Under the Moon

by Deborah Kerbel

  Dad sinks down into the seat beside me and waves the letter under my nose. The bottle of Tabasco sauce pokes its cap out of his shirt pocket and looks around for something to heat up.

  “So, aren’t you curious? Who do you think sent it?” He looks so excited about this letter, I almost want to smile. Almost, but not quite enough to actually go through with it. I probably haven’t smiled once since Aunt Su died. And I’m definitely not ready to start now.

  Pushing away my half-eaten bowl of Shreddies, I stare down at the plain white envelope in his hands. Neat block letters spell out my name and Dad’s address in four perfectly straight lines.

  Huh. Who on earth would be writing to me?

  I take it from him and flip it over, looking for a return address. But the back of the envelope is frustratingly blank. Hopping down from the high kitchen stool, I make for the door.

  “Wait, aren’t you going to open it?” I hear Dad calling out after me.

  “Yeah, once I’m outside.”

  “Okay, don’t be long. Your mom’s commanded us to go shopping for school supplies this afternoon. First day’s on Monday, remember?”

  I can hear the whine around the edges of Dad’s voice, but that doesn’t stop me for a second. There’s no way I’m going to open this letter with an audience. Even though I don’t have a clue what’s waiting for me inside the envelope, I do know a few key facts.

  Fact #1: Everyone under the age of twenty uses email. Stamps and envelopes are so last millennium.

  Fact #2: Nobody I know would be sending me a letter. Let’s face it, I’m not exactly popular or anything. Aunt Su was my only friend in the world.

  Fact #3: Clearly, this letter can’t possibly be from her.

  I can only conclude that this letter is from some strange old person who isn’t my friend. My thoughts flash back to those dusty old ladies from the funeral reception and a shiver centipedes up my spine.

  Clutching the envelope, I jog out the front door and down the street as far away as possible from Dad’s curious eyes. Once I get to the dog park at the end of the road, I locate the nearest bench and sit down right on the spot next to where the word bitch is carved into the fading red-painted wood. My heart is in my throat as I tear open the envelope. Inside are two folded pieces of paper. A white one with the words to be read first scrawled on the back in the same neat block letters I’d seen on the envelope. The second piece of paper is leaf-green coloured and sealed closed with a small strip of masking tape. This one also has directions written on the back: to be read last.

  Quel mystery.

  Okay, so I’m not normally much of an order-taker, but in this case I decide to play it safe and go along with the program. Sucking back a long, slow breath of air, I open the white letter and let the words scroll through my brain.

  Dearest Lily,

  You probably don’t know who I am, but I definitely know you. I have, in fact, been hearing all about you since the day you were born. Let me start by saying how sorry I am about your aunt — her death was a devastating loss to anyone lucky enough to know her. I was a great friend of Su’s for longer than I can even remember, and the two of us shared many close and personal confidences over the years. This last confidence, however, is by far the most private and meaningful one of all. When Su knew the end was near, she forwarded me the green letter that you are holding in your hands with instructions to mail it directly to your father’s address after the funeral. What you’re about to read is going to come as a shock, so please be prepared. Before you open it, you must first think of the safest, quietest, most private place you know in the world and then go there. And never forget what a unique and vibrant person your aunt was. And how she loved you more than life itself.

  With warm wishes,

  Su’s friend.

  I stare at the letter in my hands for a long time as my mind scrambles to understand. The green letter is from Aunt Su? What exactly did this anonymous friend mean by “when she knew the end was near”? How could she possibly know the end was near? Her death was a Heath Ledger–style accident. The wrong mixture of prescription meds. Does this idiot not realize that?

  I reread the white letter three more times, trying to make sense of what the words mean. What kind of a shock am I in for here? Was Aunt Su secretly married? Or maybe she was an international spy? Or — oh my God — is she still alive and hiding out somewhere completely remote, like a French convent or a cave in the hills of Afghanistan?

  All I know for sure is that I have to read Aunt Su’s letter if I want to know the truth. The curiosity is scratching my insides raw.

  Still clutching both letters, I rise off the bench and start walking away from the dog park. My head is churning with thoughts. The white letter said to go somewhere safe, quiet, and private. Okay, but where? I let my body take over the navigation while my head struggles to prepare itself for what’s coming next. To tell you the truth, I don’t even know where I’m going or how I’m getting there until I find myself standing in front of Aunt Su’s little green lake-side cabin. The clay garden gnome scowls at me from the daisy patch by the front door. I scowl back.

  Now, before you go and get the wrong idea, this isn’t your regulation cheesy red-capped garden gnome. No, something like that would have been way too generic for my aunt. This garden gnome is bent over with a cigar hanging out of its mouth, pants down around its ankles and mooning everyone who passes with its miniature, hairy gnome butt. It’s guaranteed to offend everyone who sees it, which of course was Aunt Su’s twisted intention. Mom could never figure out why Aunt Su would want something like that in front of her house. I ask you, what kind of a person owns a statue like that? Memories of Mr. Duffy’s office flash through my head. “I do hereby bequeath the entirety of my assets and worldly possessions to my niece, Lily MacArthur.”

  Yup, so I guess now the bequeathing little guy belongs to me.

  Sidestepping my hairy gnome, I walk around to the back of the cottage. Aunt Su had bought this property decades ago with the money she made from her very first book sale. Back then, it was just a piece of remote, wild land without a house. The way the story goes, she spent that first spring and summer living in a huge tent that she’d pitched by the waterfront, writing furiously on her old manual typewriter. Aunt Su sold her second book by the fall of the same year and had this little cabin built just days before the first snow fell. It was barely four walls and a roof, but she was over the moon to have a place of her own. She didn’t even get electricity or running water installed for another ten years. Some people (insert General MacArthur’s name here) like to compare it to an overgrown outhouse. But Aunt Su was in heaven here. She loved being alone. Just like me. In all the years she’d lived out here, she hadn’t had to deal with any neighbours. There isn’t another building around for miles. According to some people (insert Mom’s name here, again) it’s because nobody wants to look out their windows and see Aunt Su’s rambling little “outhouse.”

  I wind around the rock garden and end up on the back porch. My heart is like an open wound just being here again, but I can’t leave. It’s the safest, quietest place I know in the world. Reading Aunt Su’s letter here feels right.

  I sit down on the creaky old glider and run my fingers over the smooth green paper in my lap. What am I about to find inside this letter? What more can Aunt Su possibly have to tell me? My fingers are trembling as I peel back the masking tape and open up the letter. I recognize Aunt Su’s handwriting immediately as my eyes land on a little cartoon drawing of an angel diving off the side of a cliff. Aunt Su always drew cartoons in her letters. And there’s my own name right underneath, in the exact spot the angel is aiming to fall. Yeah, this is definitely no joke.

  Lily-girl,

  So here we are, together again for one last chat. Except this time, it’ll be a bit one-sided — har-har.

  Sorry, stupid joke, right? Guess I’m a bit nervous about all this. I’ve written a million books, but I’ve never written my last words before.
God, this is harder than I thought. Okay, I think the first thing I want to say is how badly I feel to have left you high and dry like this. I never planned to die on you this soon, but sometimes life messes up our plans, you know? Something I never told you is that I’ve been sick for a long time. Years, actually. Only a couple of people knew this, but I’m not about to apologize for keeping that secret. If there’s one thing I just can’t stand, it’s pity. And so, when I found out last month that my cancer was back stronger than ever (stage four terminal, they call it), I made a harsh decision. Lily, you know I’m the kind of gal who’s always known exactly how she wanted to live her life. And once I knew it was all about to come to a really ugly end, I decided to rewrite that manuscript to one that suited me better. I just hope one day you’ll come to understand why I made the choice I did.

  These words are like a kick in the face. I want desperately to close my eyes and stop reading. But I can’t. I just have to know the rest. Taking a deep breath, I force my eyes down the rest of the page.

  I know you’re going to be sad about losing me, but I want you to pull yourself together and get over it. You’re too young to waste your time crying over a crazy old bat like me. Yes, the nights are going to be hard, but trust me, all those extra hours of life are a gift. And now that I’m gone maybe you’ll finally get around to using it. You’re destined for amazing things — I’ve known it since the day you were born. You’re going to make a big difference in someone’s life. This is something I know for sure.

  Oh God, how I’m going to miss you, my Lily-girl! You were, without doubt, the brightest and shiniest part of this long and colourful life.

  Su

  P.S. I know your mother is keeping you away from my place. Even in death, she probably thinks I’m a terrible influence. There’s an extra key to my cottage inside the garden gnome. Go whenever you need a place to be alone or think of me. And help yourself to any of my books. Remember, every writer is a reader first.

  P.P.S. Have you figured out what to do with my ashes yet? No? Don’t worry, I know you’ll come up with the perfect place.

  By the time I get to the end of the page, I feel like someone has just drilled a bloody, gaping hole through my chest. As I struggle to suck air into my lungs, my brain tries to make sense of Aunt Su’s letter.

  Why I made the choice I did … rewrite the manuscript to one that suited me better …

  Merde! Does this mean what I think it means? I read it again and again, each time searching for a different truth. But the sick reality of what she did is unmistakeable. My tears splash down onto the green paper, blurring Aunt Su’s suicide note into a soggy, illegible mess. It doesn’t really matter if I can’t read it anymore — her words are permanently tattooed onto my brain. With a scream so screeching loud that the force of it burns up my throat, I crumple the letter into an angry ball and hurl it to the porch floor. I bury my teary face in my hands and sob like a person who’s lost everything in the world. ’Cause I have.

  How could you do this to me, Aunt Su? HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?

  Time must still be passing, but I really have no idea how long I sit there on that glider, crying myself into a wet, snotty mess. Thank God there are no neighbours near enough to hear me, because the last thing I want is for someone to come and see me or, even worse, try to comfort me.

  When there are no tears left, I sit up and stare at the crumpled letter at my feet. I suddenly feel so worn out and tired, I can almost imagine sleeping. But mostly I feel empty, like my insides have been scooped out of my body and tossed into the lake.

  A slimy, gutted fish.

  Sweeping the balled-up letter off the floor, I stand up and walk down to the edge of the lake. I march out to the end of Aunt Su’s funny circular dock, open up the crumpled letter, and shred it into pieces. And then when the pieces are too small to tear anymore, I hurl them into the water. They’re really too tiny to fly very far. A few little green bits float down to my feet while the rest land in the shallow water right in front of the dock, floating on the surface like mini fallen leaves.

  You are destined for amazing things. What the hell does that mean? Despite my anger, I almost want to laugh. Please! Reading too many fortune cookies lately? I mean, what am I supposed to do with that? And how exactly am I going to make a difference in somebody’s life? Change the world? End poverty? Stop wars? It’s quite possibly the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard! I can’t believe I looked up to this woman for so many years! How dare she decide to go and kill herself and leave me with the weight of the stupid world on my shoulders? I’m not destined for amazing things! I can’t even sleep!

  I stare out across the water. The touristy motorboats and wave riders have all vanished for the year and the surface is smoother today than I’ve ever seen it, like a hundred acres of soft, grey velvet. I feel the sudden urge to lie down in it, close my eyes, and let it cover me up like a blanket. If I did that, sleep certainly would follow.

  Forever sleep.

  Without a second’s hesitation, I throw myself into the lake and start splashing away from the dock. The water’s shallow at first, but the bottom begins to fall away after a couple of minutes. Soon enough, it’s up to my chin, and then covering my eyes, and then over my head. But I keep moving forward. I open my eyes under water; the grey velvet blinds me. I open my mouth and let out a wet scream that steals every last molecule of air from my lungs. I hold myself down, fighting the instinct to rise up and breathe. I want to smother this giant feeling of anger. I want to feel like myself again. I want to numb this pain. I want to go to sleep. Right here, right now, in Aunt Su’s lake.

  My lungs begin to burn and the muscles in my limbs spark and tingle. I fight to keep my body from floating to the surface. The numbness begins to take over my brain. It feels lovely, like a long-lost friend. An image of Aunt Su and her beautiful, crinkly face passes in front of my open eyes. I can almost hear her voice again, moving in my ears somewhere beyond the swish of the water. Her voice, calling my name through the pulse of the waves. I miss her so badly, I want to die. I want to drown myself in this lake and never feel a moment of pain again. But then I think of the choice Aunt Su made and the anger begins to grow inside my stomach again. How dare she send herself off to sleep forever and leave me terminally awake? How could she be so selfish?

  Suddenly re-energized by anger, I don’t want to die anymore. Instead, I push my feet against the soft bottom of the lake and rise up for air. The first breath is like a knife pushing down my throat. I take another. And then another. The sweet numbness retreats from my brain. All that’s left is the anger.

  With tears blurring my eyes, I drag myself out of the lake and run back to the road. My wet shoes squish and croak like swamp frogs with each step. When I pass the mooning garden gnome on my way off the property, I slow my steps down just long enough to give it a good, hard kick in the ass.

  SEVEN

  September 9th

  Grade ten is just millimoments away from starting.

  Merde sandwich!

  The first day back at school always blows big time. But for some reason, adults always expect us to be excited at the idea of getting back to school. When in fact the reality is, unless you’re a cheerleader, a browner, or a clueless, drugged-out motorhead, it’s the worst day of the year. And for me, this year is shaping up to be worse than any other. Facing high school with no friends is one thing. But doing it on zero sleep, under the umbrella of certain death, just two weeks after the most important person in your life secretly offed herself is indescribably heinous.

  I take the long way to school, delaying the inevitable as long as possible. Today I’m feeling more like a ghost than a girl. My feet make their way down the sidewalks and across the streets like they’re on autopilot, but the entire time my head is completely lost in my thoughts. For two days and two nights now, I haven’t been able to get Aunt Su’s letter out of my head. Not even for a second.

  You are going to make a big difference in someone’s l
ife.

  What does that mean? Really. I’m just a sleepless kid from a village that dreams of being a town. How is someone like me going to make a difference? I mean, does she think I’m going to use these long night hours to change the world or something?

  Outside the school, kids are hanging together in small, mostly blond groups. All the exact same cliquey formations from last year — as if the past three months haven’t even happened. Avoiding eye contact with all of them, I duck around the corner from the chattering crowd and squat down on the pavement, waiting for the first bell to ring.

  So in case you haven’t realized it yet, I’m kind of what you’d call the odd girl out. And not just at school. I’m the odd girl out pretty much everywhere I go. Never been part of any group and never really wanted to be. My mom likes to tell people I’m shy. She thinks it makes me sound halfway normal. I hate it when she does that. “Shy” is a lame way to try to make me sound like a person who’s afraid of other people. I’m not afraid of other people. I just prefer my own company. “Introvert” is a much better word for someone like me. Aunt Su always used to warn me that the world will interpret introversion as snobbery, so I’d better get used to a snooty reputation. She knew that from first-hand experience.