full of air and spit. Still sputtering, she looked up and saw something that shouldn’t be there. In the back of the closet, silhouetted against the stark white walls, sat a small, fragile looking, black haired girl. Julie stood at the closet’s threshold, mouth agape. As surprised as she was to see anyone in her closet, she was more surprised that she recognized her visitor. I have seen her before, she thought. Where? A magazine? No. A newspaper? Yes, that was it, a clip of an old newspaper article. Where had she seen it? The keepsake box! That’s where she saw it! The clipping had fallen out of the box when it hit the floor. On it was a color picture of a little girl. The little girl had dark brown hair, green eyes, and red lips—lips too red for a child that young Julie remembered thinking at the time. What did the headline say about the little girl? What happened to her?

“Daddy did it,” the little girl said again, sitting calmly, while staring at Julie with unblinking eyes. Julie noticed right away that, while this little girl looked like the girl in the newspaper clip, she was different in a very obvious way. The girl in her closet had the same pert nose, the same length hair, and the same mole on one side of her upper lip. But the picture of the girl in the newspaper was in full color, and this child wasn’t.

The little girl sitting in the back of her closet was not in color. She was black and white from head to toe.

It wasn’t just that her clothes were shades of white, gray, and charcoal; it was her skin. Cracked and pale, the little girl could have been carved from mottled alabaster. It made her look like an abused porcelain doll that had been fractured and then hastily glued back together. And her eyes were the purest black Julie had ever seen. They shone, even in the murky light of the closet, like polished onyx. Even the part of her eye that was supposed to be white, was black. Her hair lay tangled around her face like some grotesque rastafarian. The girl’s eyes bore into Julie. She felt those eyes sucking the energy from her body, forcing her cheeks to blush as her temperature rose.

“Mommy painted my nails,” the girl said, “See, aren’t they pretty?” She slowly raised her hands, fingers spread, so Julie could see them.

Through tears, Julie saw that the girl was not made entirely of charcoal and gypsum; her nails were bright pink, the color of cotton candy or bubble gum.

“Do you like them?” the girl asked. Her voice had become sweet and quizzical, like a child asking her mother about a picture she drew for her. Julie tried to respond, but her words crashed at the back of her throat. She took a couple of deep breaths. She was still scared, but the way in which the girl spoke caused a sort of calm to sweep over her. Her heart rate began to slow and make its ascent back into its cage.

“Mommy painted them for me,” the girl repeated, “she said that it was best for both of us that it happened, but she never finished them.”

It was only then that Julie noticed on the girl’s left hand, there was one fingernail—her pinky finger—that was still chalky white, like the rest of her hand.

“Then she left me,” the girl said, her words escaping from her mouth in halted sobs.

“Mmmmm,” Julie tried to speak, but nothing coherent came out.

“She left me and now I don’t have any color.”

“N-n-n-no color?” Julie croaked, as her voice box slowly kicked into gear.

“Except for my nails,” the girl said, smiling while wiggling her fingers.

The girl’s smile made the bottom third of her face disappear. Her skin was so white Julie couldn’t tell where the girl’s lips ended and her teeth began.

“And I can’t get out.” The girl suddenly rose to her knees and shuffled toward Julie. As she did so, her opaque eyes rolled around in her skull like oiled ball bearings, and a clear viscous liquid—Julie guessed it was drool—slid down her thin, china doll lips.

Julie dropped her brush and backed away, horrified.

The little girl threw herself at Julie, but her body convulsed and her head snapped back violently, as if she ran into some sort of invisible wall. Her face contorted into a grimmance and she rubbed her forehead. “I can’t leave without color. Will you give me some of yours?”

“I-I-I can’t do that,” Julie said, shivering as she took another step backward.

“Don’t leave me!” the little girl said. She growled, bearing overly white teeth.

Jule felt the invisible leash retighten around her neck. She was jerked forward until she was no more than a few steps from the little girl. The girl stood up. Julie tried to break away, but her legs refused to obey. The little girl was close now, close enough that Julie could smell her breath; it was a faint aroma of mothballs and vomit. “L-L-Let me go!” Julie stammered.

The little girl responded with a giggle, then took a step backwards, drawing Julie further into the closet’s murk. “You’re going to help me,” the little girl said, “I shared my gum with you and now it’s your turn to share your color with me.”

“No no please!” Julie said, staggering forward, nauseous. The air in the closet was thick with the girl’s stench. Though dark and gray, Julie could see splotches on the girl’s ragged nightgown. The stains looked wet; some were textured where nodules and bits of unidentifiable chunks clung to the cloth like lint. Julie’s feet shuffled toward the back of the closet and her body reluctantly followed. The little girl stared unblinking into Julie’s green eyes, radiating a power Julie didn’t understand. She didn’t know how or why, but she was fully under the little girl’s control. She was halfway in the closet now. The girl’s eyes were still locked with Julie’s, and the terse, turned up grin that preceded the giggle was gone. Julie realized that whatever this thing was, It had her now.

“Hehehe,” the little girl said. It was no longer the voice of an innocent child. Her voice had turned deep and throaty. What was once a little girl face began to buckle and fold in on itself, twisting like a rubber mask set ablaze.

Julie jumped and began to shake uncontrollably. Her skin crawled with goosebumps. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t muster up the strength to raise her voice above a whisper. Black veins throbbed along the girl’s face and neck. Her jaw jutted out past thin white lips, exposing teeth that had become gnarled and pointed. Julie felt something let loose in her mind, an innocence she never bothered to acknowledge. There was a part of her that wanted, more than anything in the world, to laugh and bake cookies with her mother, hug her friends, and someday kiss a boy. Now she knew that possibility was gone. She felt it drain from her as quickly and effortlessly as rain flows into the gutter, leaving her empty and alone.

The girl reached into the pocket of her nightgown and produced a small container. It shimmered in the sparse light. Julie recognized it immediately. It was a bottle of nail polish. Pink nail polish. The same color the little girl had on her fingernails.

“Show me your nails,” the little girl commanded.

Julie had no fight left. She held out her hands, palms down, and spread her fingers apart.

The girl shook the bottle then opened it, never taking her eyes off Julie. Drool seeped from her twisted teeth, running in slow rivlets down the corners of her mouth, and disappearing in big droplets off her chin.

“P-P-P-Please don’t hurt me!” Julie said, managing just a soft whine through the thick, putrid air.

“Shhhhh,” the little girl slurred, “we don’t want Mommy to be mad at us, do we?” With two quick strokes, she brushed a slick coat of polish on Julie’s left pinky finger.

Julie’s ears suddenly started to burn. Working quickly, the girl painted the nails on Julie’s left ring and middle fingers. Julie felt a burning sensation creep up her face until her whole head felt as if it were on fire. Sweat spilled down her forehead. She could taste salt in her mouth. “What’s happening to me?” she cried.

“We’re gonna be pretty,” the little girl whispered, “Mommy will be happy.”

Julie tried to move her hands, but they were frozen. She couldn’t even wiggle her fingers.

The little girl giggled through clenched teeth. She finished painting the nails on Julie’s left hand and moved on to her right thumb and index finger.

Brush.

Brush.

Giggle.

Julie watched, sickened, as the girl’s features changed before her eyes. Her face folded and flexed, her hair sprouted red roots, and her skin bloomed, morphing from a fractured white to a freckled beige. “You’re...you’re taking my color,” Julie said through labored breathing.

The girl giggled again. “It’s only fair,” she said. “You shouldn’t have stolen my gum. Mommy said that children that misbehave can’t stay in the light.”

Julie suddenly felt sick to her stomach. Her paralyzed body jerked and hot bile burned her esophagus. It filled her cheeks and throat before gushing out of her mouth in a steady stream of soupy, reddish pink liquid.

“Serves you right,” the little girl whispered while deftly applying the last of the nail polish to Julie’s right ring and pinky fingers. When she was done she dropped the empty bottle to the floor then closed her eyes and stepped back, pressing herself against the back wall of the closet. “Serves you right,” she said again, “You’ll be dark soon.”

Katherine gave Julie’s bedroom door three hard raps. “Julie! Julie, you come out of this room right now! Do you hear me young lady!” Katherine didn’t wait for an answer. She turned the doorknob and flung the door open, fully expecting to see Julie pouting on her bed or engaged in some other petty teenager activity.

“Young lady, you’d better have a good reason for—”

Katherine stopped short. There was no one in the room. “Julie?”

“I’m here,” a voice said.

Katherine thought the voice sounded strange. It was raspy and full of mucus. “Julie?” she repeated. “Honey, where are you? Why do you have the room so dark?” She reached behind her and flicked on the light switch. As light flooded the room, Katherine saw Julie stumble out of the closet. She was doubled over, her arms wrapped around her midriff, with a pained expression on her face. She ran over and embraced Julie just as the child collapsed into her arms. “Oh my god honey are you ok?”

“I don’t feel so good,” Julie said, hugging Katherine and burying her face into her bosom.

“Oh my god Julie you’re burning up! And you smell like vomit. Did you throw up?”

“I’m sorry,” Julie said, her voice cracking, “I made a mess in the closet. Please don’t be mad at me mommy.”

Katherine gasped.

Julie lifted her head and let her eyes find Katherine’s. “I’m sorry mommy. Did I say something wrong?”

“No baby,” Katherine said, smiling. Tears began to roll down her cheeks. “You didn’t say anything wrong. It’s just that…”

“Yes?”

Katherine stroked Julie’s tangled red hair. “It’s just that, just for a second, you sounded just like my daughter Meghan.”

Julie put her hands in Katherine’s. “Do you miss being her mommy?”

“Yes, I miss being her mommy very much.”

Julie smiled. “I miss having a mommy too. Will you be my mommy?”

Katherine’s knees wobbled. She felt lightheaded. “Oh my god Julie! There’s nothing I want more in the whole wide world than to be your mommy! It’s the only thing I’ve prayed for since you came into our home, that you would accept me as your mother. You’ve made me the happiest woman in the whole world!”

Julie smiled and wrapped her arms around Katherine’s neck.

A man’s voice called from the hallway. “Is everything alright in there? Are we going out to eat or not?”

Katherine wiped the tears from her face and chuckled. “My husband can be impatient. We don’t have to go out if you’re not feeling well.”

“I was feeling bad at first, but I’m feeling a lot better now.”

Katherine clasped Julie’s hand in hers. “Well then, let’s go get something to eat.”

“Ok mommy.”

As they walked out of the bedroom, Katherine noticed the polish on Julie’s nails. She lifted Julie’s hand to get a closer look. “Julie, where did you get this color nail polish? I...I used to paint my baby’s nails with…”

“Oh, I had—I mean, I found it in the closet. Someone must’ve left it behind.”

“Well, It’s very pretty. It looks good on you.”

“Thank you mommy.”

“While we’re out we’ll have to see if we can buy some more so you can finish painting all your nails.”

Julie casually looked down at her pinky finger, the one with the unpainted fingernail. “Yes, I would like that. I would like that very much.”