How Moon Fuentez Fell in Love with the Universe

by Raquel Vasquez Gilliland

  After a moment of watching Jamie Oliver whip eggs and insist salt can be added only after they’re nearly cooked (it messes with the texture? Apparently?), I realize I have no idea where the flip I am. I mean, the hotel says we’re in Green Village, but that means nothing to me.

  I spend some time trying to envision it. We just left that one place with the big willow. We’re on our way to… what was it? And then it hits me—I passed by a very sad-looking business center downstairs, which had several ancient-looking laptops. I push the dresser away from the door and pretty much rush out.

  When the search engine finally loads up, I type in “Green Village, Louisiana.” Click enter. Look and look and gasp a little. I’m thirty miles east of New Orleans. Thirty miles east of Tía Esperanza’s black-veined turquoise home. I can hardly believe what a relief it is. I clasp my hand over my mouth to keep from shrieking. Maybe things will be okay. Maybe they will.

  I sleep so deep and for so long, when I awaken, I feel like I’ve been drugged. Like I’ve been uprooted from one life, planted in the next, so fast and violently that I’m gasping for air and water and nutrients.

  The first thing I do is call Tía, praying all the while that she’ll pick up. It rings two, four, eight times. Just as I’m about to hang up, there’s a click, then her voice. “¿Bueno?”

  I can’t talk right away because I’m crying. “Hello?” she tries.

  And then I say, “Tía, Tía, Tía, it’s me. It’s Moon.”

  “Moon? What’s the matter? What’s happened? Is it your mom?”

  That’s the sort of mental go-to for all of us. We’re always half-scared Mom is going to lose the rest of her mind and go do something, well, something like Dad did. So I say immediately, “No, no. Mom’s okay. It’s…” And then I cry some more.

  “Talk to me, m’ija,” Tía says softly. I can already feel her words in my hair, soothing me. In a way Mom never has, would, or could.

  “I fell in love with a boy. One that Star had a crush on. And she got so mad, even though I’m pretty sure she’s in love with someone else.” This is the worst place to begin, but I can’t stop now. “And Star, she—she broke my camera and my computer, and she told Mom I’m still a whore, and she made that boy hate me. He hates me, Tía. He hates me in a way that makes me think he was looking for a reason to hate me.” I inhale. “And do you remember how I got those scars on my chest? When I fell off that tree?” I sniffle. “Well, that’s not how it happened. It was Mom. She found out I had sex because of La Raíz and she cut me. And I’m scared to go home, because she hates me more than anyone. And I’m stuck in a shitty hotel, alone, and I want you to come and get me, but I’m scared I’m not worth getting, so I’m afraid to ask.” My voice is whispering now. Whispering and cracking.

  “Where are you?” she asks. I tell her. I read it from the crappy hotel stationery.

  “Room number?”

  “One twelve.”

  “I’ll be there in one hour. Don’t move.” She pauses. “Even if you were in Alaska—even if you were on another planet, Moon—you’re worth getting.”

  And after that, I feel kind of stable. I walk to the little dining area with the cold continental breakfast and grab a yogurt and a lemon poppy seed muffin. Santiago would take one look at this buffet, drag me to the bus, and whip up some eggs Benedict or something. But I can’t think too hard about that, not right now.

  When I decide to visit the business center again, I inhale a little sharply when my messages finally load. There’re three emails, all in a row. From Santiago. They read:

  Subject: Moon

  Where are you?

  Subject: Seriously

  Seriously, where the hell are you?

  My heart is all hopeful until I read the subject line of the last email, which goes: Forget it. And that’s it. That one has no actual email in it. So, that’s great.

  There’s also another email, from Andro. He has the decency to write more than a line.

  Subject: Off to Asheville

  Hey Moon,

  We saw you packed and assumed you took off. Seems like your phone’s not working. I wanted to apologize. I should’ve stepped in. I saw her with your stuff and I should’ve stopped her.

  Anyway, let us know you’re okay, all right? We’re all worried. Especially Santiago.

  Star is off the tour. If you want to come back, let me know.

  Andro

  I guess I can relieve Andro of his worries. So I write back, Hey, I’m okay. I can’t go back, though. Thanks for thinking of me. —Moon

  I don’t know what else to say. Well, I know what would be truthful:

  I’m in love with your brother. He broke my heart because he thinks I’m in love with you. Which makes me want to punch him in the neck a little. Or a lot. Mostly a lot. Lol. —Moon

  I decide that’s a little too much information and send the original message.

  Santiago and I were together all the time for so long, it feels ridiculously weird to have him not be right next to me right now. I miss him so much, it feels like I’m grieving a real loss. Like I’m addicted to the gold of his skin, the way he always smells like oranges, how he is so closed off except with the people he really trusts. But he’ll never trust me again, so what’s the point in missing it?

  Maybe I really, seriously do love him. Maybe that’s what this is.

  As I pack my things, I see something glint from my bag and I fight hard at sharp tears. It’s the snow globe I got Star, like a fool, thinking she wasn’t going to be such a fucking nightmare and ruin my life. I think about throwing it out the hotel window, just for the satisfaction of hearing it break into a zillion pieces. Then I think about shoving it in the toilet. But each of those options means someone’s going to have to clean it up, and unlike her, I’m not a spoiled jerk. So when I leave my room, the snow globe simply fills the tiny trash. Even without breaking it, it seems fitting. Everything, right now, is trash.

  * * *

  Tía arrives in her baby-blue Oldsmobile. “It was the closest color to turquoise,” she said when Star and I laughed at her about it. As soon as I get in, she slides toward me and kisses my cheek.

  “I talked to your mother,” she begins, and I stiffen because Mom has this magical gift of changing a story so everyone feels bad for her somehow. Once, when Star cried because Mom wouldn’t let her spend the night at her BFF’s house, Mom made it so that by the end of the night, we were apologizing to her. I don’t even know how I got sucked into that one, but that’s Mom’s superpower for ya.

  But then Tía’s words are “You can’t go home again.”

  I swallow. “Is that what she said?”

  Tía laughs. “No. But you know her.” And I finally exhale. Because Tía knows Mom better than any of us. She gets it.

  “I want you to apply to Tulane. They have an extended deadline for their art program.” She glances at me with a smile. “I happen to know you have an incredible portfolio at the ready.”

  I smile and look away.

  “What’s that face for?”

  “I already got accepted there. Way back in April.”

  “¿Qué?” Tía screeches. “And you didn’t tell me!”

  “I was trying to save money for housing.”

  “Why would you…” And it’s like the puzzle pieces fit in. “Oh. Your mom wouldn’t have let you stay with me, huh?”

  I shrug. “It doesn’t matter what she thinks now.” I glance at her. “If you’ll have me. If it’s okay. If you don’t—”

  “Of course. I’ve already cleaned the guest room, Moon. It’s yours.”

  My eyes are filling with tears. “Thank you.”

  “Why don’t we stop by Best Buy on the way home?”

  “Okay…”

  “Every artist needs a camera, no?”

  And now I’m sort of gasping, but it’s a happy gasp. With more tears. “Really? But I don’t—it’s too much—”

  “I want to get it for you. And you’re not going to t
alk me out of it.”

  As I wipe my eyes, a whole new life cascades around me. Like, maybe I am currently shattered into one hundred thousand pieces, but that’s not the end. It’s a whole new beginning, you know? It’s that moment before the universe expanded, when all of matter is the size of a trillionth of a period, all hot and full of nothing but potential.

  I could be someone who isn’t always and completely eclipsed by my sister and kicked down by my mom. Who could I be? The skyline whips by us, the clouds white. Everything feels new right along with me. Who could I be? I could be anything. No, scratch that. I could be everything.

  48. A New Home, a New Universe

  I ALMOST WEEP again when we pull up to Tía’s turquoise house. It’s the only place I’ve felt safe since Dad left. And now I get to stay here for much, much longer than a single summer.

  It’s a two-bedroom, one-story bungalow, all put together with slabs of concrete. Tía painted everything inside the color of terra-cotta, and when I was little, I imagined opening its door was like cracking open a real turquoise to find butterscotch oozing inside.

  So there’s that deep burnt orange, but it’s offset by green. Leaves, specifically, of all the plants everywhere. Tía has a half dozen different kinds of pothos, the jungle vine that grows incredibly anywhere it doesn’t get too cold. Its arms reach dozens of feet, and she pins them all over the walls like art—big, heart-shaped leaves glimmering emerald against the burnt orange. Some are speckled white, others lime green. Some are long and skinny and teal, reminding me of blue serpent heads.

  And then there’s the ficus tree, the yucca, the fiddle-leaf and the avocado and lemon trees, the snake plants, tall with each leaf thick and tapered like an arrow. And then the orchids, all in the kitchen, each one from a dude Tía dated before I was even born.

  “Tell me about Orchid Man,” I say as she prepares coffee for us.

  “Why do you like to hear about him so much?” But Tía’s smiling. She loves to hear about him too, I think. “He was the son of a very wealthy man. And children of that wealth, they don’t know what to do with themselves.” And I nod, thinking about Andro and Santiago. They were incredibly wealthy even before Fotogram became the entity it is today. And they both do seem a little lost in different ways.

  “And one day, he was in Guatemala, and he found an orchid. A monja blanca. And…” Tía sighs. “Who knows what makes us fall in love with the universe, Moon. For me, it was paint. For this man, it was orchids.” She pauses long enough for me to think. Who knows what makes us fall in love with the universe. For me, it was fireweed. For Santiago, it was salt.

  “And when I ran into him ten or so years later at La Merced Market, that’s how he courted me. With…” She lifts her hands, gesturing to the orchids that surround her. Not all are in bloom, but the ones that are, they’re stunning in a way that shouldn’t be earthly. White with pink tongues, orange and red with a little lick of blue, like a real flame. And then one so purple, it looks black except for where the afternoon light hits it.

  “But you didn’t want kids,” I say, finishing the sad story before Tía can.

  “Right. I knew that wasn’t the path for me.” She smiles, and it’s mostly a peaceful one.

  And then the guilt almost swallows me into its multifanged mouth. When Tía hands me the coffee—sweet and pale with cream—I stare at it for a long while before she says, “What is it, Moon?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “You said you never wanted children, but here I am, being that burden you never wanted.”

  Tía stares at me for a moment, before saying, “You know, that summer after your father passed, I tried to get custody of you and Star.”

  I’m gaping. “But—”

  “But your mother said no, and if I ever wanted to see you again, I’d drop it.” Tía frowns. “I should’ve tried harder. I know how your mom is, Moon. I mean, I didn’t know she had taken things that far.…” She gestures to my collarbone. “But I knew with your father around, you’d all be protected to an extent.” She sighs. “And after. Well. I should’ve tried harder. A lot harder.” And she puts both hands on mine. “You’re not a burden, Moon. You’re my prayers come true.”

  I should be hugging her now, but at the mention of my dad, I flinch a little and try to refrain from balling my hands into fists.

  “What is it?” Tía asks.

  “Dad,” I say. “Just—sometimes it hits me all over again.” I can’t help the way my eyes fill with tears or how my voice cracks like papery leaves under snow. “I don’t understand how he could leave me like that. Leave me with her.”

  Tía takes a long breath, placing her hand on mine. She glances out the window and then back to me. Her eyes look shiny too. “I was on antidepressants for years, Moon.”

  I blink. “Oh. I didn’t know that.”

  “That’s because you’re the only person who knows now, besides my doctor.”

  “Is this the hot doctor?” I ask, sniffling. Tía always brags about her appointments.

  “The very one.” Tía smiles a sad smile. “After I lost my position at the art gallery and broke things off with Esteban—remember him?” I nod. He was Tía’s longest relationship at seven years. “I felt hopeless. Like all that badness, it wouldn’t end. Couldn’t end.” She leans back in her chair. “It’s hard, being human. It’s too easy to get pulled under by what makes us ache and bleed and cry. But I know, without any doubt, Moon, that your father adored you. He wouldn’t have done what he did if he felt there was another away. And it was mental illness that made him think there was no other way.”

  We say nothing for a while. The only thing that can be heard is my sniffling. Tía stands and opens a nearby dresser drawer. From inside, she pulls out a long prayer candle. “For grief,” she explains, and as she lights it, she adds, “Your father’s not here, but you’ll be okay with that someday. You’ll never stop missing him. Your heart will never completely repair. But you’ll be okay with everything, as imperfect as it is.” The candle flickers with her breath.

  I take a deep breath, close my eyes for a few seconds, then open them. “So, I’m your dream come true, huh?”

  Tía smiles. This time, it reaches her eyes. “Of course.”

  I swallow. “Star, though.”

  “Star is welcome here. But it sounds like she already made her choice, as far as her mother versus everyone else.”

  Star. Reminds me of Santiago, of his face as he pulled up my list of who all I followed on Fotogram. And I don’t want to think about either of them anymore. So I say, “Did you have sex with the Orchid Man?”

  “Moon!” I’ve never seen Tía look bashful before.

  “You don’t have to tell me. I was wondering is all.”

  “Okay. I know your mother told you a lot of crap about sex.”

  And I snort. “Remember, that’s how I got this.” I point to my scar. “She’d found out about my having sex.”

  “Shit, Moon.” Tía shakes her head. “First of all, there’s so much you have to unlearn.” She takes a breath. “And so I’ll be honest with you. Yes. I had sex with the Orchid Man. Lots and lots and lots and lots—”

  “Okay,” I say, covering my ears. “We’re already in TMI territory.”

  “We did it at the beach—”

  “Tía!”

  “In his Porsche—”

  “Oh my Lord.”

  “At church—”

  That startles my hands off my ears. “Wait a second. Did you say ‘church’?”

  “An old one. We did it among the ruins.”

  I cover my ears again. “I don’t know if that’s better or worse than what I was thinking.”

  “Rule number one to your unlearning. There’s nothing wrong with sex.”

  I drop my hands. “On an intellectual level, I know this, but…”

  “I know it’s going to take time, especially after all you’ve been put through.” Tía stands. “Come. Let’s make a list of everything you need for your room.”


  The guest room faces the west, so the sunset lighting is magnificent, she reminds me. There’s a brass frame on the full-size bed, a dresser that’s about chest-high, wooden, and ornately carved. There’s a large knit laundry basket the color of the sea.

  “I don’t know what else I could possibly need,” I say. I want to cry, for probably the millionth time today.

  “Well, let’s begin with a phone,” Tía responds. She turns. “Let me start lunch and then we’ll figure the rest out!”

  I take one long breath and raise my arms to open the curtains a little bit more. And immediately jump back.

  Of course a moth sits on the screen to greet me. Of course it’s a luna moth.

  Weirdly enough, I’m not as creeped out as I thought I’d be by this. I stare at her for a few moments, and she stares back. It feels like we know each other. Like that tentative, awkward shift before someone turns from an acquaintance to a friend.

  “Just don’t get inside my room, please,” I tell her. “I’m not ready for that yet.”

  As though she understands me completely, she lifts her gorgeous, watercolor wings, and then she flies away.

  Tía and I make a list of what I need over rice and beans and fried plantains, and then we go shopping. We pick up a phone. And then clothes, she insists. “You need more than a ‘gym wardrobe,’ ” she tells me. It’s her gift to me, she says, to make up for not being there. I tell her the camera was enough, but she shakes her head. “I could never make up for it, not really. So you’re getting some clothes whether you like it or not!”

  Just by picking me up, she’s made up for everything a thousand times. But I let her. And by the end of the night, with the whole of   Target’s juniors’ and women’s summer wear in bags lined up in my room, I feel rich, richer than a queen. And I’m grateful. I am. But I already know this is when I’ll feel what I’ve lost the most—at night, in bed, the emerald curtains drawn tight.

  Mom and Dad and Star. Santiago. More than half my heart, just like that, set adrift at sea, with nothing to guide them but old constellation maps that are so tearstained, they can’t be deciphered anymore.