Entangled Moon

by E. C. Frey

  I thought he had died in the fire, but only one body was ever accounted for. Now I’m not sure . . . of anything. Nothing has ever been the same, and yet nothing has ever changed. Life is like that. I simply changed one form of suppression for another, switched one abuser for another. Mariah taught me that changelings are the great tricksters of life. They are meant to make you laugh at yourself, see yourself. I was born and raised by them, I was married to another, but I do not intend to die in the graceless presence of one. This cannot be my story, my legacy. Shannon deserves something better. I am done. It is finished. Here.

  I have always fought the idea of psychotherapy, but now I know it is the only way to gain back everything that has been taken from me, all that has never been allowed to blossom. Paul and my friends have given me the gift of seeing clearly. Shannon is the reason to fight for it.

  Mariah sits down again. “Has Paul told you who the guy was? I mean, it’s not like finding out is going to get us into any more trouble than we’ve already been in. Besides, there are no parents to ground us now.”

  Fiona smirks. “Speak for yourself. My mom is itching for a reason.”

  This, at least, this I know. He told me last night. “He was one of his friends. He killed him for me.”

  “And why was Paul in your office that day?” Mariah asks.

  “He wasn’t,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t know why I thought I saw him that day. Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me. Maybe I had a premonition of him. I can’t explain it. Maybe, it’s just part of my . . . my craziness.” My voice cracks.

  “You’re not crazy, chica,” Espy says. “You’re just . . . prescient.”

  “But why is he here?” Fiona asks. “Why would you have a premonition at all?”

  There’s been so much sorrow lately. I’m not sure I can bear this one. “He’s dying. He has cancer. I guess he wanted to find some peace.”

  Eve smiles. “Peace. Maybe none of us will have it until we find home. And we can’t go home until we understand the price of exile.”

  I return to work within a week. There’s no reason to delay. The police found Harold but it’s hard to link him to Saxton. We’re all being watched. Esperanza and Fiona went home. Mariah will stay with me to recover. Her summary on water will be published. The piece on virtual water contained in the computer cycle was brief—the flash drive hasn’t been recovered. But she is undaunted. The rest of her assignments are on hold. And she always has her backup disk, the one she sent to her boss, when she is ready again to find her fire.

  Eve has gone to fetch Mariah’s dogs and will be returning with them tonight. Then she will go home to New York and Jerome. Paul takes Shannon to and from day care and tends to me and Mariah in between. Brandon has disappeared.

  My house does not feel like home anymore, but it’s evolving into something more organic and reflective of the complexity in my life—a place full of love.

  I’ve only been settled in my office for thirty minutes when Sharon buzzes me.

  “It’s good to have you back. Bob Hewitt’s looking for you.”

  “Thanks, Sharon.”

  Bob Hewitt. I assume he will inquire after my welfare and catch me up to date on affairs. The Dallas audit went well, but Michael Saxton must still answer for the sexual discrimination complaint, and the police consider him a person of interest in Tanya’s death. The future company savior is squirming. I smile.

  Bob’s secretary watches me over her eyeglasses as I pace in the small waiting area. Finally, the door swings open and Bob motions to me. He offers me a seat.

  “I see you’re back.”

  I smooth my skirt. “Yes, and happy to be here.”

  “Well, things have certainly gotten complicated.”

  “Yes. I’m sure Michael Saxton’s situation has the company nervous.”

  Bob looks at me. “Nervous?”

  “Well, I mean, the situation can’t be good for the reputation of the company. I mean . . .”

  “How would his personal life affect the reputation of the company?”

  “Well, she was an employee, he was an officer, and it went on under . . .” I force myself to stop talking. This is not going the way I anticipated. Something is wrong.

  Bob frowns. I wait for the jingle of coins, but he is unnervingly quiet in his crisply tailored suit. I catch myself digging my nails into my hands. I promised Mariah. I rub my hands together, smoothing the newly indented skin.

  “Yes,” he says. “But I’m sure you know we’ve already put some damage control into place.”

  “I see. That’s smart. Get some distance.”

  “Yes. Distance.” Bob moves to the other side of his desk. I can see more clearly from this vantage point. His normally congenial manner is absent. Any trace of the old friendly working relationship is gone. The man who stands in front of me is a stranger. “A lot has been going on since you left two weeks ago. Things have been coming to a head.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Heather. This is difficult, but we have to let you go.” He clears his throat. “You need to leave now. You may return to your office to retrieve your things, but security will escort you to the door and take your employee ID badge.”

  I must have heard wrong. What could have happened in the two weeks I was gone to lead to this? There’s only one explanation. What did my psychotherapist call it? Dissociation. I laugh.

  Bob scowls. “I’m surprised you find this funny.”

  “I think I heard you wrong.”

  “You didn’t. You’re being let go, Heather.”

  I sober. “For what reason?”

  Bob lowers his voice. “Failing to perform your duties in an acceptable manner, and insubordination.”

  And there it is—the catchall excuse, the ultimate betrayal. It is the same cause for termination as Tanya. So, that is it and that is all. I was never more than a function.

  I struggle for breath. I put my head between my legs.

  “I’ll let you regain your composure, but then you’ll be escorted off premises. I’m sorry, Heather. I really am.”

  He thinks he’s sorry. “And Saxton?”

  Bob clears his throat. A frog of deceit? “He’ll be fine. The CEO has decided to stay on for a little while.”

  “Just until things blow over. Right?”

  Bob looks at me. Actually, he stares through me. “I don’t know why you’re putting a spin on this. There’s nothing going on. Michael is the best man for the CFO position and the CEO has chosen to stay. It’s simple.”

  “You said the word. I didn’t. Well, I have to hand it to you. You’re more simple than I thought. Good-bye, Bob.”

  I leave and disassemble my office until there’s nothing left to mark my passage. It’s as if I’ve never occupied the space. I take one last look in the rearview mirror at the building in which I have spent so much of my life. Did it ever mean anything? I watch it disappear. It was part of who I was. It was what made me visible for so many years.

  At home, I close the curtains and curl up in bed. There are no more tears.

  An eternity slips from my life. I watch it go by and I do not mourn it.

  Mariah tiptoes into my room and lies down. Our eyes lock until we hear a little girl’s giggle downstairs. A deeper voice follows.

  I have been dreaming. None of it can be real.

  “Mariah?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think I’ve been sleepwalking for a very long time.”

  Mariah smiles. “Nah, you’ve been awake. I know because you’ve affected so many people. You can’t do that while you’re asleep.” She reaches her hand out to me.

  Shannon jumps on the bed. “Mommy!”

  “Hey you. How was your day?”

  Shannon giggles. “Good. Paul’s getting me lotsa treats.”

  “Where?”

  “He went to the grocery store.”

  Mariah laughs. “Well, aren’t you a lucky girl.”

  “Yeah. He said I co
uld have anything I want.”

  Anything one wants.

  But nothing is ever that simple, and nothing ever stays the same.

  35 Eve

  It feels good to stretch. The sun filters through the blinds of my Manhattan apartment. I am alone. The noise on the street is chaotic—cars honk, pedestrians speak in loud voices, and distant emergency vehicles wail, reminding me of the calamity that can so easily transform life. But I am safe here now. Africa fades in the light of the teeming metropolis I now call home. Home. It is a strange word. But the seed of the thought took root and I spoke it into life. I willed it. Or did I? Perhaps it was destined.

  Predetermination is an abhorrent idea. Was my beloved brother, Terrell, destined from birth to die alone in Vietnam? Had it always been decided that he would perish without a trace, die ignominiously in some foreign land amongst foreign people, discarded in the jungle of a country we had no business fighting? No, I cannot abide a world in which loved ones are discarded like garbage. He was so much more than that. And yet life has given me plenty of cause to believe that fate holds some sway in the world of mortals. I, however, have never held sway in the fate of the world. It suffers despite my earnest efforts to rescue it. In the end, I can only rescue myself.

  But we rescued each other, my circle of friends. I have never been certain that I actually chose them as friends. They just sort of happened to me. I know I did not choose them as sisters. We are as different as peanut butter is to jelly. And yet that truth cannot kill the heart of it: we are sisters. Which begs the question, which part of them is destiny and which part is choice? I suppose I do not care. They are the thread that binds the cloth together. As a sisterhood, we are stronger. But that is what makes man strong. It is what makes animals strong. The pack is always more apt to survive than the lone wolf. Prairie dogs stand vigil to warn their community of predators. The lone calf is defenseless against the lion, but it has a chance when adults stand in a circle to protect their weak. And man has congregated around the fire since time immemorial, his safety found in numbers. Evolution is nothing more than the story of community and its language, of culture and its defining gift of relevance. Man claims his significance, his purpose, through the language of culture.

  I turned from that safety long ago. And I was alone. Community is where humanity finds the best and the worst of itself. I want the dirty business of togetherness. Disagreements and strife may be inherent to the human condition, but I am willing to accept that condition.

  I stretch and yawn. It is as if I never left.

  The day I returned, I caught Jerome by surprise.

  I had finished unpacking by the time Jerome returned from work. The sound of his keys dropping on the front table stirred up butterflies in my stomach. I could almost see him leafing through the day’s mail. And then I heard his footsteps. Hiding in the closet, I was a little girl again. All the monsters were gone, and Terrell was smiling in my heart. I could feel him.

  From the slit in the closet door, I watched Jerome shed his suit coat and tie. He looked at the rumpled bedspread, his brows knitted. I placed my hand over my mouth. Then his brows unfurled and I watched his confusion turn into a smile. He found me out.

  I lunged from the closet, laughing. There was no way to contain my joy.

  He caught me and wrapped me around him. His kiss was long and deep and tasted like strawberries. I kissed him back.

  “Are you back for real?”

  “I’m home for real. There’s nowhere else I want to be.”

  I stretch again and roll over in bed, treasuring the softness of the mattress, sheets, and pillow. It is all so different from the refugee camp beds. The smell of laundry detergent is a welcome reminder of that which others do not have. Always in the back of my mind is the remembrance of the hardships of others, those with whom I shared so much of my journey. At the forefront, though, is the memory of their joyful hearts, their pirouette of life. In the darkest of times, they found the light and made it twirl with them. That was their gift, their destiny. I always had community with them, the women of Africa. No matter where I call home, they will be with me. They are the light dancers and I am their humble apprentice. My pillow is soft under my embrace. I have so much to be grateful for. Am I worthy? I will try to be.

  “What are you doing?”

  Jerome. He is home. He is my home.

  I turn and smile at him. The mirror behind him shoots my image back at me. My hair is tousled and wild. It is as wild as my heart is at this moment. This most precious of moments.

  “I am light dancing, my love.”

  36 Fiona

  I pack again. Charleston is a distant memory now, but so much has transpired since that trip a year ago that things are just a relief against the backdrop of that canvas. I survived. We survived. But my marriage did not. I had been lost for so many years that it could not survive that much desolation.

  I was the toast of the town of beautiful people, Beverly Hills— elegant, rich, admired—and yet I could not really look at myself in the mirror. My parents loved me, but I was never allowed to flourish, to be authentic, to be loved for who I was and not the dream of me. It was so easy to be cherished that I never really aspired to anything else. Mariah, Eve, Heather, and Esperanza were so brilliant that I only needed to bask in their brilliance. Because I was popular in school, a goddess, they congratulated themselves on being in my entourage in the beginning. But I always knew they would trump me.

  They would never let me believe that. Even when I believed the worst of myself, when the shadows talked and the bottle could not quiet them, they loved me. There is grace in being loved. And sometimes that’s all it takes. The wreckage of life can never be total in the wake of love. Even when my sisters knew the truth of me and my self-hatred filled me with anger and bitterness, the love of my friends stayed.

  Gavin never understood. They were not the type of people with whom he rubbed elbows. They were not in his social class. I accepted his class distinctions in the beginning. I tried to be the good wife—and I succeeded, if only for a while. I was his trophy. It never occurred to me that a throne can diminish, a crown can tarnish, and the illusion of trust and love can crumble like the sausage Abella stirs into the kids’ morning eggs.

  My kids, they are everything. There was never any illusion there; I just didn’t trust or love myself enough to believe they could either. But they did. They believed in me, even if they did not understand my desire to divorce their Dad.

  I could not burst their bubble. The lie of omission would have to do for now.

  I had just come home from three months of rehab when Gavin opened the door to our master bedroom, walked inside, and sat on the edge of our bed.

  “I’m glad you’re back from rehab.”

  “I’m glad to be back too,” I said. “I feel pretty good.”

  “Good. I’m glad.” His tone was formal. I watched him run his hand through his hair. He was trying to gather his thoughts. Between Charleston, Connecticut, and rehab, I had not seen him in several months, but it felt like a century. The gulf between us was immense and I wanted to bridge it. Soon.

  “Gavin. We should all go away together. Maybe a short family vacation. Rediscover each other. Or maybe just the two of us. Like old times.”

  But he did not look at me. He looked at the mirrors. “I stopped loving you a long time ago. I’m not sure I ever really loved you. I loved the idea of you. We were never compatible. You must understand that?”

  “No, I don’t. What are you saying? Of course we loved each other. Love each other.”

  He shook his head. “No. Look, I’ve been your faithful servant for the sake of the children and social convention. I’ve done everything that was expected of me. But I’m tired of the charade. My career has benefited from our alliance, our marriage, but I can’t pretend anymore.” He paced as if to gather his thoughts. “I’ve been seeing someone else for the past year. I can’t endure this lie, this marriage, any longer.”

 
I crumpled. “No . . .”

  He did not pause. “Since I’ve benefited from our union, you’re entitled to a certain . . . remuneration, but I want a divorce. I’ve already filed for it.”

  “Remuneration?” I knew the gist of the word, but I was half tempted to get out the dictionary and throw it at him.

  “Yes, Fiona. Compensation.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. So this is what it came down to: remuneration! That was a word for the decade.

  “Really, Gavin? Well, you’re damn straight about one thing. This is California! I’ll get my fucking remuner-whatever.” I picked up a vase of flowers and pitched it at the bedroom mirrors. The sound of breaking glass was music. I left him staring at me as I slammed the door.

  He is just like my father. Intellectual love is straight-up cold. I will enumerate your remuneration and up you one, sweetheart, I thought as I stomped down the stairs.

  But the kids don’t need to know this. Not now. Getting divorced is painful enough. Later, when things are settled. It is the journey that matters.

  “Mama, how long will you be gone?” Sam has not called me Mama in years.

  “Not long,” I say. “There is nowhere else I want to be.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise, cross my heart, and swear to die.”

  She looks at me sternly. “Don’t ever promise to die, Mama. It’s not good luck.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring any bad luck to this trip.”

  She hugs me. “Will we be allowed to go someday?”

  I love the idea. “Yes. I think that might be a great idea.”

  Molly and Sean join us. I have the best part of Gavin; the worst is no longer in my life. I do not feel that loss, not anymore. My pride was wounded, but that was my ego, and I have been putting that baby to rest for the past year. It feels good to be free of it, to be unattached to that part of me that lives at the command and instruction of others, that element of me that acts a part. I am now rewriting my role. Perhaps it is nothing more than a fulfillment of my destiny.