Page 32 of Chaos

I prowl deeper into her room, the broken shards of door cracking under the soles of my sneakers. “I’m sureChurchcan figure something out. I hear he brings you fancy-ass chocolates.”

She hisses at me, then turns away, shuffling with her arms groped out in front of her until she hits the wall, then follows it, her fingers patting around the corner and into the darkened bedroom. “I’m not ready, Frank. You should have listened.”

Seeing her move like this somehow makes it real.

Shasta’s blind. Likeblindblind.

“You don’t get to not be ready to keep living.”

She disappears around the corner. “I don’t want people looking at me.”

“Too bad.” I follow her and find her crawling into the bed. “You never minded before. You loved it.”

The front room seemed normal in comparison. This one is … messy. Almost like those hoarding shows on TV. Piles of clothing and makeup, towels, dishes. She needs an organization system she can maintain by feel.

She pulls the covers over herself, keeping her face averted. “Go away.”

“No.” I wrench open the curtains. “When was your last bath?”

She flinches. “I use a bucket every night.”

Buckets.

“What is it with the apocalypse and buckets?” At least she hasn’t been shitting in hers.

The out pipes still work here, taking our waste away somewhere … presumably down mountain … to a place I hope never to go.

I step around a tray of dishes and open the door to her balcony and a fresh wash of cold, clean air gusts in. “Is the new cook as bad as everyone says?”

“Plumberger,” she mutters. His name is starting to sound almost like a curse. “He’s awful. He made tacos the other day with canned fish. Not tuna, like sardines and canned corn and salsa.”

I poke a pile of clothing with my foot. “We’re going to the pool house. Trust me, everything feels better when you’re clean.”

She argues. She resists.

It doesn’t matter. I win because deep down, she knows I’m right.

We take the route least likely to see anyone. She pulls a hoodie over her hair and wears huge sunglasses and clutches my hand as I lead her down hallways and stairwells, warning her about steps.

She strips down while I fill a bucket for her just like Yorke did for me.Not all buckets are bad. I hand over soap, then shampoo, get more water when it’s needed, then I hand over a toothbrush.

“You’d better not be looking at me,” she says.

“I’m not looking at you.” At least not like she means. I’m not looking lasciviously or judgmentally, just checking in. Like me and Yorke, she’s thinner than she was. A month in bed eating Plumberger’s terrible food has sharpened her bones. And her hair’s roots darkened from blond to brown, her banana curls are now tighter, less uniform. “I’m thinking about the moment I pulled back the drapes in your room.”

“And?” she says glumly, scrubbing soap into her feet.

“And … you flinched.”

“What of it?”

“You can see light.”

“Dark blobs. Bright blobs. Sometimes kind of a pink mauve color.”

She holds still as I dump water over her, soap bubbles swirling across the tiles, and down the drain, taking a month of sweat and dirt and tears away for the second time today.

When her hair is clean, we get her dressed and make our way back up all the stairs to the sixth floor where her room is. She’s almost as winded as I am by the time we hit the top.

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