Under the Moon

by Deborah Kerbel

  “Okay, fine.” I accept the sandwich and take a small bite, because I know she’ll never leave me alone if I don’t. For every second I chew, the black pointy toe taps a bit slower. After another bite of the sandwich, I hear a loud sigh, and then my mother’s shoes turn and clack away towards the kitchen. As soon as they’re out of sight, I drop the sandwich onto the empty couch cushion beside me, close my eyes, and wish for the millionth time that Aunt Su was here to get me through this heinous day.

  I mean, how messed up is that? I’m actually wishing for my dead aunt to come and help me get through her own funeral reception. But she’s truly the only person who could do it. The only person who’s ever been able to make me feel better on the absolute worst days. And today definitely is a gold-medal contender for the worst of the absolute worst!

  When I open my eyes again, I see that a couple of familiar size thirteen runners have planted themselves in front of me. In Dad’s hurry to get to the funeral on time, his left pant leg’s been tucked deeply into his fashion-deviant white gym sock.

  Mom must have been supremely distracted not to have noticed that unforgiveable breach of funerary dress code. For about the millionth time, I wonder how my parents ended up marrying each other. Seriously, the only thing those two have in common is me. It’s probably a good thing they divorced before I was old enough to talk. Just the thought of them living in the same house together makes me want to slam my head against a brick wall. At least they’re decent to each other at times like this when they’re forced to co-parent.

  “I can tell your mother’s worried about you,” Dad says. “She only pushes food into your mouth when she’s freaking out.”

  I swallow the hard lump that’s rising in my throat and battle to keep my voice from leaking into a whine.

  “Whatever, Dad.”

  “But if you don’t get that sandwich off the couch PDQ, I’m going to start worrying too. She’ll make you do push-ups if there’s a stain.”

  Tragically, he isn’t joking. I pick the sandwich up and hand it to him.

  “Here. I’m not hungry.”

  Dad inhales the remains of my sandwich and plops himself down on the couch beside me. I can tell he’s distracted because he doesn’t even stop to pull the trusty little bottle of Tabasco sauce out of his pocket. He leans forward, elbows on his lap as his blue eyes scramble to catch mine. “Come on, Sweetness — it’s going to be okay.”

  I shake my head hard, refusing to look at him. “No, it’s not.”

  “Yes, it will. You’ll see. The sun will shine again. Just give it time.”

  I feel his strong arm wrap around my shoulders and pull me into a tight hug. “We’ll get through this together, Lil.”

  Yeah, this sorry little pep talk is the best my dad’s going to be able to do. And as you’ve probably already guessed, it isn’t nearly enough to help. I mean, for Pete’s sake — the only person on the planet who’s ever loved me has been reduced to a tropical fruit– shaped jarful of ashes and he’s talking about sunshine?

  Okay, before you get the wrong idea, yeah, I know my parents love me — but they kind of have to love me because they’re my parents. It’s not like they ever had much of a choice. And honestly, I don’t always get the impression that they like me all that much. Not that I blame them, mind you. I can admit it: I’m not always the easiest kid in the world to like. But Aunt Su was different. She loved me and liked me and knew me and heard me and got me. If you’re ever lucky enough to have someone like that in your life, never let them go. Trust me on this one. Chances are you won’t ever find a person like that again.

  “So any idea who invited the sewing circle?” Dad asks, nodding toward the convention of black-clad denture models still hovering in the dining room.

  “I think they’re old friends of Aunt Su’s.”

  Dad snorts. “They don’t exactly look like the type of people Su would choose to hang out with.”

  I shrug. What can I say? He’s right. Aunt Su was my mother’s much, much older half-sister. She was twenty-four years old and already graduated from university when Mom was born — they’d never even lived in the same house. But even though Aunt Su was technically old enough to be my grandmother, she was one of those adults who never really grew up. She lived alone in that shambly old cabin by the lake, where she wrote all day and churned out trashy romance novels by the dozens. I’ve always wanted to read one, but Mom says they’re pretty racy and won’t let me until I’m sixteen (which is only five months away, so I don’t know what the big deal is). Aunt Su was the kind of person old people like to call “eccentric.” Unpredictable, unreadable, and, well, wingdingish. She dressed exclusively in purple and green (when she bothered getting dressed at all), only dated men who were half her age, drove a moped around town from spring to fall, and smoked pot daily to help battle writer’s block. And she would drop everything and come running any time I needed her. She loved me like a best friend, sister, mother, and aunt all rolled into one big hug that never ended. She was the world to me. Since she died, the days have lost their shape. But the nights are so much worse.

  Leaning forward, I peer out the living room window into the blackening sky. There isn’t going to be a moon tonight. I know this for a fact.

  Releasing my shoulder, Dad lets out a tired sigh and tilts his head back to rest on the couch pillows. His hairy hands come together to cover his face like a small, dark tent. “God, I don’t know why funerals always wipe me out. Tonight of all nights, I could really use a good sleep. When do you think this crowd is going to take the hint and leave already? I want to go home.”

  Sleep.

  Just the thought of it brings a gross wave of panic crashing through my stomach. Counting the red seconds flicker by one at a time as the hours stretch in front of me like kilometres of empty grey highway.

  “I don’t know, Dad. Hopefully they’ll leave soon.”

  “How’ve you been sleeping lately, Sweetness?”

  “Um, fine,” I lie. “About three or four hours a night.”

  “Okay, that’s good,” Dad replies. He doesn’t even look up. That’s because three or four hours of sleep sounds halfway human, which is pretty much all he wants to hear. If adults think everything is going okay, they leave you alone. All most parents want are kids that are semi-normal.

  Not nocturnal mutants like me.

  I stare back up at the pomegranate jar and let out a long, slow breath.

  Aunt Su is gone forever.

  Merde!

  How the hell am I ever going to get through the nights without her?

  TWO

  September 4th

  I was right about the moon. It was like the sky was dipped in ink last night. Even the stars couldn’t manage to power through the thick cover of cloud that coated the sky. It was the kind of night that was made of sinister. The kind of night that could swipe a person’s hope. I stared out my window until the sun came up, watching the darkness, afraid to turn my back on it for a second. And then this morning, the sun came out and burned away all the clouds. Which meant the moon would be back tonight. Which made me feel good. I knew it couldn’t stay hidden forever.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Mom’s shoe is at it again. Beating against the marble floor of Mr. Duffy’s office in a frenzied display of hyper. Reaching out, I put a hand on her knee to stop the racket but she just starts tapping the other foot instead. With a sigh, I glance up at the clock, still not entirely sure why Aunt Su’s lawyer invited us to meet with him today. Dad said it’s just a routine kind of process after someone dies — estate settlement or something. I guess I’m about to find out exactly what that means. If Dad ever gets here, that is. He’s already twenty minutes late for the meeting — hardly a big surprise. I don’t know why Mom isn’t used to it by now; it’s not like he’s ever been on time even once in his life. My grandpa always likes to joke about how lateness is embedded into the family genes. “Our ancestors sailed over to America on the Juneflower, you know, shrimp?�
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  Now that I think about it, it’s probably one of the main reasons my parents divorced.

  The little bald lawyer checks his watch, clears his throat softly, and shuffles through the stack of papers on his desk. That stack of papers is Aunt Su’s will — her last words to us and the only reason we’re gathered in this pretentious office wallpapered with legal degrees and awards.

  An image of my aunt’s crinkly face floats in front of my eyes, bringing on that all-too-familiar sting of tears. At sixty-two years old and after a lifetime of laughing, the skin on Aunt Su’s face had been sculpted into a permanent smile. Just thinking of her dead makes me feel so empty — like I could easily dissolve away into nothing. The sting in my eyes is starting to grow into a burn, but the last thing I want to do is cry here in front of Mom and this odd-looking little lawyer. When I cry, I like to be alone. Squeezing my lids shut to keep the tears away, I cross my arms in front of my chest and wish for the millionth time that my aunt was still alive. The past few nights have been a waking nightmare without her. And with no moon for company, last night was the worst.

  Let me be clear on this: I’ve never been much of a sleeper, even before Aunt Su died. My body’s just not wired for it. I wouldn’t call it insomnia, exactly — I’m just one of those people who don’t need as much sleep as others. When I was a baby, I would stay awake for twenty hours out of every day. Mom says she wanted to throw me out the window back then.

  I like to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that’s a joke.

  And as I got older, my sleeping just got worse. When I was a toddler, I’d stay up most of the night banging on the crib rails and screaming for someone to come play with me. After I outgrew my crib, Mom says she had to lock my bedroom door every night to keep me from wandering around and getting into trouble (and from barging into her room and waking her up). By that point, I’d exhausted her to the point of desperation. Guess I can’t exactly blame her or Dad for never wanting to have any more kids.

  As soon as I was old enough to figure out how to dial a telephone, I started calling Aunt Su to talk. No matter how late it was, she was always happy to hear from me. She’d spend hours with me on the phone, helping me pass the time until I could fall asleep for a little bit. Now that I’m a teenager, I sleep less than ever. Until lately, one or two hours seemed to be all I needed. But Aunt Su was always there to help me get through the nights. Then she died, and everything about my life flipped upside down. Nobody else knows this, but in the nine days since she’s been gone the sickest thing has happened. I haven’t been able to sleep at all. Seriously, like not even a minute. And the really weird part is that I’m not even tired. How whacked is that?

  Beside me, Mom sighs loudly, crosses her legs, and starts drumming the other toe against the floor. She’s getting more wound up with every second Dad makes us wait. Poor guy is going to get slapped with such a bitch-face when he finally gets here. Have I mentioned that my mother is a major control freak? Always has been. And it’s getting worse lately. Yeah, it’s so bad, she can’t even give up control long enough to follow a cookbook recipe. I’ve actually seen her get angry at a box of cake mix for trying to tell her what to do.

  S’truth.

  If people were fonts, my mother would be CASTELLAR. Stiff, standing-to-attention, all-caps. A font to be reckoned with. She really doesn’t cope well with people who don’t follow the rules (which, I’m sure, is the main reason why she never got along with Aunt Su). So, imagine her reaction if she knew that my body’s decided to stop sleeping altogether. She’d completely and totally freak out. Which is exactly why I haven’t said anything about this to either of my parents. Coping on my own is just better. Believe you me.

  Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. I whirl around in my seat to see Dad’s smiling face poking into the room. “Hey. Sorry I’m late. Did I miss anything?”

  Mom’s hands clench the armrests of her chair so hard, her knuckles turn white. “For God’s sake, Ro, just come in and sit down,” she hisses.

  With a rush of warm air, Dad plops himself down in the empty seat beside me, smelling faintly of the large coffee and chocolate doughnut I know he must have eaten for lunch on the way over. Crumbs on his chin and stains on his shirt always reveal the complete menu selections of his last meal. Along with, of course, the layer of permanent Tabasco sauce drips on his tie. Dad always brings a little bottle of that spicy stuff to every meal, and he dribbles it on everything he eats. He’s half Sri Lankan, which means he loves spicy things. Why he chose my mother, I’ll never understand. Yet another good example of how my parents were so totally and completely mismatched from the get-go.

  I cover Dad’s hand with mine to let him know I’m not mad at him for being late. But I won’t be able to save him from Mom’s temper — he’ll have to deal with that on his own. Right now she’s glowering at him over my head. I can practically feel the buzz of irritation radiating off her skin.

  “Look what the cat dragged in,” she says, her voice like sandpaper.

  He winks at her and smiles in reply, incredibly unfazed by her ferocious inner beast. I slouch down in my seat and pray for the lawyer to get this thing started. Almost like he can read my mind, Mr. Duffy folds his stubby, manicured fingers in into a neat little ball and nods at us.

  “Okay, thank you all for coming. We’re here today to settle the estate of Susan Marie Chase. It’s quite a simple, straightforward document and won’t take very long to review.”

  Mom holds up a hot-pink manicured finger. “Beet It” is her signature nail polish colour — she’s worn it every day since the beginning of time. We should have bought stock. “Excuse me, Mr. Duffy, but if the document is so straightforward, why are we here?” she asks. “Couldn’t you just have mailed copies out to us?”

  Mr. Duffy clears his throat, his voice rising up high into a funny little squeak. “Yes, well, normally I don’t invite an audience to this kind of thing. But, as you know, your sister had, I guess you could politely call it, a ‘flair for the dramatic.’ She specifically asked that I conduct a personal will reading. And in this case, it’s not a bad idea. I’m anticipating that there might be some … concerns.” He shuffles the papers in front of him. I can tell he’s avoiding Mom’s gaze. “Before we get started, are there any questions?”

  Dad waves a meaty hand in the air, just like an oversized schoolkid. “Sorry Mr. Duffy, but are we it? Isn’t there anybody else coming to this thing?”

  The lawyer shakes his head. “No one else has been invited. You three are the only people whose presence is required at the meeting here today. Any other questions?”

  Three heads shake simultaneously.

  “Fine. Shall we begin, then?”

  Without even waiting for our answer, he pops on a pair of large, black-rimmed glasses, picks up the sheet of paper at the top of the pile, and begins reading aloud.

  “This document was last updated in June of this year and states: ‘I, Susan Marie Chase being of sound mind …’”

  Mr. Duffy looks up from the paper and peers at us over the rims of his glasses. “Forgive me, but my client has explicitly instructed me to insert the words ‘har-har’ at this point in the document.”

  I can practically hear the scream Mom is forcing herself to hold back. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dad’s shoulders quake as he clamps a hand over his mouth to hide the laughter. With a slight shake of his head, Mr. Duffy continues.

  “‘… do hereby declare this instrument to be my last will and testament. I hereby revoke all previous wills and codicils. Now let’s get on with it. To my sister, Lisa MacArthur, I hereby bequeath a long-overdue sense of humour and the everlasting hope that she will finally lighten up and begin to allow space for some joy into her rigid world.’”

  I suck in a nervous breath. Glancing over at Mom, I see that her face is turning a disturbingly deep shade of red. Bullets shoot out of her blue eyes and fly across the room at the lawyer’s head. Mr. Duffy ducks slightly and keeps
reading Aunt Su’s crazy will (even though the expression on his face makes it seem like a giant pin is sticking into his butt).

  “‘To my brother-in-law, Roshan MacArthur, I hereby bequeath a cheque for ten thousand dollars to be donated to his charity and an eternity of gratitude for raising the world’s most wonderful kid.’”

  Dad takes my hand and gives it a proud squeeze while Mr. Duffy pauses to adjust his glasses.

  “‘And finally,’” he continues, “‘I do hereby bequeath the remainder of my assets and worldly possessions to my niece, Lily MacArthur, along with the task of caring for and disposing of my remains. I appoint her father, Roshan MacArthur, to act as the executor of this will, to serve without bond. I herewith affix my signature to this will on this the twenty-ninth day of June, et cetera, et cetera.’”

  And with that, Mr. Duffy drops the paper back onto the desk, closes his eyes, and pats down the increasingly shiny sides of his naked pink head.

  Bequeath. Funny word. It sounds like a lispy Shakespearian curse. A bequeathing pestilence upon thee!

  For a few seconds it’s so quiet in that room, I can hear the air from the ceiling fan swirling around my ears. Um, okay, is that it?

  “So does that mean what I think it means?” I finally manage to say, glancing over at my mother for an explanation. She doesn’t notice me because her eyes are cemented to Mr. Duffy’s pinched face.

  “Excuse me, are you saying that, except for ten thousand dollars, the entirety of the estate goes to Lily?” Her words are heavy and thick, like a slab of solid granite.

  “Yes, that’s what the document says,” he says, pointing at the paper. “It’s really quite clear. Indisputable, actually. Here, have a look.”

  Mom grabs the paper from him and slides her eyes down the page. “But this makes no sense. She’s only a child. What on earth will she do with it?”

  Mr. Duffy pulls off his glasses and places them carefully down onto his desk.

  “Mrs. MacArthur, I assure you that the appropriate provisions have been put in place. The assets are to be held in trust until your daughter reaches the age of majority.”