Moonglow (6 page)

I glance at my watch; it's a quick gesture, offhand, but it prompts Nadine to touch me. Well, touch my watchband, but I flinch when I see her fingers glide over the smooth powder blue band and fall onto my wrist. It's a fleeting moment, but odd in a way that I can't explain. Other than a slightly sticky sensation, probably the result of Nadine's being overly reliant on hand sanitizer, there wasn't anything creepy about her action. But something about the connection, of Nadine's fingers on my flesh, feels deliberate and makes my spine twitch. Maybe it's because I'm very close to exiting The Hallway to Nowhere, and part of me would rather stand still then keep moving. The other, more take-charge part of me, takes over.

“I better get inside before Essie hunts me down for loitering,” I lie.

Nadine leans in close to me, and I fight the urge to lean back. “The world as we know it could begin to implode, and Essie still wouldn't get off her chair until her shift is over,” she whispers. “Stay as long as you need to.”

This time I'm prepared for contact, but none comes. Obviously, our relationship hasn't entered the touchy-feely stage, and our brief encounter truly was accidental. Nadine just smiles and starts to walk down the hall, the clicking of her pen creating a steady counter-rhythm with the squeaking of her sneakers. Suddenly, I'm overwhelmed with the desire to follow her to wherever she's going, go on “rounds” with her, visit some other patient that I don't know, but Nadine turns right at the end of the hallway and disappears. I miss my chance. Guess I'll have to visit my mother as planned.

The room smells like it always does—a mixture of antiseptic cleanser and cheap perfume, both compliments of the hospital staff. If my mother's sense of smell is working at all, I can't believe the appalling aroma hasn't roused her from her coma by now. I reach into my shoulder bag and take out the small bottle of Guerlinade, the perfume my mother always used to wear, and spray a very tiny amount of the scent into the air like I always do. I only spray a little bit, because my father gave this bottle to my mother shortly before she fell into her coma, and it's rare and expensive. But whoever made this stuff knew what they were doing. Even after all these years it's as fresh as the first time I smelled it, a delicate blend of lilacs and powder. When my parents were going out to a party, she would spray a little extra on her body and I'd walk right behind her inhaling her scent and make believe I was floating on my own private cloud over a field of flowers. Originally I sprayed it in her room because I thought she might be able to smell it and it somehow would act as a link to bring her back to me from wherever she's hiding out. Now, I just spray it so I can remember how the air smelled when she was alive instead of sleeping.

I've been coming to The Retreat since I was six years old, and I still can't relax. My mother's been in this particular room for the past four years, so by now you'd think that there would be some level of home-away-from-home, but every time I come here it's like I'm coming for the first time. The sight of my mother lying motionless in this hospital bed, covered in thin white sheets stamped with the facility's official name in blue ink, ink that's faded from being washed a thousand times to erase germs, blood, and disease from the endless parade of patients who check in either voluntarily or because they no longer have free will, turns my stomach.

So what that she looks as beautiful as I remember, as beautiful as she does in her wedding picture, the one in the ornate gold frame on my father's bedroom dresser. So what that she looks like she's sleeping or dozing off in front of the TV. Looks don't matter, not in my mom's case. She's in what countless doctors and specialists have diagnosed as an irreversible coma, the aftereffect of a possible stroke. Possible, because all the kazillion tests those same countless doctors and specialists performed on her all came back inconclusive. The only thing the brilliant medical practitioners can agree on is that even though she's my mother and she's right here for me to touch, she's farther away from me than if she were dead. If only she were that lucky.

I drag a chair next to her bed; the cushioned parts of this one are mostly gray with only some blue circles in different sizes randomly placed throughout. I sit next to my mother, take her hand, and wish that she were dead. That way she'd be in the ground in a coffin, done. The happiest scenario would be that her spirit would be free to travel the world or visit us—and if those were her two choices, there's no doubt in my mind that she would visit us every day. Worst case, she would definitely be out of pain, and The Retreat would have an available room. But with her in this state of suspended unanimation, the only choice is for us to visit her, sit by her side, and wonder if she can hear a single word that we say or if she can even feel our presence. It isn't that I resent coming here, that I resent having to squeeze visiting my mother into my social calendar. Hardly. I resent that her choices have been removed, that someone is running her life for her and it isn't fair.

Her hand is as soft as it was the day before she was rushed to the hospital, the regular one and not this halfway house between life and death. A thought brings tears to my eyes: Maybe it's part of Nadine's job to rub lotion on her hands. Could she truly be so kind and compassionate? She does want to be a nurse, and such a profession requires empathy. Tracing the lines on the palm of my mother's hand, I wonder if I would have the strength to touch the hand of another child's mother, rub cream on her skin so it would remain smooth and wouldn't start to crack. I hope I have that much kindness inside of me, but lately I'm not so sure.

“Hey, Mom, how are you?”

That's always my opening question. It's stupid and lame, but it helps me find my voice to begin a conversation, which come to think of it is really a smart thing to do, since the only dialogue we're going to have is one-sided. I call it the comalogue. Bad at math, pretty good at making up new words. So if I can't find my voice, the comalogue will never get started, and we'll be trapped in silence. Tonight, the thought of that possibility is unbearable.

“Looks like they're treating you okay,” I say, examining the insides of her fingernails. “You look clean.”

When I realize what I've said, I shake my head. From everything my father's told me and from everything I've heard people say who knew her, telling my mother she looked clean would have been an insult. Suzanne Robineau didn't strive to look clean; she aimed to look perfect. And based on our photo albums, she achieved her objective every time.

“And beautiful,” I add quickly. “Your hair looks terrific; I think somebody cut it.” Gently, I run my fingers through her hair. It's soft and shiny and looks like it's just been washed. A few strands fall out when I pull my hand away, and I watch them fall to the floor. The blond hairs lie on the dark mahogany floor, looking like pieces of spun gold. “A bit shorter than you used to wear it,” I say, “but you're older, so shorter hair comes with the territory.”

That comment is not at all insulting. My mother had no problem with aging; my dad told me it was a French thing. In France, older woman don't sprint to the nearest plastic surgeon like many American women do when they turn the big 4-0 or at the sight of the first wrinkle. Instead, they embrace their age and consider every facial line well-earned and the narrator of a fascinating story. I used to agree with that way of thinking, but that was before I found hairs growing on my face where hairs are not supposed to be. I may be French, but I'm clearly not
that
French.

“It, um, seems like
I'm
having a minor hair problem,” I say. I glance at the door to make sure no one is peeking through the vertical windowpane and then pull my hair up to show my mother my latest imperfection. And my mother opens her eyes.

“Mom!”

My half-dead mother is staring right at me, and I can feel all the blood inside my body start to warm up and my breath escape me. It's an amazing feeling, and now I know that there was a reason why I came here tonight; there was a reason why I had to see my mother. Because she had something to tell me. That something, however, isn't good.

Slowly her eyelids close, her beautiful gray-blue eyes that we share once again hidden, separated from the rest of the world and me the way they've been for almost a decade. But before they closed I saw how they looked. They were frightened. Not for herself, but for me.

I sit back into the hard cushion of the chair and feel the warmth leave my body and wait for my breath to return. There's no reason to press the button for the on-call nurse; my mother's back to her normal state, and anyway the nurse would just tell me what the doctor told my father when he decided to take her off of life support, that even while in a coma the body will involuntarily move. Sudden spasms, fluttering eyelids, facial tics are all common physical traits among coma patients; they're not the beginnings of resurrection.

But I know this was different. What happened here was direct communication between my mother and me; she was telling me that we're the same. My problems, just like hers, lie beneath the surface. Outwardly, we look fine; it's what's happening inside of both of us that's all screwed up. Involuntarily, my body shivers, and I'm suddenly ice-cold. Something inside of me is changing, shifting, and it's doing it on its own, the same way some unknown disease or ailment took control of my mother's body and took her away from us.

Looking at my mother is like looking at myself, at my future, and it terrifies me. And down deep, lost in whatever world she's living in or being held captive in, it terrifies her too. Because we both know my life is about to get much, much worse.

I press my mother's hand against my cheek, and her touch is so warm that I wish I could cover myself with her skin and wear it like a coat so I wouldn't be so cold. “Why won't you wake up?” My whisper is soft, but it seems to bounce off the walls because the room is so quiet. Why won't she just open her eyes again and keep them open and tell me in her singsong voice that I have nothing to worry about, that I'm making mountains out of molehills. Despite the fear that's beginning to cling to my skin, I laugh through my tears and accept the fact that it's contagious; prolonged exposure to The Retreat makes one speak in clichés.

Sitting in the Sequinox, back in the real world, I feel more conflicted and anxious than before, and I wonder if my visit helped at all. What was I looking for? Comfort, advice, absolution? In a very distant part of my mind I hear a little ping, like someone flicked a finger into the mushy wall of my brain to get my attention. My mother can no longer offer those things, but what she can do—what she just did—is give me confirmation and strength. She's not completely dead; whatever has taken over her body, whatever wants full and complete control still hasn't won. So whatever is trying to take over my body will only succeed if I let it. If I fight, like my mother's still fighting after all this time, refusing to give in to whatever outside force is her enemy, I can be just as worthy an opponent, just as determined, just as skillful. Like my mother I can survive.

I look over at Caleb, and he's already looking at me.

“You have a good chat with your mom?”

A new sensation overcomes me, and I can't speak. Is this real love? Or am I still caught up in my revelation about my mother and how I can fight whatever unnatural presence is creeping into my body and my heart and my soul? Unsure, I just nod my head and allow Caleb to brush away my tears. It's such a tender moment and he's so sweet that I can't believe I ever wanted to do him any harm.

I take his hand like I took my mother's, and it's not nearly as soft or as warm, but it feels even better because it can touch me back. I place it on my neck and kiss his thumb, my lips hardly touching his skin. Caleb sighs, and even though my eyes are closed I know what his face looks like: The hard edges are softened, his creamy complexion is now pink with heat, and his eyes are half-closed.

We move closer to each other, his textbook wedged between us, and I slide his hand down until it reaches the top of my breast. With my fingers on top of his I trace the inside of my bra until we reach the middle of my chest. Suddenly he stops.

“Looks like I can finally touch our invisible string, Jane,” he whispers.

Between his warm fingers is a thread, a frayed piece of cotton hanging off the little bow in the center of my bra. I blush and rest my cheek against his.

“Which must mean our connection is real, Mr. Rochester,” I say, my voice just as hushed.

The invisible string is a reference to our favorite novel,
Jane Eyre,
and the undeniable and unbreakable bond between Jane and her employer and future husband, Mr. Rochester. A classic story filled with epic romance, life-threatening obstacles, even supernatural elements, and, happily, a happy ending. In our mushiest moments, Caleb and I consider ourselves a modern-day Jane and Mr. Rochester, though of course we're both better-looking than the originals.

Neither of us knows if our relationship, like theirs, will stand the test of time, but right now we believe it wholeheartedly. And so we act accordingly.

He's kissing me deeply now, and I can feel his tongue against mine. I open my eyes, not that I have to, just because I want to see his face. His skin is on fire; it's almost glowing in the light of the moon, the light that is so bright it burns a little, and I know what's he's thinking; he wonders how far I'll let him go tonight.

Not very. Just far enough to remind him and myself that, at least for tonight, I'm exactly like my mother. That nothing and no one else but me is in control of my body.

Chapter 5

I want to break Jess's skull into two separate pieces and toss her lifeless body on top of my teacher's desk.

Think I'm exaggerating? Guess again. Here's what happened: Last night she came over to my house so we could study together for the first geometry test of the year, which we were told was going to be all about triangles, because a long time ago some loser teacher decided that triangles are an important part of our world. And by important I mean complicated and completely un-understandable.

“I don't get it!” I had yelled.

We were both sitting on my bed, textbooks open, staring at our notebooks filled with diagrams and scribbles and numbers, trying to turn these indecipherable symbols into pieces of knowledge. Isosceles, scalene, obtuse, Pythagorean theorem, Euclidean space, all these words and their definitions and their practical applications were going to be on the test, and Jess and I were expected to understand them, be able to identify them, and answer math problems based on their principles. Right. And Weeping Water, Nebraska, is going to be named the host city for the next Winter Olympics.

“Chottomatte!”
Jess shouted, in her stupid Japanese. “I think I have it.”

“You got it?” I replied. Never imagining her answer would be yes. But it was.

“Yes! If you take out this side of the triangle,” she started.

Then I knew she was as lost as I was. “You can't take out one side of a triangle,” I reminded her. “Because then it's not a triangle.”

“I know that,” she said dismissively.

“No, you don't,” I corrected. “You just said to take out one side!”

“Don't yell at me!”

“I'm not yelling!” I yelled. “You're being stupid.”

“
I'm
stupid? You can't even follow what I'm saying!”

Jess's little nose was all crinkled up like I suddenly reeked of b.o., and I knew that it didn't matter if she unlocked every geometrical mystery for me and was able to explain them in terms that I could understand; I was still going to think whatever she said was stupid. That was the mood I was in. Or more precisely, the mood that overcame me. Once again, like with Caleb, I felt as if I were watching my life and not actively participating in it. Like I was losing control, giving up the reins that connect my mind to my body to a stranger without question or resistance or care. One second we were sitting on my bed bonding, jointly commiserating that it was the night before we were going to fail the first math test of the year, and then it was like a switch in my brain went off and I felt separated, alone, and as if Jess were the enemy. An enemy who had to be hurt and defeated.

Jess spoke again. “Just ignore this one side of the triangle.”

“Now I should
ignore
the side?” I mocked. “And how is that better than taking it out?”

“Are you going to keep interrupting me?” she asked, super frustrated.

“Nice zit.”

“What?!”

“On your lip,” I said. “Well, right next to it.”

Believe me, I was trying to listen to what she was saying even though everything that came out of her mouth sounded like she was the slow kid in special ed, but I was distracted by a new pimple that had sprouted on the side of her mouth, right in the crease where the top lip meets the bottom, a whitehead that hadn't been there when she had arrived, so it must have been conceived, developed, and born while we were studying. Amazing how fast these things work.

Jess touched the left side of her face. “The other side,” I corrected. “Can't you feel it? It's huge-ungous.”

Jumping off my bed, Jess ran to the full-length mirror that hangs over my closet door and inspected her face. “Gross!”

“Yeah, it is,” I said, confirming her assessment.

Fingering the thing she turned to me. Remembering it now, I think she looked hurt by my comment. Well, I know that she was hurt, but at the time I thought she looked pathetic, standing there on the verge of crying and touching her pimple.

“You don't have to be such a bitch,” she said.

Yes, I did. She just didn't know I had no other choice.

That feeling in the pit of my stomach came over me again, the same feeling I felt when I thought Caleb was lying and more interested in talking to Archie than with me. It felt like someone was taking a stick, churning my insides, and then pulling them out the same way honey is pulled out of a jar with a spoon. The honey doesn't want to leave the jar; it puts up a good fight, it clings to its home for as long as it can, but the fight is futile, the spoon is stronger and always wins out. The interesting thing is that even though it loses, a little honey is always left in the jar—it's impossible for the spoon to get every drop—so the jar is never completely empty; remnants are left behind to remind anyone who looks into it that it once held honey. That's exactly how I felt staring at Jess. I knew I was looking at my best friend only because a tiny part of me, the real me, remained in my body, but there wasn't enough of me left to stop myself from hurting her.

So much for my mother's inspiration. It had worked for a few weeks, me being in control, but there I was feeling the same way I had the last time I lashed out at Jess. The same way I had when I hit Caleb and my brother. A brief, victorious interval followed by the familiar feeling of failure.

“Tell me, how does one say ‘you look disgusting' in Japanese?” I asked. And yes, my voice sounded as vile as my comment.

Jess was as shocked as she deserved to be. “Dominy!”

I wanted to take back my words, tell her that someone else made me say them, but who? Confess that I suddenly had a split personality? That's not the truth. If it were, I wouldn't remember saying or doing these things, but I do. I remember everything. And even if I'm being controlled or giving up control to somebody or something else, I'm still participating, I'm allowing this to happen. Which means that no matter how you look at it, I'm the only one to blame.

“What the hell is wrong with you lately?!”

A completely valid question. Also direct and easy-to-understand, and yet I didn't have an answer then or now. I kind of have an excuse, a reason for my behavior, but nothing specific or satisfying, so I remained quiet. Jess did the opposite.

“Seriously, Dom, you're like this nasty
jerk!
” she screamed. “No, not like, you are! And don't think I'm the only one who's noticed; everybody has!” Anger left her face and was replaced with an expression that was close to concern. “Oh my God! Are
you
not straight edged? Are you smoking something?”

This made me laugh. Jess always has to look for the drama in a situation. I can see her grabbing Archie and Arla, whisking them into an empty classroom, and whispering, “I know why Dominy's been an a-hole; she's shooting up heroin, snorting crack, and popping pills.” The laughter seemed to help me break free long enough so at least I could respond. “No, Jess, I am not on drugs.”

Her look of concern turned into disappointment. “Too bad,” she said. “At least that would explain your attitude.”

For a split second I wished I were on drugs too so at least I could check myself into The Retreat, into a nice room next to my mom's, and have a clear-cut enemy to defeat. But I'm not, and because I still didn't know who to strike out against I zeroed in on the only other person in the room.

“I don't have an attitude,” I snapped. “You just don't like hearing the truth. You need to do something about your face!”

By this point Jess had already stuffed her books back into her bag and was lacing up her sneakers. “I don't have to take this grade-A crap from you,” she huffed. “You want to be an a-hole, be one, but you're not going to do it in my shirt.”

I had no idea what she was talking about until I looked down and realized that I was wearing one of her Hello Kitty T-shirts, the white one with purple sleeves and a picture of the cat on the front holding a purple balloon that doubled as a thought bubble with the word “Hi” in it. She had left it here after a sleepover a few weeks ago, and I had put it on thinking Kitty might bring me some luck while studying since she's from Japan and those Japanese kids are math wizards. Didn't do the trick. In fact the only thing it seemed to have done was make Jess even madder.

“Give it back!
Sugu ni!
” My blank expression forced her to translate. “Immediately!”

I stood up on my bed, and out of the corner of my eye I could see the timberwolf's face breaking through the banner, and it was like we were twins. I ripped off the T-shirt and flung it at Jess. She tried to grab it with her free hand, but missed and had to bend down to pick it up, which made me laugh. Standing on my bed in just my bra and sweatpants, I threw my head back closer to the wolf in the banner and caught a glimpse of the orange wall, recently painted, glowing behind us like sunlight, illuminating two godlike creatures who were misunderstood and persecuted because the rest of the world was jealous of our strength. That was the craziness that was going through my head at the time. And even more craziness followed.

Jumping to the floor, I grabbed Jess by the arm, flung open my bedroom door, and shoved her out into the hallway. She was mumbling something about me hurting her, and I still don't know if I really was or if she's just so weak she gets injured if you touch her. I do know that I wanted her out of my sight, which is why I gave her a jump start and shoved her right into my father's waiting arms.

Thanks, Dad! Come to my friend's rescue and leave your daughter to fend for herself. He must have heard us arguing and was on his way to break up the fight or stand there all fatherly-like and think that his presence was going to scare me into submission. Think again. The only thing he did was catch Jess before she fell over the banister and crashed onto the stairs below. If that had happened it wouldn't have been my fault, although I'm sure everyone would have thought it was. So I shoved her? She's the one who lost her balance and stumbled. Not that it mattered because my father saved her from toppling over to her death or from spending a lifetime cruising around town in a wheelchair, while at the same time he stared at me with fear in his eyes. But not just fear by itself, fear mixed with knowledge. Looking into his eyes was like crawling inside my father's brain; he knows something is going on, and he's afraid of it, more afraid than I am if that's possible. Even if I hadn't seen his face I would have known he was frightened, because after he drove Jess home he didn't come back into my room to yell at me, and I was up waiting.

I was waiting for Jess to yell at me too, but that never happened. She avoided me all morning, and during geometry her eyes were fixated on anything else but me. At Mrs. Gallagher—our new teacher who replaced old Mr. Winslow who retired last year—as if she were giving out instructions on how to survive a nuclear holocaust; at the back of Danny Klausman's head like she was trying to count his dandruff flakes—impossible, I've tried; or at her test as if she understood the questions.

I kept stealing glances and felt my stomach spin out of control again watching her pencil fly across her test, hearing the scratching sounds as she filled in the blanks with sentences, circled answers to multiple-choice questions. She didn't look baffled at all; she looked nothing like me. I looked down at my test page, and I saw nothing that made sense. It was like staring into a mirror.

After we handed our tests in, I heard Jess brag to Danny that she had done really well on the test because she had had a breakthrough last night. A breakthrough that she didn't bother sharing with me. And that is why I want to break her skull into two separate pieces.

When the bell rings signaling the end of class and the three-minute countdown to the next, I clutch the back of my own skull. My thoughts are irrational I tell myself. These images of violence that are popping up in front of my eyes with more frequency and in Blu-ray detail are not normal. I want them to stop; I need to make them stop before I start believing full-time that they
are
normal, but I don't know how. How can I make something disappear that appears without warning? How can I make something stop when I don't know how it starts?

“Dominy, are you okay?”

Mrs. Gallagher's question does what I couldn't; she makes me stop thinking.

I look up, and I see an image of my mother looking down at me. Her beautiful features marred by worry and concern. I'm about to say, “No, Mom, I'm not okay,” when Mrs. Gallagher's face comes back into focus. The only thing they have in common is their hair color, and that's not enough to get me to tell the truth.

“Yes, I'm fine.”

When I'm asked the same question a few more times by my friends and some other teachers, I repeat the lie, and by lunchtime I almost believe it. Of all days, Archie has to skip lunch to attend an impromptu football playbook meeting, which means Jess and I are left without an intermediary. She's already seated and eating, so I tentatively place my tray on the table and sit across from her. I don't apologize—I can't find words that would be suitable or adequate—but Jess doesn't break the silence by leaving to sit elsewhere, so I take that as a positive sign. Unfortunately, her good nature alone won't bail me out this time, and I'm definitely going to have to make amends if I want to salvage our friendship. Which I absolutely want to do. Just not right now. Now I want to eat my spaghetti and meatballs, even though it tastes about as Italian as my last name sounds. So I do, and so does Jess. While we eat we both know that if we're ever going to speak to each other again, I'm going to have to be the first one to talk.