Entangled Moon

by E. C. Frey

  “Ah, my darlings, it is time to eat, no?” Abella stands at the threshold of the room.

  I wink at her. “No, Abella, it’s time to move. Come along. You’re part of this family. We can’t do this without you. Time to shake your groove thing.”

  Sean laughs. “Groove thing? You’re twisted.”

  I twist my hips. “Peaches & Herb, baby boy.”

  Sean and Molly laugh.

  Sam watches us, smiles, and holds out her arms. “We love you, Abella. Dance with us.”

  Abella clasps her hands to her chest. “Ah, mija. I love you too.” She moves into our outstretched arms.

  I think Eve is right. We create our own fire.

  37 Esperanza

  “Mommy, take my rabbit. She protected you last year.”

  My suitcase is overflowing again. Angelica watches me. “I wouldn’t dream of going away without bunny.” I take bunny and place it on top of the pile of clothing. Whatever else flows out will be left.

  Izzy pops in the doorway. “I made you a picture, Mom.” Déjà vu. We went through these motions a year ago.

  “What did you make, Izzy?”

  She hands me the picture. Gone are the rainbows and Pegasus, but what has replaced them is more sophisticated. My daughter is growing up and growing into her own as an artist. A group of people, dressed in a rainbow of colors, dance underneath the heavens, the stars illuminating their clothing. A large moon hovers and lights the inky sky. “It’s a midnight dance, Mom. Their souls are whirling.”

  I have never seen anything so wondrous. My eyes water up despite myself.

  She rolls her eyes. “Oh Mom, you’re always crying.”

  “I’m happy crying, Izzy. It’s so beautiful. I love it and I’ll treasure it.”

  “Don’t forget to dance home, Mom.”

  “Never.”

  And then I remember all the stargazing I have done in my life. Daddy used to call it daydreaming, but Mom knew better. The stars are the windows into the universe. Explosive, they blow and spend themselves, to be born and die and be reborn. Equal parts creation and destruction, they tell us the tale of life. They taught me how to salsa. They are teaching even now. And Izzy has been paying attention. My little dreamer has been awake the whole time.

  “What are you laughing at, Mom?”

  “Nothing, Izzy. I guess I was just thinking how much your picture reminds me of the universe—colliding stars, colliding galaxies, colliding matter. We do the same thing, don’t we?”

  “Yep. Our love collides all the time, and then it’s made better than before because two people colliding is superlative.”

  “Superlative? Where did you learn that word?”

  “Oh, I have my sources.”

  I reach out to tickle her but she scampers away, calling behind her, “We already collided tonight, Mom.”

  I turn and walk straight into Angelica’s embrace. “I wanna collide too, Mommy. Can I collide with you?”

  I have to laugh. They are surprising me tonight. “I’ll collide with you any time.” I plant kisses everywhere. Angelica giggles and shakes her head free. “Okay, Mommy. Let me down now.” She runs after her beloved older sister, her object of worship.

  Carlos stands in the doorway. “Mom.”

  “Yes, Carlos.” I wait for the moment he reveals his motive. No doubt social plans have been made.

  He smiles. “I’ll miss you.”

  I wait.

  “Mom?”

  “That’s it?”

  He shrugs. “That’s all.”

  “I’ll miss you too, mijo.”

  He embraces me. He is awkward, which makes it more real. It is a precious gift, this love without motive, without qualification. It is pure and clear, like the cenotes of my long ago dreaming. The memory of that love no longer aches; it is the deep source of so much more. It is this love, more real and immediate, that sustains me.

  A soft muzzle pushes my hand. Snoops wants in on the action. He is a joy hound. I scratch his ears. When I look up, Tomas is standing in the door.

  “And you too?”

  “And me too.”

  I move toward him for a hug, but he reaches for my mouth.

  “Oh, get a room.” Carlos moves to squeeze past us.

  Tomas laughs. “You don’t think every teenager in America hasn’t said the same thing?”

  “Yeah, Dad, and they all mean it.”

  Tomas hugs me and kisses me again. “Don’t forget to come back to us. You’re our center.”

  I watch him walk back down to his den. Sometimes it is the simple things in life that remind me who I am, and why.

  38 Mariah

  I have been riding Storm Chaser for hours. He is wild and strong; we understand each other.

  The Charleston police and the Connecticut State Police matched the DNA on one Harold Skule, suspect numero uno. He was my attacker and the serial rapist that had been terrorizing the I-95 corridor. It was a wrap.

  Of course, I know he was AAC’s chump. Their tool. Walking evil, they had him employed and justified before he knew his mission: keep AAC clean. Now AAC’s out of the water business, but divesting themselves simply caused their stock prices to rise. They smell like a billion. And it’s rumored Michael Saxton will take the reins in the fall.

  Justice is not forthcoming, but, like my tribes, I’ve learned to live without it. In a land that prides itself for its truth and justice, the lie of it requires silence. After all, we stare out at the stolen Black Hills every day, a constant reminder of so many broken promises.

  I put the bone man to rest. There are always more articles to write. Someday I will find justice for Daniel. My copy from my boss of the flash drive is on the Rez. Let them come get it.

  I’ve made peace with my life. I have the blood quantum levels to be Lakota, Ho-Chunk, and Dakota, but I do not need it. I know who I am. I am neither separate from humanity nor am I disambiguated by homogenization, an assimilated person. I told myself I don’t belong for so long I believed the thought had come from somewhere else, but the voice was always mine. I silenced it when I vanquished the bone man. It’s my destiny, straight up. I’m not a wannabe, a “nosebleed Indian.” Even 50 percent blood loss constitutes a trauma. It will still get you a trip to the ER. Blood quantum be damned. I will never again be a fraction.

  And anyway, blood quantum has never been a reality for any other than those from whom the land was taken, inevitable or not. It’s just a tool to sanction its allotment. It’s a way to avoid the apology. As if the land could ever be taken. It is no one’s to own. The provenance of the universe, it belongs to everyone. You can break a horse, but a horse without spirit is not a horse. Just as a land without spirit is not home.

  In that mausoleum, inside the hollow darkness of my terror, I called on the spirits of my ancestors and they answered. They delivered me. It is time to honor them—time to sit with Grandmother. Time to learn the old ways.

  Storm Chaser stamps his feet. In the distance, the barn is open and the sun, low on the horizon, shines through from the other side. The barn is alive. Storm Chaser neighs and paws at the earth.

  Chase rounds up the horses. He waves. I wave back. He will not close the doors until Storm Chaser and I are home.

  Out on the prairie, buffalo graze and switch their tails. The scene is peaceful. Peace for the moment. But the moment is all one ever has.

  A familiar pickup truck kicks up dust as it pulls up to the barn. The dogs approach joyfully as Dennis emerges, his long braids gleaming in the sunset.

  A noise behind me reminds me of past dream states, but I know who it is. Clay rides up behind me.

  “Weeko! You are strong on that horse.”

  “And you as well, my brother.”

  “Yeah, it’s our blood.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  A hawk circles above. Its cry, fierce and brave, reminds me that our kinship with other creatures is older than that of those who took the land. Standing on the open prairie, I do not fear
the bone man. There is nothing but space, horizon to horizon. I kick Storm Chaser into a gallop and my brother follows. His spirit is fierce like the hawk. We are fierce like Grandfather and Grandmother, fierce like our tribe. I am headed home.

  39 Heather

  Death waits.

  Shrill sirens herald tragedy. It has not always been that way. There was a time when it meant mystery and adventure. As children, we chased it. We never considered the destination or the people for whom the siren signaled comfort. But all of that changed the moment it became an omen, a warning that fate had once again delivered a surprise. The unexpected demanded choices, a maneuver across destiny. I was never comfortable with decisions. They often ended poorly.

  And now they are taking him. For so many years, he was no more than a ghost of my darkest moments. A brooding force, he had borne witness to my greatest degradation—that moment when the very last shreds of my innocence were stripped away. His face was hidden in the blur of chaos, but the moment of loss was not so easily forgotten. Now, I know him best. It took as many years to unveil that knowledge, to unveil his intent—to discover that all the choices, good and bad, were necessary. But I could never be prepared for this, not now. Not when I am learning to wear a new sense of strength, not as my old self, tiny and afraid, is becoming a relic of some distant past.

  I follow the ambulance to the hospital and wait. The doctor approaches, his shrouded shoes mute testimony to their task, but he cannot hide what I already know.

  “He can’t be saved. I’m sorry.”

  We have already saved each other.

  Drawing aside the curtains, I search the streets, unsure of what I seek, only that I have to find something. Bathed in the yellow warmth of the early summer afternoon, the street is empty. The houses, neatly laid out, are part of a planned neighborhood. Green lawns and white picket fences delineate the lives of the occupants, who are busy doing what I would normally do. They put on their suits in the morning and return to their domestic lives, their roles, at dusk. I do not do that anymore. And now I know what I have been seeking: The street is a reflection of my life. I performed admirably. The knowledge of it makes me sick.

  I need to put distance between that life and myself. My belongings are packed in a moving van that waits in the driveway, and my car is filled with everything we will need for a road trip. There is no reason to ever return.

  I spent hours with Shannon deciding on places to visit and places to live. We cut a hundred maps into pieces, dissected them into grids of possibilities, morsels of dreams. In the end, the middle of the country found a place in the center of our hearts. Shannon clapped. “Mariah! Mariah!” It’s a good place to start.

  I shimmy into my car seat for the ride to the cemetery. I have been procrastinating. It’s the one good-bye for which I am not prepared. It splits my heart straight down the middle. I throw the car into gear and face the inevitable.

  I gaze at the casket, perched on the solid earth, still. Soon it will be lifted over its grave, an unfathomable darkness, as dark as the center of our galaxy. I do not want to acknowledge his tomb. I want more of a life with Paul. I want to give him the shelter he never had in his life—the same shelter he tried to give so many others.

  Fiona reaches for my hand. My four friends are gathered here to pay respect to the stranger who shared our journey and who bound us in ways that no other earthly force could have. Born of fire, our unity is described as much by one as by all. And he was our fire keeper.

  We each move forward to place a rose upon his casket. I save mine for last. I have been raising Mariah’s beloved Félicité Parmentier, and this, its first, fledgling offspring, graces his last home. He told me I saved him. But did he know he had also saved me?

  A duo of fawns leaves their mother lingering at the fringes of the cemetery’s ring of forest and sprints into the open to dance amongst the graves. The choice has always been mine. Life is where free will and destiny meet and fuse, one defined as much by itself as by the other. It has been a hard truth, one with which I am still learning to exist.

  Shannon drops her flowers and runs towards the fawns. I follow her as she twirls in the fading afternoon sun. Removing her shoes, Mariah skips towards her. The others follow. I kick mine away. The grass gives way and holds my footprints as I run toward my loved ones. We have the moment, and maybe grace is nothing more than an abiding conjunction with impermanence. Life is here, in this moment, and it is as easy as dancing under a midnight moon.

  Acknowledgments

  It takes a village to raise a writer.

  My village is large, and it has an immediacy and presence that sustains and nurtures me. Filled with love and inspiration, I am forever grateful for its occupants.

  To my dad, who still reminds me that when I walk on, I will be, as always, the stuff of stardust. I miss him every day. To my mom, who has taught me that no one ever promised a rose garden, but you can pick the roses just the same—minding the thorns along the way. Thank you for believing in me. To my brother, Mark, who inherited the same insatiable thirst for intellectual wandering. Who doesn’t love a good rabbit hole? Aline and Ruby, you gave me the love of storytelling. Kath and Deb? I love you to the moon. Jay, Tommy, Catherine, Bruce, Elizabeth: you remind me that life is an adventure.

  To the family into which I married: Paups, you taught me about courage and integrity. I miss you. Nanny, you continue to define unconditional love. Scott, Kyle, and Susan, thank you for your endless love.

  Margaret “Mags” Doner, Karen Kaufman Orloff, Angela Hooks, Druzelle Cederquist, Elaine Andersen, and Jeanne-Marie Fleming— you were the first, and you inspired me beyond words.

  Thank you to Heather Webb, Jessica Vealitzek, and my steadfast and growing tribe on Facebook for making the craft so real.

  To Barbara Elmore, Tracee Beebe, and Cecily Watson Kelln, thank you for reminding me that tribe is everywhere.

  To Mary Anne Dorward and Lisa Anne Gaston, childhood classmates and fellow survivors, who send me unsolicited morsels of encouragement when I am most in need.

  For Laura Furber, Catalina Siller Villarreal, Gretchen Sidlo, Susan Ellsworth, and Dixie Hodson, y’all make me laugh every day and make the sometimes unbearable light.

  For Lizbeth “Lizzie” delaCruz, my BFF and soul sister, the world is big and full of love and Cuban spice. Te quiero.

  And to Brooke Warner, Lauren Wise, Krissa Lagos, Chris Dumas, and everyone else at She Writes Press, for all that you have done and all that you do—you are the fire in this thing called publishing.

  But most of all, to my beloved, Phil, who makes me fight for all the reasons why and then makes the magic happen. For Megan, who makes life poetry and inspires it in me—you are lightness and joy. And for Patrick, who makes me smile, asks all the same questions, and follows me down the rabbit hole.

  And to Yellow Thunder, who reminds me to walk back through the truth and tell it. Man has and will always seek truth in story. The craft is in the telling.

  About the Author:

  Elizabeth Campbell Frey has worked in Fortune 500 companies in positions dealing with systems analysis/project management, human resources, employee relations, and affirmative action. After surviving cancer, she switched gears and, during her studies for a master’s in history and non-Western cultures, she focused on water rights and resources and completed a thesis on the Doctrine of Discovery and land issues in Indian country. Born in the Philippines to chronic expat parents, she has lived in too many places to name and now lives in Texas Hill Country with her husband, two gypsy-hearted kids, dogs, cows, chickens, a horse, and a swarm of transient, kamikaze hummingbirds. Learn more at www.elizabethcampbellfrey.com.

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