Girls in the Moon

by Janet McNally

  DEDICATION

  To my own girls in the moon,

  and to Jesse, who has made so many mixtapes for me.

  EPIGRAPH

  Sing me a lullaby. Sing me the alphabet. Sing me a story I haven’t heard yet.

  —The Weakerthans, “My Favourite Chords”

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  one

  SECRETS, MY MOTHER TOLD ME ONCE, are just stories turned inside out.

  We were sitting in the backyard on a clear dark night, and because I could see Cassiopeia’s lazy zigzag in the sky above me, I pictured a star folding in on itself until it collapsed. It would leave a blinking black space above the atmosphere, I knew, yawning and hungry and full of words. It would be insatiable.

  But I didn’t tell my mother this. Instead, I told her that she sounded suspiciously like a lyric from one of my father’s songs. I knew she’d know the one: Inside this secret are all the stories you used to tell, years and months and days ago, when I knew you so well.

  My mother smiled and shrugged.

  “Yeah, because I wrote that line.” She turned her face up toward the jet-black, star-dusted sky and, true to form, wouldn’t say anything else about it. This story stayed front to back and right side in, always.

  So I looked for proof on my own that night, like I had so many times before, sneaking back down the stairs after my mother went to bed. I went to her CD cabinet and stood in the circle of amber streetlight shining in through the window. I ran my finger over the ridged plastic of their spines until I saw his name, Kieran Ferris, and the title of his first solo record, Haven, which came out when I was three. I slipped the glossy liner notes from the case and I found the space for the song called “Secret Story.” Their names—K. Ferris, M. Ferris—huddled close in parentheses after the title, a year after they broke up. In a few dozen songs, in a sprinkling of small places like this, they’d be together forever.

  In three hours I’ll be on a plane to New York to see my sister, Luna, but right now I’m in the kitchen, trying to get my suitcase to close. It’s August and the room feels like a fever. I lie down flat on top of the case and pull the zipper as hard as I can, but its edges still won’t meet. I rest my cheek on the nylon and take a deep breath. It’s so hot I could almost believe all the water in my body is slowly evaporating into the air. My hair slides damply across my forehead and pools on the hardwood floor.

  Lying there, I take out my phone and type a text, a lyric that just floated into my head. Sunbeam headed in the wrong direction, mixed-up gleam in the sky. I look at the words on the screen for a second, and then I press send.

  Just then, my mother’s face pops up in the window closest to me and I jump.

  “Almost ready?” she asks. Through the screen her face is blurry, a pale oval with a mass of dark hair piled on top. She’s been a little jittery since I bought my plane ticket, though I know she won’t admit it. Instead, she’s cleaned every inch of our house and just this morning declared war on the weeds. She’s been in the backyard for hours, yanking out crabgrass and decapitating dandelions. Over her shoulder I can see the enemy combatants wilting in a sad pile at the edge of the driveway. Of course, with my mother, it’s never enough for her just to do it, either. She also has to narrate it through the window while I’m eating my breakfast. The gist of it is I am woman, hear me weed, et cetera, et cetera, through my whole bowl of oatmeal.

  “Um, yeah, I’m almost there.” I sit up and bounce lightly on top of the suitcase, finally managing to yank the zipper shut. It’s Luna’s old one: small and dark green, a little dirty at the corners. It’s stuffed to bursting. I had a hard time making decisions about what to bring because I can’t be certain which Luna I’ll find when I arrive. Will it be Sweet Syrupy Luna, exhaling love and kindness with every breath, or Dormant Volcano Luna, all her energy and leftover anger channeled somewhere beneath the surface? She’s always changing, shifting, and I want to be prepared.

  My sister last came home in April for her spring break, and that’s when she told my mother she wasn’t going back to Columbia for her sophomore year. Not now, she said, but she’d go back eventually. This fall, she’d tour the West Coast with her band beginning in September.

  “They’re letting me take a leave,” she said. “I went to the registrar and everything.” She was looking out the window instead of at my mother. The magnolia tree bloomed furiously just past the pane, pressing its long creamy petals against the glass. “I’m keeping the scholarship,” Luna said.

  My mother didn’t say anything. Her brow was furrowed and her lips were pulled thin.

  Luna took a deep breath. “I thought you’d understand,” she said to our mother. “You left school before you finished too. And you went back. Eventually.”

  From my spot on the couch across from her, I didn’t see how Luna could expect her to understand. Our mother wouldn’t even talk about her time in Shelter. How could anyone think she’d be fine if Luna left school to follow more or less the same path?

  “I have to do this now,” my sister said. “I won’t get another chance.”

  I waited for my mother to tell her no, but she just took a breath and let it out.

  “Okay,” she said. Then she went out to the garage and started working on a ten-foot-tall, spiky sculpture she sold a month or so later to one of the Buffalo Sabres. He had it installed in front of his McMansion way out in Spaulding Lake, where it glittered hazardously in all that wealthy-neighborhood sunlight. I joked to Ben later that the sculpture was basically forged out of anger. He nodded.

  “Hockey players need that energy,” he said. “They’re always bashing heads.”

  “So what you’re telling me,” I said, “is that I should be happy my mother makes art from her rage, rather than the alternative—whatever it might be.”

  He nodded.

  “Just checking,” I said.

  My mother is still at the window, staring at me. Her forearms rest on the windowsill, and I can see that she is displaying her “concerned mom” face.

  “Nothing to see here,” I say. “Just having some technical difficulties. It’s under control.”

  She ducks down again, no doubt looking for rogue ragweed tucked
under the hydrangeas. She could go all day. For one thing, the woman doesn’t feel the heat. She’s an artist who sculpts with metal, and she’s happiest with a blowtorch in her hand, its arc of blue flame as focused as a shooting star. Her art department pal Jake calls her Goddess of the Forge, and it has as much to do with her temper—like Luna’s, a slow burn that leads to an eruption somewhere further down the line—as the metalwork itself. She works in a studio she built in our garage, and I try to stay out of the whole thing lest I be smited (smote?) by her.

  My dog, Dusty (Springfield, obviously), slurps water out of her silver bowl and I walk over to refill it. When I put the bowl back on the floor, I look out the window, stuck open just more than halfway in the humidity. The inside tracks are lined with a hundred years of paint and it never goes any farther in the summer, which is one of the many charms of a Victorian house. Luna and I were born in New York, where my parents lived in a loft in the West Village, cluttered with records and amps and guitars. I was almost two when they broke up and my mother took us back to Buffalo, where my grandparents lived—where she herself had grown up. She bought our house, which was crumbling. She fixed it up. My grandparents helped as much as she’d let them, but she did practically all the work herself. Which explains this window.

  Looking at her in the yard right now—weeding her garden in a purple sundress, her hair in a messy bun, her feet bare and a little dirty—you’d never know her secret, the person she used to be. You’d never know that twenty years ago, my mother was the first girl on the moon.

  It sounds crazy, I know. But it’s not what you think. There was no puffy white space suit, no sky filling with stars until it looked like a geode split open in the dark. She didn’t get to stand at the edge of an empty lunar sea, ankle-deep in dust, and look back at the jewel of our planet, spinning. It was simpler than that, more earthbound and symbolic. In any case, as I’ve said before, she won’t talk about it: the moon, the music, and all the other things that happened before my sister was born.

  Now, I lug my suitcase over the threshold, trying to hold the door open with my foot at the same time. Dusty rushes to leave too, and we have a minor traffic jam until she frees herself by hopping over my shin. Outside I consider pitching my suitcase off the edge of the porch so I won’t have to bump it down the stairs, but I think better of it. My mother is eyeing me.

  “Looks pretty heavy,” she says. She’s leaning back against the car, her hot pink gardening gloves tossed aside into the grass.

  “Um, not so much.” I continue tugging, trying not to grunt audibly. I keep my eyes on her as I bump the suitcase down each stair, a small (fake) smile frozen on my face. At the bottom, I take a deep breath and pull out the handle to use the wheels.

  “On the plus side,” I say, heaving the bag up into her open trunk, “I’m totally working on my muscles.” I flex one bicep as a demonstration.

  “I can really tell,” she says dryly. Dusty dances around her feet making quiet snuffling sounds, trying to convince my mother to take her somewhere in the car.

  “Soon, Dusty,” she says, and at her words Dusty lies down in the grass, her chin on her paws.

  I can smell the knockout roses, sweet and heavy as vintage perfume, releasing their scent under the window as if they’re animals frightened by my mother’s onslaught. I bend my head toward them.

  “Don’t worry,” I say in a stage whisper, “she’s not coming for you.” My mother smiles.

  “Hey,” she says. “I’m an efficient weeder. It looks great out here.”

  “Queen of the Garden,” I say. She nods.

  “Well, I have one more thing to add to your suitcase,” she says, raising her pointer finger. “It’s in the studio. Why don’t you take Dusty out front and I’ll be ready when you come back?”

  This is a strategy my mother has employed since I was a toddler: distract and occupy. I open my mouth, ready to protest, but she’s already disappearing into the garage. So I follow Dusty out toward the street and hum a song I tried to forget a long time ago.

  The sun is a gleaming white hoop in the sky and the sidewalk is hot under my bare feet. Down the street, a lawn mower whirs like a sleepy bee. I’ll be gone from this spot in a few minutes, from this city in a few hours. My summer ends for real in a week. So of course this is the moment—when I’m so close to leaving, to finally being gone—that Tessa finally shows up.

  two

  MY BEST FRIEND APPEARS OUT of nowhere, sailing up her driveway on her old blue bike. Her hair glows gold in the sun. Dusty turns and looks across the street, her silky ears swiveling like satellite dishes. She stretches out her nose and sniffs the air, searching for Tessa’s scent on the wind. She wags her tail.

  “Traitor,” I whisper, and Dusty looks back at me, still wagging. I wonder why I didn’t hear the squeaky back wheel of Tessa’s bike—screeeee, screeeee—like a warning, but the breeze is making a racket in the leaves overhead. Or maybe I just wasn’t listening. I didn’t expect to see her. I’ve been out here every day this summer, and she hasn’t appeared once.

  But I can see her bedroom window from mine, just above the honeysuckle trellis we’d use to sneak out of her bedroom late at night. It’s been months, but I’m sure I could still do it blindfolded and barefoot if necessary, and I’d know just where to drop my shoes so they wouldn’t end up in the rosebushes. When we were twelve we’d sneak out to talk and twirl on the swings down the block, happy just to cast shadows in the streetlights. Later we’d go to parties, and once, to a dark bar on Allen Street where they didn’t ask for ID. On the rare nights she snuck out alone, Tessa would send me a text once she got home and then signal a Morse code OK with her flashlight: three long flashes, then long, short, long. I still look at her window every night out of habit, but I never see her looking back.

  Even now, she tosses her straw-colored hair like a pony but doesn’t turn her head in my direction. The garage is already open, a catalogue of items from Whiting summers past and present: faded plastic wading pools stacked like seashells over a turtle-shaped sandbox, a net bag of soccer balls underneath three tennis rackets fixed to the wall. Near the door there’s a beat-up Radio Flyer wagon that we would use to pull our dolls around the block.

  Two months ago, or for years before that, I would have been across the street by the time Tessa reached the garage. I might have even known she was coming before she came, but things are different now. So I’m not sure whether to run into my backyard or to turn slowly, revolving around the tree until I’m facing my own house and I can pretend I haven’t seen her.

  Something makes me stay.

  Tessa hops off her bike and slides it to a stop just inside the garage. I expect her to use the secret door to the backyard and disappear again, for another few months, a year, forever. But then she turns and looks at me.

  My breath catches when I try to inhale, and I can feel my heart butterflying around behind my rib cage. Tessa walks halfway down her driveway in my direction. She looks thin, flushed, and her hair blows around her head like streamers in the wind. She pokes a marigold gently with her sandaled foot. She waits. Dusty pulls on the leash, then looks back at me.

  Before I can stop myself, I start walking over to Tessa’s side of Ashland, the asphalt warm under my feet. At the edge of the sidewalk I stop and look at Tessa, standing halfway between the garage and me.

  “Hey,” I say. I drop the leash and Dusty pads over. She sniffs Tessa’s knees.

  Tessa is wearing sunglasses, so I can’t see her eyes. It doesn’t matter, though, because she bends down anyway. She puts her hands on Dusty’s head.

  “Hey,” she says, but it’s not clear whether she’s talking to me or my dog.

  I met Tessa the summer I was five. Luna was seven, and annoyed that the girl who moved in across the street was my age, not hers. Still, the three of us played all summer in our yards, and when Luna started second grade and found her own best friend, Pilar, our group became four.

  I liked Tessa right away be
cause she was funny and brave, even when bravery meant nothing more than standing still while a bee buzzed around her head, or jumping between two park benches that were almost too far apart to make it. Her parents fought a lot, and sometimes, sitting with our backs against Tessa’s house and listening to their furious whispers, I thought it was just as well that my parents had been divorced for as long as I could remember.

  I take a few steps onto the driveway toward Tessa, my first foray onto Whiting property all summer. Then I open my mouth. I’m so used to telling her what’s going on that I can’t help myself, even after two whole months of radio silence.

  “I’m going to New York today,” I say. “Luna and my mom are barely speaking. I think I’m being sent as an emissary or something.” I make an arc on the sidewalk with my pointed toe. “An ambassador.” Synonyms pop SAT-style into my head: a diplomat, envoy, messenger. My brain has become a deranged vocabulary program.

  Tessa is quiet, still crouched down on the pavement, and I stand there, willing her to speak. Finally, she does.

  “Luna was on Pitchfork,” she says, still talking to Dusty or possibly the driveway below her. “In July.”

  “I know,” I say. The music site ran a photograph on the homepage about a month ago, along with a small story about the Moons’ fall tour. Luna and the Moons Rise Across America, the caption said, and below, a subtitle: Meg Ferris’s Daughter Follows Her Mother’s Orbit. In the picture Luna sits on a bench with the guys standing behind her. She’s laughing, her hands flat on the reddish wood on either side. A slant of sunlight falls perfectly through the window into her lap. It’s been four months since I’ve seen my sister in person, and sometimes I have trouble believing she’s real. Pictures like that one, where she’s luminous and looking somewhere past the camera, don’t help.

  Tessa stands up, and I’m suddenly afraid she’ll leave before I can say anything that matters.

  “I’m going to go see my dad,” I say. “I’ve decided. Even if Luna doesn’t want to.”

  “Good luck,” Tessa says, her voice neutral. She doesn’t ask me what my plan is, or why I finally decided to do it after thinking about it for so long. Then she shakes her head. “They played ‘Summerlong’ at least three times while I was at work yesterday.”