The Moon Sisters (30 page)

“She doesn’t exist anymore, Bethie. We won’t give her that power over us, will we?”

Do you remember saying that? I remember. Those words imprinted on me after she left, the way you imprinted on me as the everlasting root in my life, the only foundation I had left. I wonder now if that’s what you told yourself after I married Branik, when—like it or not—I chose one version of myself over the other: that I didn’t exist anymore, and you wouldn’t let me have power over you
.

I wonder what Mom is doing now. If she’s alive. If she ever thinks of us. If you ever think of her
.

I wonder if she ever reached out to you to have you cut her off
.

I wonder if she ever tried to contact me
.

And I wonder, Dad, if you ever think of me, even if you don’t want to—if I’m like your missing limb, or even your tsunami. What would you do if I sent you a card today, right now, filled with pictures of your granddaughters? Would I be able to face you after all this time if you suddenly reached out, or would I feel like that woman on the show—afraid of what version of myself I might see?

Beth

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Plague

   JAZZ   

A
few days before my mother died I began reading
The Plague
, by Albert Camus. The book had been in her college trunk, which I’d found one snowy day in the small space under the stairs. The orange scythe on the cover intrigued me, and the first line of the second paragraph hooked me:

The town itself, let us admit, is ugly
.

The town’s name was Oran.

I read half of the book that first night, and thought about it all the next day as I sifted together flour, baking powder, and salt, cut in shortening, and added milk to make biscuits for Susie’s. I arrived home late that afternoon, eager to consume the last half. My mother stood in the kitchen, still in the robe I’d seen her in that morning, her arms locked against the table, and her eyes focused on something beside her clunky typewriter. This was not an unusual sight, finding her staring at papers or off into space.

I set a bag of biscuits on the counter for dinner, and was ready to slip by my mother and head to my room, when I realized that what she stared at was a newspaper clipping. We didn’t get the paper at our house, because Tramp didn’t have a paper. Kennaton was the
closest city that put out the daily news, but we’d decided the money my father brought home would be better spent on food and clothes than on information about a city that didn’t involve us. So it was strange to see a clipping. A note lay beside her, too, and I recognized the bold teal stripe at the top of the stationery used by my mother’s sometimes-friend Bonnie, who lived in Kennaton.

I peered over her shoulder and read:

ORIN HOWELL

Orinthal “Orin” Howell, 73, passed away on February 12, 2013, at Kennaton Hospital. He was predeceased by his parents, John and Victoria Howell; his first wife, Suzanne Howell; and his daughter, Beth Howell. He is survived by his second wife, Helena Howell, and five stepchildren: Stuart Marshall, Liza Monahue, Treena Marshall, Joseph Marshall, and Gretchen Schultz. Orin Howell founded and managed Future Bright Bank during the 1980s. A special thanks to the staff at Kennaton Hospital for the exemplary care provided to Orin in his final days. Funeral Services will be held on Friday, at 2:00
P.M
., at the Rutherford & Son Funeral Home, 245 Main Street, Kennaton, with calling hours held an hour before, from 1:00 to 2:00
P.M
. Burial will be in Kennaton Hills Memorial Park.

Orin Howell. My grandfather.

Beth Howell. My mother.

I’d known for years that my mother had been disowned by her father, but seeing it in black and white—that she’d been listed in his obituary as a deceased child—made the room chill by degrees even for me. I couldn’t imagine how she felt. And, of course, her father was dead. Her father, who must’ve seemed like a stranger then. She’d missed his funeral by a day, too.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and touched her arm. “Do you need anything?”

She didn’t respond.

“Mom? Want me to go back to the store and get Dad?”

She shook her head and began to fold the paper. In half. Into quarters. Into eighths. She folded that piece of paper until it no longer resembled squares; it looked like a tiny ball. And then she stuffed it into the pocket of her robe.

“Don’t say anything to anyone about this,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

I tried to give her a hug, but she rolled her shoulders, wouldn’t be touched. Rebuffed me, as I’d rebuffed her so many times. So I left her there, went up to my room and opened
The Plague
.

The world’s a bitch, and then you die, said Camus, throughout the course of two hundred and seventy-eight pages. It’s a world that’s unsympathetic to people’s individual plights. It’s a world without meaning, even though people tried, all the time, to find significance in everything. You may or may not agree, but here’s the truth: Rats die. Diseases spread. Criminals thrive. My mother’s father disowned her, and his second wife had her officially killed in his obituary. One week later, my mother died in our kitchen with the gas on, contained there as neatly, as utterly, as a citizen of Oran.

I removed the horrific, concentrated ball of meanness that was my grandfather’s obituary from the pocket of my mother’s robe long before my father got rid of it, and said nothing about it—to honor my word and because there was no point.

No crumpled piece of paper had ever felt so heavy.

When I felt the familiar tug to retreat after my talk with Olivia—and knowing that it would be a while before we could leave, thanks to those bee stings—I didn’t bother trying to repress it. I grabbed my backpack and left for a walk on J.D.’s land, a forest dense with young trees that showed off too much sky. I wandered over hills and thin streams, my head overfilled with everything my sister had said.

I was the last one to see her alive
.

I’d known this, of course, but hadn’t spent time thinking about what that might’ve been like for Olivia.

There was a letter by her side when she died
.

A letter that Olivia had kept secret for months. Because she preferred to hang on to her delusions rather than hear the truth? How could she still insist that our mother’s death had been an accident?

I’ll never believe that she did it, that she could’ve. It can’t be true!

Will-o’-the-wisps taste like hope
.

Was that what this whole trip was about, chasing after some form of hope that only Olivia understood? What the hell was I supposed to do with that?

An overturned boat propped against a tree in the distance caught my eye, and I headed for it, kicking the heads off a dozen mushrooms along the way. My feet were still firmly on the ground when I leaned against its warm metal body, raised my crossed arms to my face, and squeezed my eyes shut.

That letter. What were we supposed to do about that letter?

It’s for Grandpa Orin, just like the others!

What would Olivia do if she knew our grandfather died a week before our mother turned on the oven and closed the kitchen door? In my mind, there was no doubt that she’d killed herself. She’d wagered everything on some potential future reconciliation, wagered her family. All my life she’d polished me to be the trophy child, hoped I’d be enough to show off to the Great Orin, that he’d forgive her, then, for having me in the first place.

And now he was dead.

Cause. Effect.

Even though part of me wanted to tell Olivia right then to set the record straight, another part warned that she wasn’t in the right headspace to hear the truth. The wild-eyed look of my sister when I’d pushed about the letter lingered behind my lids. That look screamed,
Stop now, I’ve reached the edge
.

I wasn’t good at figuring things out even on my best days, and
today was far from my best day. Today everything felt as wrong-sided, as upside-down, as the boat. I rocked its weight beneath me, back and forth, forth and back, trying to understand the way Olivia’s mind worked. Though I’d long believed that she had a different and sometimes infuriating perception of things, I’d never considered she might be in some ways fragile because of that.

Will-o’-the-wisps taste like hope?

Was I supposed to divine some sort of significance from that? Was that supposed to be as clear to me as how sending letters to a man, even if he were alive, could matter to any of us—least of all to a woman who’d decided that life wasn’t worth sticking around for anyway?

What could this letter—this final letter—possibly say?

Dear Family
,

It is over. Please carry on without me, and do your best to figure things out
.

p.s. Jazz, take care of your sister
.

“I hate this shit,” I said to no one, my chest once more filled with anger at my mother for leaving us. Leaving so many things unfinished. Leaving me to figure it all out for myself.

What would hope taste like, anyway? Would I walk a week for a chance to savor it, if I could, if I needed it?

What would I hope for?

A thought crossed my mind. What might my mother’s life have
been without judgment and condemnation from her father? What might it have been with acceptance?

Could I do that for Olivia? Try harder not just to endure her point of view but to respect it, even though I could never share it? The last time I tried to put myself in her figurative shoes, I’d been a child. Once upon a time, I went through an entire storybook and colored all the letters to match what Olivia said she saw.
A
was red, I remembered. Tuesday tasted like pancakes. The sun smelled like Mama.

I tried to remember what my mother smelled like.

Fabric softener. Cherry lip balm. Coffee.

Sometimes she’d smelled like rose water or garden soil or oniony ramps. Sometimes like the inside of a book.

Dear Family
,

It hurts too much to carry on. I’m sorry if this hurts you, too, but know I will miss and love you for forever
.

“I hate this shit,” I said again, rubbing at my eyes with the palms of my hands.

When I dropped my arms, I spied a slender trail between tall evergreens in the distance, the hint of a blue building obscured by brush. I walked toward the winding path, glad to escape my thoughts.

The building itself was neat, with what appeared to be a fresh coat of blue paint over its pine exterior and a tar-patched roof. A set of wide double doors was secured with a padlock.

I put my hand against the warm sun-streaked door and set my
bag near my feet. Though I didn’t think anyone was around to hear me but him, I spoke his name quietly. “Red Grass?”

“Girly?” he said from inside, not so quiet. “It’s about time you came to spring me.”

“I don’t have a key,” I said, and rattled the lock with my hand. “But I have some questions.”

He grumbled something indecipherable from the other side of the wood, complaining no doubt about my need for answers.

“You’re a bounty hunter, aren’t you?”

The idea didn’t seem outrageous, and fit what I’d come to know about him: He was tenacious, sneaky, and owned professional equipment. And payment could come directly from the coins. In fact, maybe the coins that had been taken from Hobbs at the restaurant
were
payment for hunting him. Maybe that’s why Red Grass had been so obsessed with getting them into his hands. For that matter, maybe that’s why he’d been so keen on buying drinks for everyone at the bar that night; instant wealth had a way of making a person generous.