Waiting for the Moon

by Kristin Hannah

Selena turned to her, confused. "Is what true?"

  "You don't remember any of us?"

  "Why would I lie?"

  Lucy smothered a sharp bark of laughter. Once again her gaze leapt to the closed door. "If you have to ask, you don't remember."

  Outside, footsteps sounded up the stairs. Lucy edged away from Selena. "We'll talk later. You get settled in-that first bank of drawers is yours. Get dressed for supper."

  Selena felt a rush of anxiety. She couldn't do it. Not yet, she couldn't go down with those strangers and have

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  supper. It would bring back too many painful memories. She needed one more night, just one, she told herself, and then she'd throw herself into this strange new world.

  But not yet. Now she needed a little more time alone, to remember. To forget.

  "I ... I am not hungry." At Lucy's frown, she fumbled to come up with a better excuse. "It was a long trip and I have the aching head."

  "Oh, a headache." Lucy nodded. "You always get them."

  Selena frowned. "I do?"

  "At least, you used to."

  An awkward silence drifted between them; Selena thought that Lucy wanted to say more, but the woman didn't speak, just stared at Selena through sad eyes.

  "What is it, Lucy?" she whispered.

  Lucy moved toward her, touched her in a quick, bird-like gesture. "I thought you got out," she said quietly. "All this time ... since you left ... I thought you were happy."

  Behind them, the door opened and Eldress Beatrice appeared in the opening. "Come along, Sister Lucy. Give Sister Agnes some time to regather herself. Brother Elliot tells me she is still weak from her injury."

  Selena lifted her hand to her head. "I have an aching head ... Eldress. I shall go to bed now."

  "Certainly. Tomorrow morning you'll feel much better."

  In an instant, the two women were gone and Selena

  was alone.

  She walked around the room, touching everything, letting her fingers trail over the rough linen of the hand towels, along the smooth surface of the perfectly crafted drawers, searching for something that would spark a memory, something to combat the growing sense of un-familiarity.

  There was nothing, nothing at all. Nothing but a ris-

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  ing, sharp-edged desperation, a sense of wrongness about this place, about everything.

  She slipped her hand in her pocket, closing her fingers around the smooth-edged bit of blue glass.

  Oh, Ian ...

  It felt so wrong. She didn't believe she'd been here before. She wanted to tell this to someone, to run to the door and wrench it open and scream that it had all been a horrible mistake, that Elliot had retrieved the wrong woman.

  But he hadn't, and she knew that, too. When she looked in Elliot's eyes, she saw a terrible sadness, and now she knew where such emotions sprang from.

  Love. Only love could cause such a devastating pain. She understood finally why the poets wrote of it, why the ballads were filled with tales of love found and love lost. Because with love, there was life, and without it, there was only this terrible emptiness.

  She drifted toward the window, and immediately wished she hadn't. Just being there, standing there, she couldn't think of anything except that it was the wrong window, the wrong place.

  "Find something," she whispered to herself, hearing the break in her voice that matched the tear in her soul. She clutched the talisman in her pocket and gazed out.

  She would find contentment here, too, somewhere, with someone. She would get past this pain. A person couldn't go on living with such a gaping emptiness inside. Sooner or later, the gnawing hurt would fade, and the people whom she'd chosen to live among-these Shakers-would slip one by one into her heart, anchoring her to this place the way she'd once been anchored to Lethe House.

  She leaned forward, pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the window and closed her eyes. Memories crept toward her, crooked an invisible finger, and pulled her into their warm, comforting embrace.

 

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  I love you, Selena. Someday ... She wished now, just for a second, that she'd let him finish the sentence, spin the dreams for her. Maybe if he'd said the words aloud, she could find strength in them, knit them into a shield against the loneliness. But she hadn't let him finish. She'd been trying so hard to be honorable and fair, to leave him with a future as she went alone into her past. Somewhere, a bell rang.

  Footsteps clattered up the stairs and down the hallway, unaccompanied by voices. The door behind her creaked open and Lucy slipped into the retiring room, followed by two women whom Selena hadn't seen before. One was tall and gray-haired and thin as a rail, the other short and heavy with bright pink cheeks. A stick and a biscuit, pressed side by side. Both wore bright, welcoming grins.

  As one, they surged toward Selena and enfolded her in a fierce hug, then bounced back. "Welcome home, Sister Agnes," they said together. "Hello," she said quietly.

  The stick stepped forward. "I'm Sister Theresa. This here is Sister Bertha."

  Before Selena could respond, another bell rang. All three women hurried to the drawers and retrieved their plain, white nightdresses, undressing and redressing quickly. Then, one by one, they lined up at the commode and washed their faces and brushed their teeth. None of them said a word. They turned around together and stared at Selena. Lucy was the first to smile. "She's forgotten, Sisters." Sister Bertha nodded. "You will remember the rules

  any day."

  "Rules?" Selena whispered, clutching the bit of glass

  in her pocket.

  Sister Theresa's head bobbed affirmatively. "The bells give us our direction. It is time to pray and prepare

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  for bed. At the next bell, we'll blow out the lights and go to sleep. Remember?"

  Selena's stomach lurched. They couldn't do this to her, couldn't dictate every moment of her day as if she were a child. She took a step backward, then another and another, until she hit the wall. "But . . . but I want to take a walk. Outside."

  Lucy walked toward her, and now there was no brightness in the woman's eyes, just a sad, tired resignation. "You always felt penned in by the rules, Agnes." "But-"

  "Tomorrow we work together in the ironing house. I'll answer any questions you have then."

  Selena couldn't think of what to say, so she went to the drawers and got a nightdress.

  Don 't think about the lace one, about the night you put it on and went to Ian's bedroom. . . .

  Biting down on her lower lip, she stepped out of her gingham dress and slipped the nightdress over her shift as the other women had done. Then she washed her face and brushed her teeth, and went to the only available bed, climbing in beneath the soft cotton sheeting. Another bell rang.

  "Good night," everyone said at once, and the lanterns were blown out.

  Selena lay there a long, long time in the unfamiliar darkness, listening to the quiet tenor of the women's breathing. Sometime after midnight, it began to rain, a quiet thump-thump-thump on the gambrel roof.

  She drew the doll to her chest and tried to go to sleep, but peace eluded her. Memories clamored for her attention; and she was weak, too weak to fight them off anymore, they came to her in the darkness, whispering soft nothings, seducing her.

  I love you, Selena. Love you, love you, love you . . . Tears stung her eyes, slipped down her temples, and disappeared in the flat linen pillowcase.

  * *

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  Elliot stood inside the brothers' retiring room, staring at the closed door. Behind him, he could hear the shuffling sounds of the brethren preparing for bed, the gurgling splash of water, the rolling creak of the bed wheels as a brother sank into bed. As always, there was no talking going on, just the hushed whisper of solitary prayers. The brethren were tired, as they always were at the close of a full summer day. They had probably been shearing the last of the sheep.

  He strained to hear impossible sounds-the s
isters' nightly routine, Agnes's voice lowered in prayer. What was she doing now? What was she thinking? "Brother Elliot," someone whispered. "The bell rang. I must blow out the light."

  Elliot nodded without turning around. For the first time, the routine felt stifling. He didn't want to silently slip into his bedclothes and go to sleep. He wanted to cross the invisible boundary of the hallway and knock on the closed door, wanted to take his wife's hand and lead her into the darkness of the night and talk to her. Lord, just talk to her.

  He sighed tiredly and stepped back from the door. He quickly changed his clothes and slipped into bed, drawing the thin woolen blanket up to his chin.

  The last lantern was extinguished, and the room fell quiet. Pale moonlight seeped through the windows.

  He turned his head and stared at the inconsequential light. Thoughts and memories filled his mind, took on the sharp edge of regret, of shame.

  He remembered the days when they'd first come to the village, the hulking scarred man and his thin, frightened child-wife. It had seemed like an oasis to both of them, a family that opened its arms and drew one in, welcoming the homeless with a warm fire and a hot plate of food.

  It hadn't seemed like much of an exchange. He and Agnes signed a covenant of faith and donated their wordly goods-nothing-to the Believers, and magi-

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  cally, they had a home. A place where they belonged. It didn't matter that they didn't sleep in the same room; they never had. It didn't matter that they couldn't speak for more than fifteen minutes without permission from the elders; they'd never had much to say to each other. All Elliot had ever needed from Agnes was her presence, and all she'd ever needed from him was protection. The Believers had fulfilled them both.

  He sighed quietly and crossed his arms behind his head, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. He remembered the day he'd first seen Agnes. A scrappy, hungry young girl with a black eye and a broken wrist, searching through garbage pails for food.

  He'd approached her cautiously, flipping her a dollar piece. She'd grabbed it and run away. But he'd come back, time and time again, until she began to wait for him, to stay and talk with him after he'd given her the money.

  He still remembered how he'd felt around her. For

  the first time in his life-and he'd been thirty-four years

  old-he wasn't just a big, scarred man with one bad

  hand and a lifetime of pain. He'd looked in Agnes's

  brown eyes and saw himself as she saw him. A savior.

  In the years since he'd asked her to marry him, he'd

  told himself that he did it for her, but now, alone and in

  the darkness of his room, he faced the bitter truth. He

  might have started down this long road for both of

  them, but somewhere he'd turned and started going

  alone. As the years went on, it became more and more

  about him and his needs.

  She wasn't happy as a Believer.

  He knew that. He'd probably known it for years, but

  he hadn't faced it until she left.

  He should have let her be, should have gone quietly on with his life, taking strength and joy from the knowledge that she was free and happy. Somewhere.

  But he hadn't been that strong. He missed her. Lord, he missed her like he missed the sunshine on a cloudy

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  day. Each day of her absence had eaten at him, twisted his insides until he couldn't think or eat or sleep or pray without mouthing her name.

  He told himself he only wanted to know if she was all right, if she was happy. But then, in the great, light-filled mansion on the sea, he'd seen the happiness in her eyes, shining through, reflected in a smile he hadn't seen in years, and he'd known the truth: He didn't care if she was happy; not really. All he cared about was

  himself.

  He couldn't breathe without her beside him.

  "Oh, God," he moaned, hating himself, cursing his weakness. He turned onto his side, burying the ugly half of his face in the soft folds of the pillow. What was he going to do now? What could he do?

  A good man would release her. Kiss her on the cheek and smile and say a quiet good-bye.

  The thought sliced through him, caused an ache so deep, so sharp, that for a second he thought he was having a heart attack. He welcomed the pain, almost wished for a swift, sudden death. For he had looked into his soul and seen the agonizing, ugly truth.

  He wasn't a good man.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The first morning bell rang at 4:30.

  For a few seconds, before Selena was truly awake, the first pale glimmer of daylight was welcome on her face. She blinked sleepily and stretched her arms, thinking of the day to come.

  Beside her, a bed creaked, then another and another, reminding her sharply that she wasn't home.

  "Get up, old slug," Sister Bertha teased.

  Selena pushed up to her elbows and glanced around, surprised to find that Lucy and Theresa and Bertha were already dressed in the same clothes as yesterday. They stood in a loose triangle, staring across the room at her.

  Another bell rang.

  All down the hallway, doors squeaked open. Feet shuffled almost silently past their room.

  "You'd better hurry," Lucy said. "It's five minutes till the next bell-and by then we're supposed to be in the men's retiring rooms, picking up their laundry."

  Bertha clucked reassuringly. "Lucy, you stay here and help Sister Agnes. Theresa and I can do the men's rooms today."

  "Bertha-" Theresa said in a low, warning voice, her gaze darting to the closed door.

  "No one needs to know." Bertha flashed Selena a quick smile, and pulled Theresa toward the door. Bertha

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  peeked out, then they both scurried across the hallway and disappeared.

  Selena pushed back her covers and swung out of the narrow bed. Lucy came up beside her and showed Selena in swift, spare movements how to draw back the blankets and fold them over the foot of the bed to air them out.

  "Keeps the linens fresh," Lucy said with a wink before she scurried to the wall and pulled a broom from the hook.

  Lucy swept the smooth pine floor, brushing the wood chips and ash from the place near the stove. Then she wiped down the woodwork and windowsills, and refilled the oil lamp from a big bottle beside the commode.

  Selena stood there for a second, not knowing what to do, then she went to her drawer and pulled out the brown cotton and worsted gown. Dressing quickly, she washed up and went to the window.

  Another bell rang.

  Lucy replaced the broom and dustbox on their wall hooks and turned to Selena. "Time to start our chores."

  Selena gave one last look to the doll who lay on her bed, then turned and followed Lucy from the room.

  The hallway was filled with people. Men on the east side, walking silently, single file; women on the west. They nodded silently and greeted each other in subdued voices, barely making eye contact.

  Except for Elliot. He stood alone in the doorway of his retiring room, his big hat crushed in his hands. Selena stared at him. Across the row of people, their eyes met.

  There was such regret in his eyes. She frowned, wanting to reach out for him, to beg some answers, but the second passed too quickly.

  He crammed the floppy-brimmed hat on his head, dropped his gaze to the floor, and merged into the male crowd, disappearing almost instantly down the stairs.

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  Lucy's hand slipped into Selena's and squeezed. "Come on," she whispered.

  Selena clung to the woman's hand, a lifeline in the shifting strangeness of this segregated, silent house. Together they marched down the stairs and around the corner, past the kitchen that was just beginning to waken amid the sound of clanging pots and splashing water and feminine voices.

  Women streamed through the west door like a neat herd of cattle, emerging into the still-darkened world, where they scattered in a dozen differ
ent directions. Lucy led Selena down the quiet, tree-lined street toward a small white house, as unadorned and plain as the others. Pushing through the door, they entered a big, square room filled with long wooden tables. In the center, sitting on a huge square of hammered steel, was a conical stove filled with irons. Baskets heaped with laundry lay along the wall, and wooden trees were laden with drying white sheets and aprons and caps. Wooden stocking forms hung from pegs on the wall. Through the windows on the opposite wall, Selena could see a dozen women, bent over huge, black cauldrons.

  Lucy flicked open a panel in the conical stove and started a fire. Within moments, waves of heat pumped from the stove and filled the room.

  Then Lucy yanked up a big basket and spilled the contents out on the trestle table. "As soon as the irons are hot, we can begin."

  Selena went to the table and stood across from Lucy. "Tell me about this place."

  Lucy gave her a weak smile. "You have seen enough already to know what it's like. It's a religious community."

  "What is this religion that requires bells and separation and silence?" "We practice celibacy." "I do not know this word, celibacy."

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  "I wish I could forget it," Lucy said with a little laugh. "Sex. You know that word?"

  Memories hurled themselves at Selena, sharp and sudden and sweet. "Yes. I know this word."

  "Quite simply, we don't have sex."

  "But the married people-"

  "Marriage is 'contrary to order.' It is not considered proper for men and women to form such special relationships," Lucy said bitterly.

  "I understand this emotion, bitterness. Why do you express it so?"

  Lucy looked surprised for a second. Then she smiled. "I forget that you don't remember me. My husband, Blake-he lives in another dwelling house. And our son, Samuel, lives in a third."

  "I misunderstand. You have a child and a husband, yet you do not live together?"

  "You understand perfectly."

  "But a child needs his mother."

  "Not here." Lucy spread an apron out in front of her and sprinkled lavender water on it, then she reached for an iron and began pressing the linen. "Last year Sammy came down with the chicken pox. They wouldn't even let me see him until I threatened to burn the place down. Raising children is a 'community activity,' you see. It isn't proper for a mother to have a special bond with any one child."

  Even Johann had never sounded so bitter. Selena copied Lucy's movements, drawing a wrinkled white apron from the basket at her feet and smoothing it across the table. Carefully she withdrew a hot iron from the stove and began pressing. "Why do you stay?"

  Lucy sighed. "Where would I go? My husband made the decision to join without me. He donated all of our worldly belongings to the society and brought Sammy. He told me I could make my own choice, but I couldn't have our son on the outside. For the first few years, I

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  "

  tried to run away, but he always found us, always brought us back here. I'm a woman. I have no choices."

  "But-"

  "All I have is Sammy. I live for the moments when I see him across the yard." Tears gathered in her eyes, slipped down her cheeks. "Maybe when he's older ..."