Shaking out the Dead by K M Cholewa Page B

her?”
    Rachael stared at Tatum coldly. Then, clearly disgusted, she threw her sandwich at her.
    â€œYou ruined it,” she spat.
    Tatum looked down to her chest. She picked shredded lettuce off her sweater and winged the pickle into the trash.
    â€œDon’t be mad,” she said. “I’m sorry. I just thought we should define our terms.”
    Rachael scrambled off the bed and stormed into the bathroom.
    Objects thrown, doors slammed. Round two. Tatum hadn’t meant to ruin it. The question was dumb, maybe even inappropriate, she thought. But it was sincere. Take care of — what did that mean to God? After all, supposedly God was already ‘taking care of’ everybody, and based on results, Tatum thought, what ‘taking care of’ someone meant to God might be similar to what it meant to the Mafia.
    Tatum got off the bed and went to the bathroom door. She rapped a knuckle on it.
    â€œRach.”
    â€œTake care of my mom in heaven,” she heard Rachael say. But her piety seemed exaggerated, an I’ll-do-it-myself quality that informed Tatum that the point was no longer to beseech the Lord God, but to let Tatum know how miserably she had failed.
    Tatum pressed her back to the bathroom door and slid down until seated on the floor. The praying stopped. Tatum listened for Rachael’s breath.
    â€œAre you okay?”
    Bam . Rachael kicked the inside of the door. She sounded fit and healthy.
    Then Tatum listened to Rachael resume her prayers, asking for favors she would never know had or hadn’t been granted. Prayer. It was probably a good sign, Tatum thought. Proactive. Indicating some belief in having power over one’s circumstances. Hail Marys and psychic hotlines, they were last ditch efforts to take control, take action, if only to call for help.
    She knocked softly on the bathroom door.
    â€œRachael?” she said. “Hey, Rach, if your mom was here, right now? What do you think she’d be doing?”
    No answer. Tatum noticed a bottle opener screwed into the wall across from her and up a few feet. Randomly placed. A considerate thought but weak in execution.
    â€œC’mon Rachael, if we were all on a trip together.”
    Rachael spoke each word progressively louder.
    â€œMy. Mom. Is. Dead.”
    Then, bam , another kick. Tatum felt it through the door.
    â€œI’m just saying ‘what if,’” Tatum said. “Pretending might make us feel better.”
    A second passed. Then, another. Then the bathroom door opened, and Tatum fell back a bit before catching herself. Rachael stepped past without acknowledging her. She went to the motel room door and struggled with the knob. Tatum rose to her feet and followed.
    â€œI want to go home,” Rachael said, twisting at the lock.
    Tatum reached over her head and flipped the bolt. Rachael walked out into the wind and sleet. Tatum had the room key in her pocket. She reached for their coats.
    Outside, Rachael struggled with the door handle of the passenger’s side of the car until Tatum came and unlocked it. Then Tatum came around the car and got in the driver’s seat. Rachael buckled her seat belt. Tatum considered it but passed. Rachael turned her head to look out the passenger window as though at any moment they might pass prairies, cattle, and mountain ranges. Tatum could see Margaret in Rachael’s profile and in the arc of her brow. It reminded her of when she and Margaret were kids in the back seat of the car on the drive home from the Wisconsin Dells after summer weekends late on Sunday nights. Margaret would allow a truce for the sake of comfort, and the two of them would share a grown-up’s windbreaker for a cover. Margaret would lean against the cool glass of the window. Tatum would close her eyes against Margaret’s arm.
    Tatum looked away from Rachael and faced forward. Beyond the windshield, glare from the motel’s floodlights illuminated the falling