“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.
I put the Jeep in park and peer up at the old brick building. It’s not crumbling. In fact, it looks to be well cared for. The grounds are neat, not a single leaf on the grass, which is still quite green, even though it’s November first.
“Is it closed?” I’m not really asking Pia. Just trying to sort out how I get inside the sanctuary.
I get out of the Jeep and walk up to the gate. It’s a very nice gate. Something custom and old. Very old. Maybe even as old as this building claims to be because it’s got a patina. Mostly it’s black with some rust spots, but there are words engraved over the arch of the top and those are aged-copper green. A horn, a hoof, an eye, a bone. A man, a girl, a place of stone. A tick of time, a last mistake, keep them safe behind the gate. These words are separated by a relief image between ‘a bone’ and ‘a man’. It’s a… symbol. Some kind of simple mark. I search my brain for the word I’m looking for. Not a logo. Not a crest. More like a… sigil.
Yeah. I think. I’m not really sure what a sigil is, but that word pops into my head and it feels right so I go with it.
I peek through the wrought-iron bars. There is no one on the grounds in front. There is no intercom to buzz and ask for guidance, but there is a skinny walking gate on one side, and when I try the old iron handle, it turns with a squeak. “It’s not locked,” I say. “Maybe we should just walk up and knock on the door?”
“We should leave,” Pia says, flying over to land on my shoulder. “I don’t like this place, Pie.”
“Well, I do.” I’m annoyed with her and it comes out in my tone. Because Pia is the whole reason why my life is crap and people think I’m crazy.
I am the girl with the imaginary friend.
I am the girl who talks to herself.
I am the girl who hallucinates.
And I have always stuck up for her, insisting that she is real. So can she just be supportive? Please? Right?
Pia is why my mother left me in foster care when I was nine. I was dragged to dozens of free, Medicaid-approved psychiatrists when I refused to say that Pia was fake. They diagnosed me with schizophrenia when I was six. Put me on all kinds of drugs. Made me go to therapy and finally, when I was about twelve, I figured out how to play their stupid game.
Lie. Just lie.
So I became a liar.
And it worked.
They stopped the drugs, they stopped the therapy, and they stopped calling me crazy.
But that was a lie too, because I don’t care what anyone says. Pia is real.
She has to be real. Otherwise I really am crazy.
“I want to check it out,” I tell her. “And if you wanna stay here, then stay. In fact, I think you should stay here. The last thing I need is you distracting me and blowing this opportunity. Or… killing my hope. Because right now, this place has potential. It’s got no chance of being a home, but I could do worse when it comes to a temporary way station to regroup and rest after running away from my worthless crap of a life back in Philly. It’s got to be better than Jacqueline’s couch. She doesn’t even know I’m coming yet, by the way. So. Yeah. I’m checking this place out.”
Pia doesn’t respond. Just snuggles back into my pocket.
And that’s that. I’m doing this.
So I suck in a deep breath and walk through the gate.
There is a little bit of fog rolling in as the sun begins to dip behind the tall trees, and I shiver. This is when I once again take notice of what I’m wearing.
I should’ve changed, at least. No one is gonna hire me looking like this. So I turn, and in that moment, I’m convinced this is a terrible idea. I don’t know what I was thinking, coming here looking like a Halloween leftover. No one wants to be a stupid caretaker anyway. And I’m just about to push that walking gate open and leave when a man calls out.
“Hello!”
I whirl around. “Hello?” I don’t see anyone.
“Up here.”