Damaged Gods

I linger in the hallway crowded with unopened boxes and a bucket of filthy water with a mop sticking out, because this place is super busy and I don’t want to repeat my walk of shame just yet. This costume is a losing battle. I’m either a petulant, overgrown teenager who just recently became obsessed with the movie The Craft, or… this is my Halloween costume and I didn’t go home last night.

Not that I have a home. I don’t. I was on my way to Ohio to crash with a former foster sister when I got caught up in the whole ‘spirit of Halloween party’ thing.

Note to self. Never show your face at Mount Aloysius College again.

The most ironic thing about this costume—these are my actual clothes. I pulled them right out of those trash bags in the back of my Jeep.

I lean against the dirty wall and casually browse the bulletin board across the aisle. There are lot of business cards pinned to it, plus a few advertisements for kittens, a poster for a missing dog from last year, and a help-wanted flyer.

I pull the flyer down and study the picture. It’s a sketch of an old church-like building somewhere in a town called Sanctuary, which I’ve never heard of, but no one’s heard of anything in this part of PA. It’s all very rural.

“What’s it say?” Pia asks.

I always found it interesting that Pia can’t read. I mean, she can talk. Why wouldn’t I give her reading capabilities?

“It’s a help-wanted ad. For a live-in caretaker at some place called Saint Mark’s Sanctuary.”

A guy about my age is walking out of the men’s room and shoots me a funny look, wondering who I’m talking to. I lift my hair away from my ear and point to the bud.

He looks away, satisfied that I’m not nuts, just being rude by having a phone conversation in public.

I learned that trick early. I mean, as soon as they came out with Bluetooth, I was all over that shit. The perfect excuse if one is perpetually talking to her imaginary friend.

Pia doesn’t offer up an opinion on the job, so I read the rest of the flyer to myself. It could be promising. The building looks nice, but why use a sketch instead of a photograph?

It’s a red flag.

The building looks super old and it’s probably infested with rats or something. And there’s no picture of what the live-in situation really entails. Is it a room in this institution? Because I might rather be homeless than live in another institution. I’ve had enough of those for ten lifetimes.

It doesn’t say anything about a salary, either. In fact, it says very little. A couple of sentences extolling the virtues of the grounds and the history of the building, most of which has to be a lie because it says the main building was erected in 1685 and as far as I know, this part of PA was nothing but forest in 1685.

Pia sighs on my shoulder. She is me, after all. And I’m feeling particularly weary right now.

“Maybe I should apply?” I say. “It can’t hurt.”

The truth is, I’m tired of living in my car. And I already know that this trip to Toledo to stay with Jacqueline is gonna be a disaster. We haven’t seen each other in six years. The last time we talked she told me she had four kids and was working three jobs. If she actually lets me stay more than one night, I’ll probably end up her babysitter.

And it’s not like I would mind helping her out, especially if she let me stay, but…

But I had grand plans once.

Caretaker.

It’s better than babysitter. No kids.

I don’t know what a caretaker does, but I imagine cleaning and stuff like that. They probably have a whole crew of cleaners. I could meet new people, learn my way around a new town, and start a whole new life. And besides, I wouldn’t have to stay there if the room isn’t nice. I could rent a little house in the woods. Rent is super cheap in this part of PA. Back in Philly, where I come from, people my age can’t afford to live on their own anymore. It’s all about how many roommates you can get along with while paying seven hundred dollars a month for a room the size of a closet.

Pia climbs back down my shirt and disappears into my front pocket, her tiny heartbeat galloping against my chest.

And that’s it, I guess.

I do my walk of shame with my head high (and my sunglasses on), fill up my tank, get back into my Jeep, and then go south towards the town called Sanctuary.

The sun is setting by the time I drive along the massive brick wall until I find an equally huge iron gate in front of the building sketched out in the flyer. There is no parking lot, just a small pull-in space in front.