Stalking the Moon

by Angel Leigh McCoy

  "Hi, Mom." Tears swelled in my throat. Being there with her, in the only place I felt truly safe, I couldn’t hold it back any longer. "There was an accident." My throat closed, and tears blurred my vision.

  She kept rocking, the pen in her hand poised to continue writing in her journal.

  "Colin’s missing."

  She didn’t react. She maintained her rhythm, as regular as the ocean lapping against the shore.

  I went to my knees beside her, crossed my arms on her lap, and rested my head there. "I don’t understand where he could have gone. I think he might be…dead."

  Dark clouds gathered on my horizon. Misery expanded inside me. I felt her touch immediately, so gentle, brushing down the back of my head, smoothing my hair. Such a loving gesture made it impossible to contain the storm; her touch coaxed it out. My face went tight. My mouth grimaced. No breath, then too much breath, and my stomach convulsed with silent sobs.

  I choked, and my hands shook, curling like dead bugs against my chest. I couldn’t make a sound. I was trapped in my head and body, torn asunder from the inside out, and I begged God to make it all right again, begged with all my soul.

  My body stopped knowing what to do, but Mom kept stroking my hair.

  The tempest raged. It cut me off from escape and shook me hard. Lightning illuminated flashes of memories. Thoughts thundered. The waves crashed against rocks, slashing into the darkest nooks and crannies where black-eyed crabs and sea stars clung for dear life.

  It had been three days since the accident. I’d reached my threshold of holding myself together. I was broken, and I couldn’t help but think, He left me.

  My mom slid out of her chair and crouched beside me, surprising me. The movement was so unusual for her that it nearly shocked me out of crying. She had a cotton handkerchief in her hand, and she wiped the tears and snot from my face as if I were a child again. She tucked my hair behind my ear and made soft, unintelligible cooing sounds.

  Some time later, she pulled me to my feet and guided me to her bed. She helped me take off my outer clothes and get in under the covers, then she crawled in beside me and held me against her. I remembered how it felt to have her soft, motherly body against mine. I remembered her smell and her warmth. I was small again and frightened of the storm.

  Mom banished it, but in its wake, it left water-logged dream homes, scattered memories, and toppled lives.

  I closed my eyes, and I was in the lake, underwater, floating upright. Colin was there, facing me, his hands in mine. His face had a blue-gray tint and his hair danced around his head. We looked into each others’ eyes, and we were dying, together.

  The water soaked into my pores. It waterlogged me. It tried to get in through my nostrils and mouth, through my ears, but I kept it out. I knew I would die and lose Colin if I let it take me completely. I could hold my breath indefinitely. I was weightless, one with the water. Colin looked peaceful. I felt the same.

  Then, something grabbed my spine, just behind my belly button, a hand around a handle, and it yanked me backward. My body bent in half at the hips, and my hands came free of Colin’s.

  His eyes widened, and his mouth opened. A bubble emerged from it and rippled upward. Another popped out of his nose and chased the first. He reached for me.

  I heard his voice in my head, "Viviane!"

  I reached for him too, but whatever had hold of me dragged me away. I opened my mouth to scream bubbles and inhaled cold lake water. It rushed into my lungs, making them full and heavy.

  My captor dragged me backward, upward. Colin grew smaller, and the distance obscured my view of him until he was nothing more than a distorted shape in the swaying water.

  His voice became an echo inside my mind. "Viviane. Viviane."

  I breached the surface with a splash and continued rising, lifted into the air by whatever had hold of my spine. I was flying, ascending backward over the lake, water draining off me in fat streams. Then, it released me, and I fell, screaming.

  ♦♦♦

  CHAPTER 12

  A nurse set a tray on Mom's desk. "Please try to eat something, Viviane. Gisèle is in the dining room. You could join her." She didn't wait for an answer but just left.

  I lay there, unable and unwilling to move. A glance at the clock told me I’d slept for three hours. The sun was waning, and the light coming in the windows had no energy. It didn’t shine in so much as drain in, dappled by the rain-splashed windows.

  Though Mom was gone, Corona was there, a lady’s maid dressed in men’s pajamas, black with white piping, sitting in the overstuffed armchair, legs tucked up against her chest, watching me with her loreful eyes. She touched her finger to her lips. "Shhhh. You’re safe. Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go back to your room."

  I had so many decisions I could make—whether to go back to sleep or not, whether to get out of bed or not, whether to cry some more or not, whether to kill myself or not.

  Colin haunted me, circling at the periphery of my mind. I pushed him away, as hard as I could, and watched the water run down the windows, rivulets branching and melding, pooling, and then releasing with a rush. Eventually, my eyes drifted shut.

  ♦

  The next time I woke up, Mom was seated in the armchair, facing me. She was snug in her lacy white nightgown and a pink robe. Her bare feet rested flat on the floor, hands folded in her lap. Someone had braided her hair.

  The clock read 20:50. I thought about the first time I met her. The letter had arrived on my eighteenth birthday, special delivery. I had to show my I.D. and sign to prove that I got it. That was my first clue that it was important.

  Abram wasn’t home when the letter arrived, and I realized later that was probably for the best. I don’t know what he’d have done if he’d been there—maybe burned it so I couldn’t read it.

  The envelope was nice paper, fancy type, and a gold-embossed logo. That was my second clue that it was important.

  The letter itself had an air of formality. At the top, it said, "CONFIDENTIAL ATTORNEY-CLIENT COMMUNICATION," all in capital letters. That was my third clue.

  I began to think maybe I was in trouble.

  The gold-stamped logo was on the stationery too, along with the name of the law firm (Bagley, Smart, and Cobb), and the letter started, "Dear Miss Viviane Lenore Rose."

  I had to wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans.

  "Enclosed with this letter, you will find copies of documents that have been held in trust for our client, Gisèle Brigid Rose, to be delivered directly to you on your 18th birthday. " It listed several things included in the envelope. "Please call me after you read the enclosures." And it was signed, "Divana Smart, Esq."

  One of the items in the package was a hand-written note from my mother dated July 11, 1984—the day she had supposedly died.

  It read:

  My beloved daughter,

  I had hoped that my imagination was once again carrying me away, but I can no longer deny that I'm about to be taken from you. Thus, I prepare so that you will be safe and sound without me.

  Change always comes upon a precipice. Have you noticed that, my darling? I’m the Fool with the hound of reality nipping at my heels. You can see forever from a height such as this, allegorical though it may be. One of the joys of aging is that I can finally look back and see the patterns emerging. I recognize the choices I made and the consequences I paid for them.

  I see the faces of everyone who died before me—for me and for our world. It’s not an unhappy sight. I know they’re waiting for me to be reborn, and I’m filled with peace.

  I hold on to the knowledge that I have loved and lived as fully as any awkward kid from Illinois could. I remember it all, and my greatest wish is that I could leave those memories with you. Sadly, I've waited too long, and now I only have time for one letter. I hope you don’t find it too confusing and that it helps you to understand the mighty chaos that has been my world. I wish I could have told you everything in person.

&n
bsp; I realize now, as I consider my impending death, that I have nothing of value to give but words carefully picked from the river of my thoughts and stored in origami cranes and silk-lined boxes.

  You are henceforth the keeper of my legacy. Guard it well, and I will never truly leave you.

  He’s here. Please forgive him. He’s only doing what his fate demands of him.

  Yours with forever love, your mother.

  The envelope also contained "collected monthly updates on the condition of Gisèle B. Rose, beginning July 16, 1984"—three days after she supposedly died—"through the present."

  That was how I found out that my mom was a patient at the Center and not dead, as my grandfather had led me to believe. I didn’t go see her the day I received the packet. I was so mad at Abram and so upset that I would have spoiled everything. The day I did go, I was still furious, but not nearly as out of my mind with it.

  Richard drove me to the Center. I had a license, and I could have taken Abram’s old truck, but Richard was afraid I’d freak out on the way or be too upset to drive myself home. He wasn’t far from wrong.

  Fifteen years later, I tossed back the covers on my mom’s bed and sat up, stiff and sore all over. I stood, stretched, and then went to the window. Outside, the building sat in a pool of electric light beyond which the trees in the orchard blended into darkness, swaying as one body.

  Simon said, "Somebody’s coming." His warnings never came early enough to actually heed them. I didn’t even answer him—I just turned to look toward the door.

  It opened. Richard paused on the threshold, his face pale and his expression grim.

  Simon said, "Uh oh."

  I asked, "What’s the matter?"

  Richard shut the door. He crossed to me, took my hand, and led me to the bed.

  We sat down together.

  He didn’t let go. "Viviane. I’m so sorry," Richard said. "They found Colin."

  The words collided in my ears. I felt stupid. I didn’t speak the language. "What are you telling me?"

  Richard looked down at my hand in his. "They found Colin’s body in the lake."

  The air vacated the room, creating a vacuum. Deaf and mute, I perched at the forefront of my thoughts, waiting for them to restart and explain what I was hearing. The river of my consciousness had been dammed. Time had abandoned me.

  Someone made a heart-wrenching sound, a sob, and I barely registered that it had come from me. My vision swam, and convulsions stole my strength. I felt the needle’s prick when Richard sedated me. He'd come prepared. Then, nothing.

  ♦♦♦

  CHAPTER 13

  My world shrank to a narrow corridor between my bed and the toilets. People came and went. I saw them and heard them, but they were like the view out the car window, streaming landscapes, there and gone, fleeting, insignificant, forgettable.

  Richard was a regular visitor. He turned on the metronome—tock tick. He talked to me. He wrote on his clipboard, and Simon read it aloud to me over his shoulder.

  "Patient not responding. It’s been three days since she learned of fiancé’s death. Hasn’t spoken a word. Barely aware of external stimuli. I’ve been unable to draw her into a hypnotic state. Dosage increased in the hope that she will emerge enough to participate in therapeutic dialogue. Continuing suicide watch."

  Simon came to the bed and whispered near my ear, "Are you hearing this? Suicide watch. They think you’re suicidal. You’re not." He paused a beat, then added, "Are you?"

  I stared into nothingness, a safe nowhere where I was nobody. A cyclone raged in my head, thoughts dive-bombing me from all directions. I made myself as small as possible and huddled at the heart of a battle I couldn't escape.

  I was aware—I just didn’t care. They had to make me take my pills, make me eat, make me go to the bathroom. They bathed me. They covered my body in clean pajamas and sheets. They put me in a chair and then back into bed. The only thing they didn’t need to do for me was tell me to go to sleep. Of all things, sleep was not my enemy. It held me and let me forget—usually. Except when the nightmares came, and I was back in the car with Colin, floating in the cold, murky water, his skin blue, his eyes staring at me. Every nightmare began with the hope that I could save him and ended with my failure to do so. Whenever I woke up screaming, there was always someone there—a face, right there.

  One time, it was Lettie. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she told me over and over that everything would be all right. I didn’t believe her.

  Another time, it was Nathan, Colin’s self-proclaimed brother. He whispered in my ear, "It’s not over. We must find him before it’s too late. If you know anything at all about where he is, you must tell me."

  And then, it was Polly’s forty-something face and eight-year-old voice. She petted my cheek and talked to me. "Are you scared?" When I didn’t answer, she said, "I’ll leave my protector with you, if you want. She’ll keep you safe."

  "Your protector?" They were the first words I’d spoken in days. My dry throat barely managed the effort.

  Polly nodded. "She lives in my vagina and eats my period blood, but she can go for a whole month without eating anything. She sleeps a lot." Polly petted my cheek. "Don’t worry. She won’t hurt you. She knows you’re my friend. She only hurts men…who try to rape me."

  I said, "Oh."

  "She is Athena, a warrior-goddess. She’s got a hinged jaw, and she can change in size, get really small or really big, but she looks kind of like a hairless mouse."

  I said, "You need her more than I do."

  "You may be right."

  I pretended to go back to sleep until I dozed off for real.

  Most often, it was Richard’s face there when I woke up. He came every day, talked to me, and tried to hypnotize me. He was desperate to pull me out of the water.

  Gradually, I emerged for longer and longer lengths of time.

  During a session with Richard, I said, "You’re weaning me off the heavier meds, aren’t you? I’m waking up with relatively normal brains. I’ve lost some time, though, and I don’t know how much. A week, maybe? Has it been a week?"

  Richard replied. "You’ve been out of it for awhile. Today’s March 10th."

  "More than a month?" I only remembered those passing weeks in bits and pieces. I asked, "Are we done for today?"

  "There’s something I want to talk to you about. You know, we haven’t discussed Colin’s death." Richard leaned forward. "Viviane, they’ve cremated him. Should we think about arranging a memorial service or maybe finding a place to scatter his ashes?"

  Cremation—the reduction of the human body to bone fragments and gleanings that are then ground into dust. Cremains. I saw the flames in my mind and heard screaming to accompany them, but then the flames died, and all that remained was water. I was in a snow globe, standing on a car, with ashes drifting down around me, piling like sand at my feet.

  "Viviane?"

  "Who arranged the cremation?"

  "Dr. Rosenblum did. I think it might be nice to have a memorial. What do you think?"

  "Nice?"

  "I just mean I think it would be good for everyone if we honored him somehow."

  I wasn’t sure what to think. "Did you talk to his brother? Nathan?" My voice felt flat and lifeless. "He came to the hospital."

  "You didn’t mention him. His name is Nathan?"

  "I didn’t hallucinate him."

  "I didn’t say you did."

  "He said he saw Colin on TV, when we were looking for him. He said the police told him where to find me."

  Richard patted my hand. "I’ll talk to the police and see what I can find out."

  "His family may want the ashes."

  "I’ll check into it."

  The irony of Colin finally finding his family only on the occasion of his death was not lost on me. It was one last kick to the gut by a god with a twisted sense of humor.

  Richard and I sat in silence for a moment, each lost in our own thoughts. I was the first to sp
eak again. "I can’t believe he’s dead."

  "I know."

  "I loved him so much."

  "I know."

  "It was my fault."

  Richard scooted closer and put his hand firmly on my shoulder. "It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. Sometimes, bad things happen to good people. God never gives us anything we can’t carry."

  "Don’t patronize me."

  "He loved you."

  "Who? God?" I snorted.

  "Colin. Colin loved you."

  My mind told me he hadn’t loved me enough to get out of the car and swim to shore. He hadn’t loved me enough to fight for our life together. I said, "I want to see my mom."

  "As soon as you’ve had a shower and put on clean pajamas."

  I started to say, "I don’t need—" but he interrupted me, "Yes. You do." He waited while a nurse accompanied me to the showers.

  I stood in the hot water for a long time, letting it wash away the dried tears on my face. I soaped and scrubbed. For a short while, it gave me the illusion that I could rinse my troubles down the drain. I put on clean pajamas, hunter green, and my robe. When I got back to my room, Richard was seated at the desk. He closed his laptop.

  "You didn’t make my bed?" My voice came out dead-pan.

  Richard’s mouth lifted at one side. "My job is to straighten your head, not your bed."

  "Aren’t you the witty one, Mr. Wilde."

  "I’m a poet, and I don’t even know it."

  I replied that he was a dork with a spork, an old comeback from my high school days, though my sass had no steam.

  He chuckled. "I think we’re devolving, but I’m glad to see you’re feeling better."

  "Don’t get too excited. This is just my manic phase. It won’t last."

  "All right, let’s see if we can use this mania of yours to get a good meal in you. Everyone has gone to the dining room for lunch, including your mother. Shall we?"

  "You can’t come with me. That'd be like Abram coming on a date with me."