Moon Child

by Gaby Triana

  I had a sister—all this time.

  Pouring creamer into the coffee, I pulled the mug close. My dad’s bedtime song echoed through my head again. My little starshine, sleep, oh, so tight…my little moonshine, dream with the night. I sipped the coffee and basked in warm coziness.

  “I won’t ask you what happened.” She sat opposite me with a knife and a tiny wooden cutting board to begin slicing up strawberries. “After seeing the look on your face when you arrived last night, I know better.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Well, I recognize it. That’s the thing. I’ve been there. Remember, I moved out when I was eighteen, too.”

  “I didn’t move out. I’m just…taking a break.”

  “Right, that’s what I meant.” She passed me a small bowl of strawberries, along with a carton of yogurt. “What I’m saying is, we don’t have to get to know each other all in a day. To be honest, I have a shit ton of work to finish for a project, but…” She pointed a spoon at me. “That doesn’t mean I’m not here for you. Got that?”

  “Yes.” I smiled and peeled open my vanilla yogurt, dumping in some of the strawberries. “That means a lot to me.”

  “What? That I have a shit ton of work to do? Thanks a lot.”

  I laughed. “No, I mean that you’re here for me, but not all over me all the time.” I realized that sounded rude. “Sorry, what I mean is, I appreciate the space.”

  “I understood you. No worries. So, listen, I have to go finish a promo video I’m editing. But maybe we can have dinner together later? Sorry the place is a mess. You’d think I’d have my shit together after three months moved in, but…work’s got me going twenty-four hours.”

  “What is it you’re editing?” I asked.

  “Videos for the state’s Department of Tourism website.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “I push buttons all day. It’s a job.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m trying to get a full-time position at an advertising firm in Orlando, so I can make commercials for theme parks, but…this is a good first step.”

  “That’s cool. At least you have space all to yourself,” I said, gesturing to the cozy little home, a place to call her own.

  “Very true, Vale. Vah-le, right?”

  “Yeah.” I smiled. It sounded cute when she said it and a reminder that the other half of her heritage wasn’t Cuban like both my parents’.

  “I’ve actually gotten good with a little Spanish. Te gusta las fresas?” she asked, pointing to the strawberries.

  “Sí, me encantan. Gracias,” I replied.

  “Yes, they enchant me?” She cocked her head.

  “Means I love them. Sounds a little backwards, I know. So, to do around here…”

  “Ah, yes.” She straightened, using her spoon to emphasize an invisible list in the air. “Not much, sorry to say.”

  I laughed. It felt good to have an easygoing conversation with someone, especially one related to me. “Sounds perfect, if I’m honest.”

  “There’s a bunch of Old Florida historic homes, an old theatre, an old state park, a dog park, the beach is about a forty-minute drive from here, lots of lakes and springs, but I guess you meant stuff where you can find other kids to hang out with.”

  “No, actually, isolation sounds great.”

  “I hear you. Oh, not far from here is a famous spiritualist camp called Cassadaga. Full of psychics. Also, there’s Disney, if you want to drive ninety minutes.”

  “No, thanks. I just drove six. Besides, we do Disney all the time. I’ll probably just hang out. Looks like you have a big yard.” I peered out the window.

  “Half an acre.”

  “I’m jealous. At home, our houses nearly touch side-by-side.”

  “Zero lot?”

  “I guess that’s what you call it.”

  She gazed out the window. “You’ll love it out there. I haven’t had a moment to enjoy it since I moved in. Now I feel like I have no life.” Macy stared into her coffee.

  “Hey, a job is a life,” I said. “It’s more than what I’ve got.”

  “Yeah, but we shouldn’t live to work. We should work to live.” She pondered her own words, dumped her garbage, and placed bowls in the sink. “Anyway, explore. Do what you want. I’ll be in my office.” She grabbed her mug and moved to the kitchen entrance. “Oh, and Vale?” She turned.

  “Yeah?”

  “I always wanted a little sister.” Her smile filled a space in my heart I didn’t even know existed.

  For the first three days, I did nothing. Just chilling in my room felt like vacation. Nobody to tell me to wake up, sweep the floor, help empty the dishwasher. Not that I was a slug either. I washed dishes, put away utensils in drawers, even tried cooking a few meals. It wasn’t my mother’s cooking, but it was enough to show Macy I appreciated her opening her door to me.

  Being near her made me think of my dad more than usual. I wondered if it ever made Macy sad that she didn’t get to experience the bedtime song, boops to her nose, or any of the dad jokes that would forever stay with me. I supposed she couldn’t miss what she’d never experienced.

  On the first night, we talked about her mother, how she’d had a falling out with her five years ago, but over time, they’d managed to reconnect. On the second night, we talked about my college plans, how I wasn’t entirely sure, but I may want to major in business. My grandfather always said I wasn’t aggressive enough to be in business—I should go into education, because teaching was a “great career for women.” Whenever my father heard this, he’d mutter under his breath that I could do whatever I wanted.

  On the third night, we discussed the differences in how we were raised. She was raised Baptist and went to church a lot, but over time, stopped and wasn’t sure why. I suggested maybe religion wasn’t fulfilling anymore, or that we’d outgrown the need for it. Maybe we were meant to find our own answers.

  Macy said, “Or, nobody knows who to trust anymore.”

  She understood what was in my soul.

  On the fourth night, she announced it was crunch time, gave me a hug that left me feeling appreciated, and disappeared into her “editing cave” to finish her commercial. I headed outside as I had every night after dinner.

  I loved the quiet, the vibrant oranges and purples of the night sky past nine o’clock, the number of stars you couldn’t see in Miami due to light pollution. Kicking off my flip-flops, I stepped onto grass still damp from the afternoon thunderstorm. A banyan tree loomed in the corner of her yard. Banyan trees always fascinated me with their hanging root systems that resembled damaged paintings dripping in the rain.

  The waxing moon was out, bringing good things into the universe. I wondered if that was really true, if the phases of the moon could manifest wishes into existence or banish them. When it came to metaphysical stuff, my heart burned to know the truth of it, whether or not magic really existed, or whether, like I’d talked about with Macy, we just wanted to believe, since nothing else in the world seemed to be going right.

  The night was perfect for going back inside, grabbing my tarot cards and palo santo, or hell, even my sage, since there was no one around to judge the smell of it, and sit under this perfect tree that was giving me life.

  I was walking back to get them when I heard a sound coming from the other side of the tree. I listened. Not a loud sound, just a vague crunching of leaves.

  “Hello?”

  Macy had neighbors, but not for half an acre. A small house just over a knoll had its lights off, except for the glow of a TV inside. On the opposite side of the old house, there was nothing but an empty lot that looked like it’d been a playground at one point, judging from the circle of sand. Behind her property was a stretch of woods that looked denser the deeper it got.

  I stood there, listening, heart pounding, the dark night alive with crickets and tree frogs, and a couple of cocuyos I was surprised to see this far north in Florida. The little lightning bugs with the glowing green eyes
(actually phosphorescent dots on their backs) flitted underneath the banyan branches, flying in wide circles, searching for a good place to hide.

  My mother always said they were good luck. My mother seemed to believe in magic at one point, long ago, before my grandparents came to live with us. I closed my eyes and absorbed the nighttime energies.

  In Miami, I didn’t spend a lot of time outdoors. It was too hot. But when I did, it was late at night when I thought nobody could see me. I liked to lie in the cool grass and sometimes hold my arms up to the sky. I wasn’t sure what about that gesture felt right to me, but I always held back a bit, imagining someone like our nosy-ass neighbor, Alicia, spying on me, questioning what the frick I was doing.

  Here, there was no one. Slowly, I lifted my arms to the sky. I hugged the expanse of the universe, the sliver of moon that looked like a smile, the banyan tree, and the little cocuyos for their light show. I felt thankful to God for this safe space. I never claimed to live a terrible life. I was privileged by most standards, but my decisions were rarely my own. Here I could make life however I wanted it to be.

  Thank you for the breathing room, Universe.

  I heard it—the crunching sound again.

  When I focused my gaze into the trees, a black wolf was standing there.

  FIVE

  The quiet beast watched me.

  Adrenaline kicked into high gear, as my hearing flooded with a soft ringing sound and the rush of blood. A wolf. Not on my ceiling but live in front of me. What were the chances?

  I assumed it was a wolf. I suppose it could’ve been a large dog. Not a massive creature, on the skinny side, maybe a scavenger, definitely without a home to feed him. I assumed it was male, because it just looked like an alpha to me, but what did I know about wolves? Nothing.

  It watched me from the shadows. Intently. Golden eyes studied me, nostrils flaring, sniffing the space between us, gauging danger. My brain scanned everything I knew about wild animals—

  They’re more afraid of you than you are of them.

  Don’t show fear.

  Move slowly.

  I had no clue if any of those were true.

  “Hello.” I reached out my hand, palm down. If wolves were anything like most animals I knew, they wanted to sniff you first. In all honesty, he didn’t seem frightened. He didn’t even want to sniff me. He simply took a couple of steps back, then sideways, then he faced the woods with his tail pointed at me. That seemed like a bold move for him, turning his back on an unfamiliar human.

  What happened next, I can’t be a thousand percent sure, but I swear on my mother’s life this wolf turned its head back, as if to say, Come. And for some reason I couldn’t explain, I knew in my heart it was okay.

  Follow him.

  First, the usual warnings dropped anchor—

  Don’t go.

  You don’t know what’s out there.

  Don’t be stupid, you’ll die.

  Listen to your mother, your grandmother, God.

  For the love of all that is holy, Valentina, LISTEN, for once.

  I did listen. For the first time ever, actually.

  The wolf waited, watched me. He would lead. I knew this in my soul to be true. I didn’t care what any of the other voices said. This animal had something to show me if only I had the capacity to trust my instincts.

  Screw it.

  I dropped my flip-flops and slid my feet in, carefully stepping off the edge of the property, past the banyan, into the copse of trees. I wished I could say the woods became magical then, like a secret nighttime garden, but they were more like an entanglement of gloom, black and pewter dense canopies broken up in spots. Deeply purple sky peeked through the ceiling. Time fell away in a cocoon of decomposed leaves, dripping moss, and cricket shrieks. Smells of wood and damp foliage assaulted my senses. I’d been a Florida girl all my life but a city one. Walks underneath the cypress and live oaks at night in the middle of summer were new to me, and I lamented the fact. I’d gone biking through mangroves, kayaking in the Keys, splashing at every beach on both coasts, but Central Florida woods were entirely new.

  Cocuyos darted into the peripheral, hiding behind trunks, as if clearing the way. Ahead, my lupine guide shifted side-to-side with a slow and steady gait, at times blending with the silhouettes of trees, so much that I had to blink often to make sure he was still there. I stepped over logs and ducked under low-hanging branches, scanning for amber eyes. Every so often, they appeared as if with a light of their own.

  We went on this way for what could’ve been half an hour, though time seemed to cease existing. Eventually, we broke through the woods and came to a clearing where tall grass swayed in the summer wind, and a wide, open sky revealed the quarter moon. If it hadn’t been for the wolf veering off to the left, I would’ve stepped right into what I quickly realized was a body of water, its gentle shoreline sneakily lapping in the dark. A lake about the size of two football fields together stretched before us.

  “What is this place?” I asked aloud.

  The wolf strode along the shore of the lake, pushing his way through the tall, razor-sharp grasses. Ahead of him, out of the gloom, emerged a structure so loomingly wide, towering and black against the night sky, I had to stop and squint to make out the wholeness of it. A building. An old building, decaying forgotten on the lakeshore. Most of its windowpanes were blown out like a carnival shooting gallery. Jutting out of the center was a tower of about ten floors with two wings of four stories each flanking either side. From its sagging veranda, I realized I was seeing the backside.

  My instinct was to take out my phone and start snapping pics. I would risk my hiding place in the world to send Camila some shots, but I hadn’t brought my phone out to moon-gaze in Macy’s backyard. Besides, I hadn’t driven all this way to stay connected with Cami. I quickly forgot about wanting to share and just enjoyed the moment.

  My guide-wolf led me through the reeds and swampy ground. The closer we inched toward the building, the more threatening it became, the deeper my stomach dove. I raked my memory for the places in the area Macy had mentioned worth visiting—historic homes, a theatre, a dog park. Clearly, this was none of those. Whatever it was, it was larger than any of those and reminded me of the fancy Biltmore Hotel back home. If the fancy Biltmore Hotel were dead and gutted.

  “Hey, uh…lobo, I don’t want to get any closer,” I told the wolf, as if wolves could understand either English or Spanish.

  The wolf insisted I follow, still glancing over his back to make sure I was on his tail.

  We were almost there. From a short distance, I could see a few details—cracks on the side walls, on the columns supporting the back veranda, around double wooden doors and the few windows still intact. Half the side walls were consumed by ivy and moss, the other half with graffiti. Breezes from the lake blew through the broken windows, creating a cooing sound. Whatever this place was, it’d been empty for a long time. Standing there, staring at it, I lost track of time. It could’ve been nine, eleven, or one in the morning. All I knew was that the quarter moon had arced in the sky since I left the house.

  “Is this where you live?” I asked Lobo, deciding the name fit him. Maybe his pack was inside the building, smaller black wolves all huddled away from the summer elements.

  Tearing my gaze off the structure, I looked for the wolf, but he’d moved. That was what I got for taking my eyes off him. What if his next move was to pounce on me from the darkness? What if this had all been a ruse to lure me away from human life in order to attack then ration my flesh to his wolfish family?

  It’d been hard enough keeping track of him in the woods. Now, surrounded by knee-high grasses, he could’ve easily been hiding in the reeds. I waded through the sea of grass up to the building’s back veranda where old wooden planks rotted in spots. I reached for a two-foot-long splintered piece of wood, twisting it off its frame to carry with me as a weapon. The black, rusted nail on the end looked like six tetanus shots to me.

  T
he building had double entrance doors every fifteen or so feet, about six sets from what I could gather at a distance. A large open space in the middle opened to a courtyard closed off with huge walls of glass. Part of me wanted to touch the walls, run my fingers along the stucco, feel the solidity of everything in my dreamlike state. Should an intrusive thought enter my mind, I could always pull my hand off quickly.

  When I tried yanking a door into the building open, it wouldn’t budge. Above were cracks from the building’s settling, which had caused the walls to put pressure on the framework.

  No negative thoughts came to me, but visions flooded my mind.

  Whatever this place had been, I could “see” the throngs of people it’d hosted over the years. They circulated through the doors and onto the veranda, greeting each other in vintage clothing, nodding their hellos, saying things like, “Good morning. Out for a bit of fresh air?” I imagined sets of silver being carried around, fresh orange juice, and rowboats along the lake. I imagined a whirlwind of bustling activity. At times, I saw nurses pushing sick people around in wooden wheelchairs.

  It was lifeless now.

  The third set of doors was open. I peeked inside and smelled the musty scent of humidity and decaying wood, not a terrible smell by any means, just old. When I stepped over the threshold, goosebumps broke out all over my arms, even in the summer heat. As my eyes adjusted to a new level of darkness, I could see the place was trashed. Light fixtures were dusty, walls broken, bricks exposed, and a fireplace I didn’t understand (because Florida) was filled with dust and charred wood. Dirty papers rocked in the breeze. Cloth-covered couches sat, longingly awaiting guests. A black plastic binder lay on the floor, its pages glued together with humidity.

  The room I was in opened to what appeared to be an even darker hallway, but I wasn’t sure how far inside I wanted to explore. I’d seen enough. I should leave and come back another day while the sun was out. With Macy. On the other hand, there was nothing scary about an old building, I reminded myself. My father used to be fascinated by them, telling me stories of when the Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables used to be abandoned in the early 1980s before its renovation. This building was just that—an empty shell. A place that time forgot. How often did I have a place all to myself?