Remember The Moon

by Carter, Abigail;

  The next day, everyone left the cottage and I didn’t see Marcus for a few months. We went to different high schools. It wasn’t until Homecoming that I heard from him. He called me on the phone. His voice, out of the context of the cottage, was unfamiliar, and it took me a while to figure out who it was. He asked me to his high school’s dance and I felt my knees wobble when he said the words. We got serious after that night and dated during his whole senior year and into the summer. Marcus chose to go to the University of Toronto so he could stay in the city and be near me, but it didn’t really work out between us. He wanted to hang out with his university friends and didn’t want the embarrassment of a high school girlfriend. That was the first time he broke my heart.

  I didn’t see Marcus again for a couple of years. I was finishing my art degree and on a whim I decided to invite him to my senior thesis show. He hadn’t always been incredibly supportive of my art. I didn’t think he’d show, but then, as I stood talking to one of my girlfriends, he breezed in the door and my heart skipped a beat. His dark hair was longish and combed back; he wore a leather jacket and jeans and carried a motorcycle helmet under his arm. When he spotted me, I pretended I didn’t notice him. As he approached, I turned toward him and saw a look in his eyes I could only describe as desire. The feeling was electrifying. No one had ever made me feel so desired. We went for Chinese food in Chinatown and caught up. I grabbed at pieces of barbecue pork with my chopsticks as he talked.

  “I was an idiot, Maya. I should never have let you go.”

  “You’re right. You shouldn’t have. I was the best you’re ever going to get,” I joked, smirking at him.

  “You’re right about that.” He wasn’t laughing. He was dead serious.

  “I was joking, Marcus. I was heartbroken, but I got over it. See? Look how well I’ve adjusted. I can even eat my food with chopsticks.” I clicked them at his and then picked up another piece of pork and stuffed the whole thing into my mouth.

  “I wasth the besth girlfriend ever!” I said, going for my most disgusting mouth-full-of-food-face. I gulped down some Coke and then let out a giant burp.

  “The best!” I said, laughing. He couldn’t help himself and laughed too.

  “So refined and cultured... and dainty!” he said. “That’s what I love about you, Maya. Your daintiness. Like a flower.” Our laughter calmed and we continued to eat quietly. “I’ve missed you, Maya.”

  I looked up at him, surprised. “You have? I thought by now you would have found some amazing med student to make beautiful, smart babies with.”

  “Med student? Nah. They’re boring. All they ever do is study and work. I like the tortured, artsy types who lie around all day drinking bad red wine and talking about Neitze or something.”

  “Is that what you think artsy types do? This is not Paris, circa 1954, you know.” I filled our tiny tea cups for the seventh time, emptying the metal pot. I tipped the lid and slid it toward the edge of the table where it was hastily replaced with a fresh pot.

  “Do you want to try again, Maya?”

  I cupped my hands around the tea cup to warm them, wishing I knew what to say.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Do you remember our first night?”

  “You mean the very first night? The night Frank died in the canoe?”

  “Yeah. I think about that night a lot.”

  “We were in shock, Marc. I’m sure it was very intense for that reason.”

  “For me, there was more to it. I have always felt guilty. Guilty that I couldn’t save him. I felt like it was my fault. It was my idea that we go for a canoe ride that night. I knew they were drunk, but I knew you were at the dock with Jay and I thought that if we went for a canoe ride, you would come with us, and I would win you over Jay.”

  “You went for a canoe ride because you were jealous of Jay?”

  “Yeah. I guess that pretty much sums it up.”

  “And then you did win me that night.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shit, Marcus.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t ‘win’ me as a result of Frank’s death, but I can see how maybe that would be complicated in your mind. Maybe we both have a little of that guilt. God, Marcus, you’ve been carrying that for five years?”

  “Yeah, I guess I have.”

  It began again that night. I went to his apartment in the Annex and we clung to each other. I wondered later if it was doomed again for the same reason. Frank’s death. We clung to one another out of some misplaced guilt or shame or something neither of us could define exactly.

  Marcus got a good job with a big Toronto advertising agency, one that demanded a lot of client lunches and drinks after work. He developed a habit for having a Scotch every night when he got home. It became several over time. We partied every night with his work buddies, drinking, clubbing, more drinking, and smoking. I didn’t see how self-destructive his behavior was becoming, that the drinking was starting to get out of control. He kept a keg of beer in the kitchen and his drinking buddies came over almost every night. By then we were living together, and I would usually retreat to the bedroom to read or paint. I think I applied to the art school in Italy to escape that life. I knew I couldn’t keep living it, but I didn’t know how to get out of it, other than to leave. But then Marcus followed me, and the partying lifestyle just moved to Italy. I couldn’t take it and when I found him with that girl, I finally had an excuse to leave him for good. Perhaps I had been looking for an excuse that I could explain. The drinking was somehow not enough of an excuse to leave him. I knew he wasn’t serious about the girl, but I wanted out.

  And then Jay fell on me in Pompeii. I couldn’t believe the coincidence of it. How tied-in he was with the breakup I had just instigated, its roots in his dad’s death. I could only imagine how devastating Frank’s death was on Jay. He never said so, but I think he shouldered responsibility for not making them come back for the lifejackets that night. Or that it wasn’t him who found his dad, but Marcus. In our ten years together, I could never quite help Jay over the hurdle of that loss. Perhaps my love was not enough. Calder's love came close, I think, and I am ashamed to say it made me jealous, the way Jay’s eyes lit up for his son. Did they light up for me that way too? I couldn’t remember. None of it mattered anymore.

  I wonder if you can hear my thoughts. I wonder where you are, if you are anywhere. I sense your presence, though I can’t describe how. The waft of your bathrobe scent, or the crow that flies by the window as I think of you, or the whispery breeze that comes from nowhere. I feel you watching me now as I type and so I will continue my clicking conversation with you, pretend I can hear your silent replies. Can you see the same moon that I see right now out the window? Bound by childhood, bound by loss, bound by the moon. Now it seems your losses have infected me - they follow me, they follow Marcus, they follow Calder. Will the legacy of an untimely death be true for Calder too?

  The angry moment has passed and now I long for you, to touch the flesh of your earlobe, bask in the warmth of you sitting next to me on the couch as we watch another rerun of CSI. I long to step off this rollercoaster of emotion, long to sleep and wake up refreshed instead of re-entering the nightmare of our fractured family.

  Oh Jay, help me to find my way out of this mire. They say you shouldn’t move when you fall into quicksand, but immobility will only go so far and won’t ultimately pull you free. I still need the hand that will pull me free. I don’t know why I think you can still rescue me from wherever you are, but in grief anything seems possible.

  Love Maya.

  Chapter Seven

  CHOPSTICKS

  I ran my hands over the grooves chipped into the glossy black servant’s steps leading down into the kitchen, surprised that I couldn’t feel the sharp, splintered wood. I sat on the bottom step, wishing I could smell Maya's famous Bolognese simmering on the stove, her secret ingredi
ent – cumin – wafting up the steps around me. For a moment I forgot I was dead. Dragging my fingers through my arm caused nothing more than a parting of vapor, like walking through a cloud. I might just as easily have been in a dream – the corners of the kitchen were muted and ill-defined, making it difficult to see the fine lines of the bead board wainscoting that I knew was there. The scene outside the bay window was blurry, like looking through someone else’s glasses, blobs of colour instead of the bucolic hedge of hemlock across the back of the spotted, mossy lawn littered with trucks and wagons and a variety of bright plastic toys. I might have been inside a memory, or a daydream. Or perhaps I was an integral part of the present, and Maya, in flip-flops, faded Levis cutoffs, and a white tank, actually stood in front of me at the stove, stirring. It looked to be summer, judging from her clothing and her slight tan, so I guessed I had been dead about five or six months.

  Calder, ringed in an orangey haze that rippled away from the surface of his wrinkled t-shirt like waves of heat on a distant highway, entered the kitchen with two bamboo chopsticks, banging the walls, the countertop, a glass on the counter, and finally the stove around Maya, which made a satisfying metallic ping, ping, ping. From behind, I could see her shoulders tense. Her aura, a deep purple, seemed to pulse around her as if someone was playing with the knob on a gas stove and turning the flame up and down. Seeing auras around people was new, but I was learning how to tell the way a person felt based on subtle differences in the color, clarity, and thickness of their auras. Calder's orange aura was typical for a kid, free of inhibitions and so trusting. But today, the color was barely visible, telling me that his aura reflected the negative aspects of his mood – destruction and stubbornness. The giant Band-Aid on his elbow was testament to his latest skateboard mishap.

  “Calder, please stop that,” Maya said as she leaned over to taste the sauce and then grabbed the sea salt grinder to add more.

  “But I need to practice.”

  Calder took a seat at the island to Maya’s left, drumming now on both the glass and the salt grinder that Maya had just returned there. She too radiated negativity, outlined like a child’s drawing in the color of a black tulip, indicating her feeling of being scattered, lost and depressed, which I guess you would expect from someone still reeling from the loss of a husband, even six months later.

  “I don’t think you need to practice all over the house. I think practice is meant to be done on your drum set in your room.”

  I sensed from their auras how unhappy they were, but I felt powerless. I longed to walk over to Maya and hug her from behind, kiss the back of her neck, tell her everything would be OK, and to maul Calder in a bear hug, tickling him into submission. Sitting there invisible on the back steps was pure torture. I needed to find a way to communicate with them.

  “Calder, really. Please stop.” Calder stopped but didn’t look at her as he reached over and slid the bottle of olive oil over to line up with the glass and the salt grinder. The drumming resumed. Maya turned her back to him, grabbing a pot. She went to the sink and filled it with water, her lips pursed as she tried to ignore the noise. I couldn’t help being impressed with Calder's ability. My boy had rhythm! He banged out a smooth pattern: glass, shaker, shaker, oil, oil, oil, repeat. The glass took on a high-pitched tone, where the plastic of the shaker had more of a dull thwack. The oil had a satisfying, deep resonance. Maya took a sip of wine from her glass, and when she put it down again, it became a part of the set, making the best sound of all: a high pitched bumblebee drone, one that took a while to fly away. Maya swiped her glass back and took another swig.

  Maybe drumming was the answer to Calder's grief. Anything was better than riding his skateboard at crazy speeds. Only now, from this vantage point, could I see the meaning of Calder's unconscious drumming, the meaning of my own desire to drum as a young boy. Drumming, the most basic of primal sounds, connected humans with the rhythms of the universe.

  “Calder, if you don’t stop now, there will be consequences.” Maya glared at him, her mouth set in a pursed grimace. She gulped her wine.

  Encourage the drumming, Maya! That’s it! I could feel Calder's drumming like a heartbeat, its even timbre resonating within my innermost being, just as when I was alive I could feel it deep within my gut. To the dead, a drumbeat mimics the heartbeat of life, a powerful reminder of our bodied forms. I wanted Maya to feel the magic I had just discovered within our son, to allow him to use his talent to communicate with the universe, to communicate with me. Drumming as an outlet has been used for as long as man has existed on earth. In ancient civilizations drumming was sacred: a voice to the heavens, a link that had the potential to provide a variety of riches, like immortality, solstice, water in the form of rain, and fertility. Drums echoed human existence. Instinctively, Calder called me and I came.

  I could tell by Maya's voice that her threat wasn’t one she would follow through on. She had yet to think of any consequences. Calder sensed the same but stopped playing for a moment.

  “Like what?”

  “Like... Like no dessert tonight!”

  “We never have dessert.”

  “Then you lose a half hour of TV!”

  “Fine!” Calder resumed his drumming.

  “OK, then no skateboarding for a week!” Maya wagged a wooden spoon at him.

  “That’s not fair!”

  “Well, if you can’t respect me, then those are the consequences.”

  “I hate you!” Calder jumped down off his stool and went storming into the living room, drumming as loudly as he possibly could on the walls, the lamp, the hanging pictures, his aura now a fiery red. Yes, Calder I hear you.

  Maya seemed to collapse with his angry words. She turned off the stove, took her glass, and plopped down in Calder's seat at the counter, silent tears dripping down her face. She had dark smudges under her eyes and a new streak of gray edging her hairline. I took the stool next to her, sitting as we often did when we ate a late dinner together after Calder was in bed.

  Aww, sweetie, I wish you could hear me.

  “Goddamm it, Jay. I can’t do this by myself!” Maya whispered to herself.

  I know, Lenie, I know.

  “What am I supposed to do now? Our fucking kid has turned into a little shit! I bet he would have obeyed you! I can’t stand the drumming! And the skateboarding scares the shit out of me.” Maya finished her wine and refilled the glass.

  Tell him you love him. And let him drum for godssakes! It’s an outlet. Can’t you see that?

  I knew talking to her was useless, but I couldn’t help it. Maybe somehow her subconscious could hear me. Maya squeezed her face into a mask of frustration and despair, flopped forward, and placed her head in her arms as she cried big uncontrollable sobs. I brushed my hand across her back, the layer of purple light rippling slightly. I was helpless, as she had closed herself off from me. I checked on Calder in the other room.

  Hearing his mother’s sobs, Calder stopped drumming. He kneeled facing into the couch, belly on the seat, pounding his fist into the cushions. I sat down next to him, wishing I could take one of the velvety throw pillows into my hands, to have something to hold onto. I could hear him muttering under his breath. “I hate her, I hate her, I hate her...”

  C’mon buddy. Give her a break. She’s tired and is trying to cook you dinner and you’re in there banging away so loudly that she can’t hear herself think. I know she doesn’t give you the attention you need sometimes, but she’s a good mom. She’s trying.

  Calder broke one of the chopsticks and then the other and threw them against the wall. He slumped down on the floor, back against the couch, and turned on the TV, his mind tuning away from me and onto SpongeBob Square Pants. “Who lives in a pineapple, under the sea...?”

  Back in the kitchen, the phone rang, and Maya pulled herself together. I read the caller I.D. It said M. Pellegrino. Why would Marcus be calling Maya? She reache
d over and picked up the phone, staring at the name for a moment before pushing the button to talk.

  “Hello?”

  Suddenly I stood in a darkened room behind a man looking out a window to the full moon whose light flooded the street below. I couldn’t imagine why I might be there. I wanted to be back with Maya and Calder. I didn’t know this man until he turned around. It was Marcus. His graying dark hair was combed back, exposing a receding hairline, and there was a puffiness around his dark eyes that aged him even more. The slouch of his shoulders and the flaccidity of his skin gave him a mournful air, as did the clayish color of his aura. He had lost the arrogance he always exuded with his smug knowledge of the world. He seemed out of place in the almost empty room. The only furniture, an expensive-looking black leather couch and a chrome and glass coffee table that was littered with Chinese food containers and a crumpled can of Coke. A gleaming black and chrome drum set took up the area where a dining room might be. Beside it, against a wall, a table stacked with mixing equipment blinking with red and green lights. A muted football game filled the room with flashes of bluish light from the flat screen TV that occupied most of the wall opposite the couch. Hanging on the kitchen wall behind him, I noticed one of Maya's older paintings – a stark landscape. It looked stunningly beautiful in the room, against the white walls, in the bluish light of the TV, but I couldn’t imagine why it was there.

  “I miss you,” he said into the phone.

  On the couch, an old photo album was flung open, its red faux leather cover tattered, the stiff plastic that sealed the photos onto the pages yellowed slightly and pulling up in places. The page was open to pictures of Marc and Maya as teenagers at the cottage. Maya in mid-air, laughing hysterically, the split-second between when Marcus scooped her into his arms and Maya landed with a splash in the water. Another with Marcus standing behind her, his arms draped around her shoulders as they stood looking thoughtfully at a bonfire. Teenaged lovers. These were not pictures I had ever seen of my wife. Her life before me.