To See the Moon Again

by Jamie Langston Turner

  “Can’t you stay just a minute?” Carmen said to her at the door. “We haven’t had a chance to talk. Did you have a good time tonight?”

  Luna took Carmen’s hands in hers. “It was wonderful,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “How is she?” Carmen asked.

  “She’s fine,” Luna said. “Just as beautiful as ever. She counted for me the other day. Very precisely—one, two, free. All the way to twelve. She’s getting a tricycle for Christmas, and she’s singing in a program at church. The two- and three-year-olds are going to be . . . a choir of little angels.”

  Carmen hugged her again. “Oh, Luna, that’s a good thing. It’s nothing to cry about.” She helped her with her coat, then walked her out to her car. The last thing Julia heard her say was “I’m so glad you came. You need to get out more, you know.” From the kitchen window Julia saw her standing at the end of the driveway in the faint glow of the streetlight, watching Luna’s car all the way down Ivy Dale.

  • chapter 26 •

  SOMETHING WORTHWHILE

  It seemed in many ways like just any other day, this cold drizzly Wednesday in late March, but it wasn’t. Though it was early, Carmen had been up for well over an hour already, and now she was eating her breakfast, chewing slowly after every bite. Julia was sitting at the kitchen table with her, ready to talk if she wanted to but looking at the newspaper to show she didn’t have to.

  She had fixed the girl a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, ham, and grits. She thought it was funny how Carmen had grown to like grits. A little butter, salt, and pepper, and she could eat a plateful. Today she didn’t seem to be aware of what she was eating, however, only that on such a big day as this, she needed to eat. As for Julia, she couldn’t imagine eating anything right now with her stomach in knots.

  The day of reckoning—that was how Carmen had referred to it for the past several months. She was taking the GED test today, all five parts, almost eight hours’ worth. She was wearing a pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt of Julia’s with the Phoenix Suns logo on it, along with the words Phoenix—A Capital City for Basketball. Her hair was pulled back and secured with a rubber band at the nape of her neck, though a multitude of curly wisps had escaped. She looked at Julia. “Well, it’s here. I feel ready. I think.”

  “You’re ready,” Julia said. She heard herself say the words, quietly, confidently, saw her steady hand lift her cup of coffee, was aware of her reassuring nod and smile, all the while wondering how she could fake such calm. She knew parents must wage a lifelong battle against nerves, for how was it possible not to feel your children’s dreams and desires as intensely as your own, not to feel your heart pounding when they put themselves on the line in some important endeavor?

  They had already looked into the GED before their trip last fall, but when they located Lizzy, Carmen’s interest in taking the test suddenly turned into something close to obsession. And not just to pass it, but to pass with flying colors. “It’s time to get serious,” she had said. “I should have done this a long time ago.” She allowed herself no excuses. Never mind that she had been trying to keep body and soul together for over four years, an explanation she brushed aside as nonsense when Julia mentioned it. “I could’ve done it if I’d wanted to bad enough,” she had said, then corrected herself. “Badly enough. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, and all that. Bottom line, I wasted a lot of time.”

  Now, after months of preparation—poring over books, studying late into the night, taking practice tests—the day had arrived. She had been told she could spread the test out over two or three days, but she had wanted to take it all on the same day. You don’t slay a dragon, she said, by chopping off a foot one day, then a leg, then eventually getting around to the head. You sharpen your sword and go in for the kill.

  She took a long drink from her glass of milk. “I probably shouldn’t have taken those two weeks in December off.”

  “You needed them,” Julia said. “Besides, it took time to plan the party, remember? And the party was nice, wasn’t it?”

  “I could’ve gone through that history book at least another couple of times,” Carmen said. She was referring to a study manual she had ordered, titled Around the World in Eighty Pages: A Condensed History of Civilizations Past and Present. Condensed indeed, but it had helped her get the big picture, to see what was going on in China, for instance, during the French Revolution.

  “You already know it like the back of your hand,” Julia said.

  It was the history section of the test the girl seemed most concerned about, more than the science or math or language arts. Certainly more than the essay. She was actually looking forward to the essay, couldn’t wait to see what the topic would be. Over the past months she had written dozens of practice essays for Julia to read and comment on. It had become like a game for her, a way of rewarding herself at the end of each night’s study session.

  She knew the real topic wouldn’t be any of the ones she had found online, but she had practiced all of them. For Carmen, the challenge wasn’t trying to come up with something to say; it was streamlining all the ideas that flooded her mind, keeping her answers within the time and word limits. She sprinkled her essays with vivid words—bellicose, arcane, fulminate, poppycock, salutary. It was amazing how she could slip them in with such precision, never giving the impression that the word was more important than the idea it was developing.

  She had even started making up questions of her own to write about, and more recently had asked Julia to give her some. Though Julia had resorted to a few frivolous questions, some of them had yielded useful information—for example, If you had a thousand dollars, what special thing would you buy for yourself and why? That one had resulted in Julia’s purchase of a guitar for Carmen’s birthday in February, something she never would have known the girl wanted if she hadn’t assigned the question for an essay.

  • • •

  YOU’RE sure you know how to get to the right place?” Julia asked now.

  “Is that another essay question, or do you really want to know?” Carmen asked. But she must have guessed it was a hint to watch the time, for she glanced at the clock, then finished up and carried her dishes to the sink.

  “Leave them,” Julia said. “I have all day. You don’t.”

  Carmen went to get her things. Julia forced herself to remain at the table. Carmen was twenty-one now. She didn’t need her aunt fussing around as she left, checking to make sure she didn’t forget anything. Julia had fixed her a good lunch, had put it in a tote, along with three bottles of water. It was sitting on the kitchen counter. Carmen would pass right by it when she came back through the kitchen on her way to the garage. Julia would stay put until she left, would keep her voice low and even as she said good-bye, would refrain from test-taking reminders—and, of course, would watch to make sure she didn’t forget her lunch.

  Carmen was putting on her jacket as she came back into the kitchen. “I hope they don’t think I’m cheating,” she said, pointing to her sweatshirt. “I mean, what if one of the questions is ‘What’s the capital city of Arizona?’” She had a small canvas purse, which she unzipped now. “Okay, pencils, two forms of ID, gum, large sums of cash to buy them off if I flunk.” She shot a grin at Julia, then took the car keys off the hook by the back door. “Oh, and this.” She walked back to the counter and picked up the tote. “Thanks, Aunt Julia, I’ll see you when I see you.” She blew a kiss and was gone.

  Julia took her coffee to the window. As the car pulled away, she waved and was answered with a light beep of the horn. She stood there a long time, watching the rain come down. What are the advantages of a rainy day over a sunny one? That had been another question she had given Carmen to write about. She remembered the first main point of her essay: “A rainy day is more conducive to contemplation than a sunny day.” So here it is, Julia thought, a whole day for contemplation laid out before you. As if she could contemplate anything, knowing Carmen was sitting in a room tak
ing a test that meant so much. Julia hadn’t felt this jittery at her own dissertation defense almost thirty years ago.

  She needed a new project to occupy her mind, or at least her hands. Or maybe an old project not yet completed. She would clean up the dishes, then get dressed and see what she could find to do.

  Sometime later, after finishing some ironing, cleaning out the refrigerator, and talking with Pamela on the phone, she passed by Carmen’s bedroom and noticed that the guitar case was open. So maybe the girl had at least taken time to hold the instrument. She had been overwhelmed by the gift a month earlier, had immediately thought of her essay and apologized profusely. “I never meant to be hinting, I promise!” she said over and over. “Oh, this is too much, way too much!”

  Julia had told her not to worry, she hadn’t paid a thousand dollars for it. And it was true, though not by much.

  She stepped into Carmen’s bedroom. She never came in here since there was never a reason to. Carmen kept it clean, folded her own laundry and brought it to her room to put away. Julia picked the guitar up and strummed it. She had been totally ignorant of what to buy, had no idea there were so many factors to consider—types of wood, strings, body styles. The sales clerk at the music store had walked her through the basics, then asked her how much money she wanted to spend, after which he had gone to a back room and returned with this instrument, just acquired on a trade-in, he said, the same way it worked with cars.

  “This is going to be so frustrating.” That was another thing Carmen had said when she first held the guitar.

  “Wait, didn’t you say you already knew how to play some?” Julia said.

  Carmen explained. The frustration was going to come from having to wait until after the GED test to really enjoy it. If she started playing it now, it would take up time she needed to use for studying. But it would be an incentive, she said. A prize for finishing the test. Every time she looked at it, she would study harder.

  Julia ran her hand over the wood now, plucked a few strings, then set it gently back in the case. Maybe tonight Carmen would get it out and play something. She had a book of folk songs somewhere, something that had come with the instrument. And then she saw it. It was on the table next to the bed, on top of other books. She walked over and picked it up.

  Folk Tunes Everyone Should Know. Julia detested titles like that, as if anybody could make a list of things everyone should know. But evidently Carmen had found it interesting enough to browse through while sitting in bed.

  • • •

  JULIA looked at the other books on the table. Most of them were study aids for the GED test. And a novel titled Home, which Luna had given her for Christmas. And Carmen’s Bible, of course. And her journal, which Julia hadn’t seen since their trip to New England. She wondered if Carmen still wrote in it.

  Before she stopped to think, she pulled it out of the stack and opened it to a page near the back. She’s not mine, but I love her so. I pray that she’ll grow to be as beautiful inside as she is outside. I never knew how hard it was to find a treasure you couldn’t keep, but I’m so thankful we— Julia closed it quickly. What did she think she was doing?

  After a moment she opened it again to another page. I dreamed last night that I was married. We lived in a house just like Aunt Julia’s. I was in the kitchen working, and I could hear the birds singing in the backyard, and then I realized it wasn’t birds at all. It was my children playing and laughing. Julia closed it again. How low could she sink to pry into Carmen’s private thoughts this way? Sneaking into her room while the girl was away doing something worthwhile and honorable.

  She started to put the journal down, but opened it once more. God’s Mercies was written at the top of the page, and under it a numbered list all the way to the bottom. Julia scanned the list. Forgiveness, Justification, Sanctification. Those were all on one line. Finding Aunt Julia. That was farther down on a line by itself. And a few lines later, Finding Elizabeth Sarah Fiorelli—my daughter Lizzy, age 2 yrs. 1 mo. 8 days when I found her. And on the very next line, Robert and Vanessa Fiorelli—Lizzy’s parents.

  Overcome with shame, Julia closed the journal and put it back on the table. She couldn’t remember where it had been in the stack of books, but she knew it wasn’t on top. Compounding her guilt was worry. What if Carmen noticed things had been tampered with? She would know Julia had been snooping.

  Julia didn’t know why she was crying all of a sudden, whether from the disgrace of what she had just done or from the heartache of the words she had read or from her sudden, deep longing for a soul as clear and free and honest as Carmen’s. She rearranged the books, hoping it was close enough. It comforted her somewhat to realize that although she knew exactly which four books were currently stacked on her own nightstand, she didn’t have any idea what order they were in. So maybe Carmen wouldn’t notice anything amiss.

  At least Julia remembered that the book of folk songs had been on top. She adjusted the stack so that it didn’t look so neat, then opened the folk song book and leafed through it. All the standard songs, with chords written above the staves. “Greensleeves,” “Shenandoah,” “On Top of Old Smoky.” She turned a page. “The Girl I Left Behind,” “Hush Little Baby.” She slapped it shut and walked to the door. She knew for sure the door had been open all the way, so at least she didn’t have to worry about that.

  She checked the clock. Carmen wasn’t even close to half done with the test by now. Julia suddenly realized she ought to eat something since she’d had nothing but two cups of coffee early that morning. She found a small container of leftover chicken salad in the refrigerator and ate it on a few crackers, then washed it down with a glass of ginger ale. She tried to do the crossword puzzle in the newspaper but couldn’t concentrate. Besides, Carmen liked to do the puzzle. She would save it for her.

  • • •

  SHE walked from the kitchen back through the hallway again. All the closets and cupboards and drawers were sorted and straightened. All the laundry was done, all the housework caught up. She couldn’t work outside in the rain. Carmen had the car, so she couldn’t go to the grocery store even if she needed to, which she didn’t. She returned to the kitchen.

  She thought of calling Marcy Kingsley. They had talked several times since Christmas, mostly about things going on at Millard-Temple. Old Dr. Kohler had died in her sleep over Christmas break, so Marcy had been asked to teach her two Shakespeare classes this semester, on top of her regular British Literature classes. Dean Moorehead’s wife had fallen coming down their back steps and broken both wrists. That Vera person, the adjunct professor filling in for Harry Tobias, had been asked to stay on next year and develop some new graduate courses in psychology. And Julia’s classes were smaller this year, which Marcy interpreted as “everybody’s waiting till you come back in the fall.” Marcy was always upbeat, and, unlike Pamela, didn’t get testy if Julia suddenly wanted to end the conversation. She picked up the phone to dial her number, but then remembered what day it was. Marcy taught all day on Wednesdays.

  She put down the phone and looked around. There was another idea, of course. A quiet, rainy day would be perfect for writing. Over the past month or so, she had cautiously, secretly begun writing a story about a husband and wife drifting apart, adding only a few sentences at a time so as not to let it get ahead of what she felt rising slowly within her—hope maybe, and the beginnings of confidence. She liked it so far. She didn’t know where it would lead, but she was determined to follow. Perhaps her strongest motivation was a recent thought: that fiction writers could, in a sense, revise the mistakes of their past through their stories.

  But she knew writing was out of the question today. Her mind was too scattered. She might get stuck, and then discouragement would undo her.

  It suddenly hit her that part of the problem right now was that it was too quiet in the house. That she hadn’t thought to put on any music or turn on the radio was proof that she had not been thinking straight today. She went back to the liv
ing room and looked through the CDs. Rachmaninoff, Shostakovich, Beethoven, Handel, Mussorgsky, Prokofiev—none of them seemed right for a rainy day when she couldn’t sit still. She needed something to take her far away from the stone house, the musical equivalent of a cyclone to blow her from Kansas to Oz. And then she saw it. The CD titled Space for All, which included everything from Holst’s The Planets to John Williams’s Star Wars to Rimsky-Korsakov’s Dance of the Comets. That should do it.

  And almost simultaneously, she had another thought. Her eyes swept across the wall of bookshelves. She had cleaned and reorganized every inch of the house except, for some strange reason, these bookshelves. It was enough to make her laugh. It was almost enough to give rise to a Carmen-like thought: This was a task especially reserved for today, forgotten until you needed it most. Well, if that was so, why hadn’t it come to her earlier, before she started prowling around in the girl’s bedroom?

  She put the Space CD on, then stood back and studied the bookshelves again. This would be a good time to weed out some of these things. She would work from left to right, top to bottom. Just like reading a book.

  • • •

  THREE weeks later, a few days before Easter, Julia was looking through the freezer for a package of lunch meat when Carmen came in from the backyard. “Look what I found,” she said. “Did you know these were back there? Do you know what they’re called?”

  Julia stopped rummaging and turned to look. It took a moment to call up the name. “Lily of the valley,” she said. “I had forgotten all about them.” It came back to her now, one of those scenes still lodged in the recesses of her mind, still capable of rising from the dead, so to speak, making it hard to keep breathing normally, also making her wish once again that she had a different kind of memory than the one she had. People with bad memories were spared so much. She turned back to the freezer and aimlessly moved a few things around.