Page 55 of Dark Ugly Places

Emmy’s eyes tear up. “It’s a skin graft. Why would you ask me that?”

Stop it, Martha! What are you doing?

Oops. “Okay. Sorry. Well, so that’s the point, isn’t it? So instead of flaunting it and making it a big deal, why don’t you try to work with it a little bit?”

“What do you mean?”

I turn her to the side so that the part of her hair with the skin graft is facing me. “May I?”

Emmy shrugs. “Do I have an option?”

“Yeah. You can tell me to fuck off, if you want.”

She shakes her head. “Just do it.”

I part her hair slightly further up and bring it down so that the skin graft isn’t so obvious. Now it looks like the side of her head is just partially shaved, instead of totally bald.

“You think I haven’t tried that?” Emmy says. “It gets windy, and it just blows back over. Everyone can see it.”

“Right, that’s challenging,” I say.

“Yeah,” says Emmy. “See my issue? I can’t just wear a comb-over.”

“Fair enough. Well, how about we focus on the rest of you?”

“Good luck,” Emmy says. “There isn’t much to focus on.”

“We’ll see about that.”

I make Emmy wash off her makeup and remove the black eyeliner so we can start fresh. Her eyebrows are a little wild, so I shape them and groom them to accentuate her eyes. Then I moisturize her face. Her skin is flawless. For her cheeks, I mix a few different shades together to get a nice peachy color, and I add something similar for her lips. For her eyes, just a wisp of mascara over her lashes. I comb her hair and style it with moisturizer for her curls. That’s it. She’s fourteen, not twenty-four. She should look it. I don’t let her look in the mirror until I’m finished.

“That’s me?” she says, her voice small. “I look so … different.”

“Come on,” I say, taking her hand. We go to the computer and open the Internet browser. “What’s your favorite store of all time?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “We haven’t been shopping in a really long time. Since before Dad died.”

“I know,” I say. “That’s not the point. We’re shopping now.”

I do a Google search for clothes for teenage girls. A whole bunch of sites pop up, and Emmy and I browse through them, picking her favorite stuff, from dresses to jeans to cute tops and jackets, until she has a whole new wardrobe. When we’re finished, Emmy looks gleeful and excited. “I can’t believe you just let me buy all that stuff!” Her face falls flat. “How are you going to pay for it?”

“Remember what I said to you about asking questions?”

She nods.

“You don’t need to worry. It’s not going to be a problem.”

“You got a new job?”

“Yes,” I tell her. It’s basically as good as done now. “Remember in The Secret Garden how Martha helps Mary get well and get back on her feet?”

“Um, yeah … I read that, like, a million years ago, but yeah. What’s your point?”

“Well, your mom has Martha to help her. And now that Martha has helped her, she can help other people, too.”

“That’s … weird. So, you’re going to be someone’s housekeeper?”

“More like someone’s personal assistant.”