Keeping the Moon (12 page)

"Girls like me," she repeated. And she kind of half smiled, as if I'd said something funny. "What kind of girl am I, Colie?'

I shook my head. In the little house, Morgan sat down on the

118

couch again. Morgan would understand this. She'd been like me, once, I knew it.

"Tell me," Isabel said, leaning closer. "Go ahead."

"A pretty one. Smart," I said. "Popular. You were probably even a cheerleader, for God's sake." I felt stupid now, but it was too late to stop. "You were the kind of girl that never knew what it was like to have someone treat you the way that girl treated me. You have no idea."

She watched me as I said this, her face smooth and calm. I could see her in high school, with a boyfriend in a varsity jacket, wearing little skirts that swirled around her perfect legs. I could see her at the prom, with a tiara and an armful of flowers. And I could see her in the gym locker room, taunting a girl who was fat and dorky with no friends. A girl like me.

"You're wrong," she said quietly, leaning back again.

"Yeah, right," I said. She could have been Caroline Dawes then, for all the anger I felt simmering in me. "Then what were you?"

"I was afraid," she said. And she turned her head away, looking back at the bright lights of the little house. "Just like you."

We sat there for a moment, watching Morgan move through the living room.

"It's so, so stupid," she added softly, "what we do to ourselves because we're afraid. It's so
stupid."
And she kept her head turned, as if I wasn't even there.

But she was wrong. She wasn't anything like me, and I was so close, again, to telling her why. To telling her everything. But just as I started, she turned back and I lost my nerve.

I thought of my mother, suddenly, of all those caterpillars

119

waiting to Become. Of Mira, pretending to ignore the taunts that followed her. Of Morgan with her square face and lover's grin. And me and Isabel, under a big yellow moon.

Isabel didn't move when the car passed Mira's driveway and pulled up in front of the little house. She didn't turn around as someone got out of the car and strode up those stairs, Morgan running to meet him halfway. And she didn't say a word as they went inside, the lights clicking off behind them and leaving us in the dark, with only that moon and the light from Mira's window to see our way back.

120

***

chapter nine

The next morning, the real Fourth of July, I woke up early to go for a run, leaving Isabel crashed on the sofa. I could hear the floor creaking overhead as Mira got dressed and collected Cat Norman.

On my way down the path I passed by Norman s door. It was ajar and I decided to stop in and thank him for the sunglasses after all. When I knocked, the door fell open. The room was
packed:
canvases lined the walls, stacked against each other, and hanging from the ceiling were at least ten mobiles, all of them shifting in the breeze coming in behind me. They were made of odds and ends, bits and pieces: bicycle gears, old Superballs, tiny framed pictures cut out of magazines. One was just made up of old metal rulers and protractors, clinking against each other. The

121

mannequins he'd carried in on my first day were leaning against the wall, their midsections painted wild colors, arms stretched out, fingers Day-Glo and cheerful. The bazaar was tomorrow; I couldn't imagine where he could fit anything else.

I found Norman in the corner on a futon, asleep under a mobile of different-colored sunglasses parts. The room was cold and he was murmuring, shirtless, the sheets tangled around him. I couldn't take my eyes off him: his face was flushed, one arm thrown over a pillow, fingers brushing the wall. He looked
different
to me somehow, like some other guy, one I'd never met. And I felt strange, as if he might at any moment open his eyes and I'd have to explain myself, standing there without the food window or a shared purpose safely between us. I backed away quickly, bumping against a mannequin on the way out. But I wondered for my entire run what he'd been dreaming.

The beach was cool and misty, and as I ran I kept thinking of Mira, too, remembering what Isabel had said the night before.
What we do to ourselves because we're afraid.

I knew one person whom I saw as mostly fearless. And I knew she was the only one who might understand.

"Colie?" I could hear the phone jostling around as she sat up in bed. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I said. "I just wanted to talk to you."

My mother was in Spain. I'd had to go through three operators, two hotel clerks and one new, irritated assistant to get to her. "I miss you," I told her. It was always easier to say it over the phone.

122

"Oh, honey." She sounded surprised. "I miss you, too. How's everything?"

"Good." I pulled the phone further into the kitchen and sat down on the floor. I filled her in on my job, and Isabel doing my hair and eyebrows; I was surprised at how much had happened since we'd last talked. She told me about signing autographs for three hours, how rich the food was in Europe, and how she'd had to fire yet another assistant for being argumentative, could I believe
that.

Finally, I got to the real reason I'd called.

"Mom."

"Yes?"

"Did you know Mira's, well... a little eccentric?" I whispered, even though she was upstairs.

"What?" My mother was still steamed about the assistant.

"Mira," I repeated. "She's not like I remembered her. She's kind of... out there."

"Oh goodness," my mother said. "Well, Mira always had that artistic sensibility."

"It's more than that," I said. "People here ... they're kind of mean to her."

"Oh," she said. "Well, I knew she'd had some run-ins with the locals...."

"I know about that."

"Oh." She paused. I could see her on the other end of the line, biting her lip in thought. "Well, Mira has always been Mira. I never realized it was that serious."

"I wish we had," I said. "I just feel so bad ..."

"Oh, Colie, I am so
sorry"
she said, talking over me. "I

123

feel just awful about this trip and leaving you anyway, and now this.... Look. I'll just send Amy, my assistant, home to Charlotte on the next flight. You can take the train back and just stay with her while I finish up this tour."

"Mom," I said. "No. Wait."

But she wasn't listening, already had her hand cupped over the receiver, while she called to someone in the room. "Look into flights back home, will you...."

"Mom."

"... Today or tomorrow would be best. And tell Amy ..."

"Mom!"

"... that she should pack and call the cleaning service, plus book a train ticket--"

"Mom!"

I had to yell. Once my mother set something in motion, there was no stopping her.

"What!"
she yelled back. "Colie, just a second, okay?"

"No," I said. "I don't want to go home. I'm fine here."

Another pause. I pictured people still scurrying in Spain, planning my instant departure. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." I switched the phone to my other ear. "I'm having fun and I like my job. And I think Mira likes having me here. I just feel bad for her. That's all."

"Well," she said hesitantly. "Okay. But if you feel the situation is getting too strange, you call me and I will send someone. Okay?"

"Okay," I said, as I heard her tell someone not to bother, everything was fine. "I promise."

She sighed. "Poor Mira," she said. "You know, she always had

124

a hard time with people. Even when we were kids. She was just different."

"Not like you," I said.

"Oh, I had my hard times," she said easily. This was comfortable territory for her; the hard times were what made her Kiki Sparks. "But it was different with Mira. People have always had difficulty really
understanding
her."

"Mom?"

"Yeah." When it was just the two of us, she'd eventually drop most of her Kiki-ness and become my mom again. But you always had to give it a while.

"Were you," I asked hesitantly, "were you always so brave?"

There was a pause as she absorbed this. "Brave?" she said. "Me?"

"Come on," I told her. "You know you are."

She thought about it for a second. "I don't think of myself as brave, Colie. You don't remember how hard we had it in the Fat Years. And I'm glad for that. I wasn't always so strong."

I did remember. But she didn't need to know that.

"You know what I think it is?" she said suddenly. I could hear her moving around and I pictured her in the hotel bed, pillows fluffed behind her. "I think that losing the weight was a big part of it, me starting to be unafraid. But more, I think it was when other people really started to believe in me. All those women who looked to me to be strong and capable for them, to show them the way. So I faked it."

"You faked it," I repeated slowly.

"Yeah, I did. But then, somehow," she went on, "somewhere

125

along the way, I started to believe it myself. I think that being brave and self-confident doesn't necessarily start inside, honey. It starts with the rest of the world, and it leads back to you."

The rest of the world,
I thought.
Okay.

"Why are you asking?" my mother said, suddenly suspicious. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," I said. "I just wondered. That's all."

I was at the table eating cereal when Mira came downstairs. I could hear her in the kitchen, opening cabinets and starting coffee and talking to Cat Norman, who eventually found his way to me and leapt up on to the table, knocking my spoon out of the bowl and splattering milk everywhere.

"You think you're so smart, don't you," I said as he bent his head to lap it up, his tongue scratching against the tabletop.

"Good morning!" Mira said cheerfully as she came through the door, carrying an overflowing bowl of Trix, the paper tucked under her arm. "How are you?"

"Good," I said, nodding toward the paper. "What's your day looking like?"

"Ah!" she said, putting down her bowl. She unfolded the paper, smoothing it out on the table. "'Today is a seven.' Ooh, that's good." She cleared her throat. "'A day for solitude and quiet: you have a lot to think about. Recycling, renewal, big things to come are on your mind.' "

"Wow," I said.

"I know." She scanned the page. "And your day is a four. Listen

126

to this: 'Sometimes, words are louder than actions. Keep your eyes open. Pisces involved.' "

"Hmmmm."

She turned in her chair, glancing at the calendar behind her. "So for me, 'Big things to come' has got to be that lunar eclipse ... or maybe the church bazaar?"

"Or the Fourth of July," I offered.

"Pssh," she said. "Not my kind of holiday: lots of tourists, too noisy. I'll go with the eclipse. Or a bountiful day at the bazaar." She dug into her cereal, chewing thoughtfully.

"You know, Mira," I said, "I wonder what else you could possibly
need
at the bazaar."

She looked at me. "What do you mean?"

"Well," I said, somewhat delicately, "it's just that you have so much here that's already secondhand and not quite working. I just wonder..."

"Not working?" she said, putting down her spoon. "Why, everything works, Colie."

I glanced at the TV--jiggle to get 11--then at the toaster, which was labeled burns things fast! "Yeah," I said, "but don't you ever want something that works perfectly, every time?"

She considered this, looking out at the birdfeeders. "I don't know," she said, as if it had never occurred to her. "I mean, perfect is a lot to expect from something, right? We all have our faults."

"It's not about us," I said gently. "It's a
toaster."

"It doesn't matter." She sat back in her chair. "If something doesn't work exactly right, or maybe needs some special treatment,

127

you don't just throw it away. Everything can't be fully operational all the time. Sometimes, we need to have the patience to give something the little nudge it needs."

"To jiggle eleven," I said.

"Exactly," she said, pointing at me with her spoon. "See, Colie, it's about understanding. We're all worth
something!'

She went back to her cereal and I glanced around the room, thinking of all her little notes--faucet off is hard left, big

KNIFE IS SLIGHTLY DULL, WINDOW NEEDS GOOD KNOCK TO OPEN-- and her secondhand things, all eventually to be fixed--or at least partially fixed, but used in some way. For Mira, there were no lost causes. Everything, and everyone, had its purpose. The rest of the world, too often, might have missed that.

That afternoon I was working with Morgan. She showed up with two dozen deviled eggs. Isabel had warned me about this.

"What?" Morgan said suddenly, putting down the tray of eggs, all white and yellow and perfectly formed, between us. "What is it?"

"Nothing," I said.

"You don't like deviled eggs?"

"I love them."

"Then what is that look for?" Clearly she wasn't her normal cheery self. Still, as she went behind the counter to start the tea machine she picked up my stack of rags and folded them quickly, setting them at a right angle to the silverware station.

"Nothing," I said again, watching her folding, folding, folding, her face irritated. The kitchen door slammed and I looked

128

through the food window to see Norman coming in, a book tucked under his arm. He waved and I was suddenly embarrassed, remembering him shirtless, asleep. I told myself to smile.

"You don't have to eat them," Morgan snapped. When she was angry her face seemed more square. Her hair was newly cut too, straight across her forehead, adding to the effect. "I was trying to be
nice!'
She flipped over the napkins.