The Moon Sisters: A Novel

by Therese Walsh

  I walked to her side of the table and drew her face up with my hand on her chin. “What are you saying, Olivia Moon? What happened to believe, believe?”

  “I don’t know what I believe anymore. Why? Do you believe?”

  “I believe in you,” I said. “I also believe I just gagged from saying that, even though it’s true. Now you’d better stop with the waterworks, because as far as I can tell you don’t have windshield wipers on those things.”

  We giggled together, as my father returned with his batter and ladle.

  “I guess we can’t control life, or the people in it,” I said, settling on the bench beside her. Not how they might or might not read a letter, or what they might feel or do about it if they did. Not who might have a heart attack while holding a pan of warm brownies, or get kidnapped in a robbery gone wrong, or drop from a buttery tree thanks to a tangle of events you never could’ve foreseen. Not death, not most of the time. “But we can control ourselves—right now, in this moment. That’s something. Maybe it’s everything.”

  Olivia clasped her hands together and sniffed. A breeze blew through the branches above our heads, and sunlight flickered over the table.

  “I still see the light sometimes when I close my eyes,” Olivia told me. “When I do, I catch her scent. I think it’s her way of telling me that it’s okay to move on and that she’ll always be with us. Do you think that’s stupid?”

  She turned to look at me with her bespectacled eyes, the blue of them magnified in her glasses, her long lashes damp with sadness but prettier than ever. No glancing down to the ground. No blinking. Just one sister connecting with the other.

  “It’s not stupid,” I told her. “I think you’re right.”

  “I wonder if …”

  “What?”

  “It’s terrible to think it, but if Mama hadn’t died, I wouldn’t have met Hobbs at all. I’m so glad that I met him. I guess I’ll just have to take this waiting and wanting thing one day at a time.”

  “That’s it.” I nodded. “One foot in front of the other.”

  We sat together, watching our father burn pancakes.

  “Why am I waiting for him to call me?” Olivia said, already out of her seat. “I can call information today, right now. I can track him down.”

  “Of course you can,” I said, as my imagination cracked open.

  I could stay at the funeral home or not stay. I could stay in West Virginia or not stay in West Virginia. I could follow an impulse. Me, Jazz Marie Moon. I might like that.

  “Dad?” I said, as my sister stepped into the house. I noticed that his cakes had drooled all over the pan before burning, and he was using a stick to push at the bricks, attempting to make them a more even pair, I assumed. “Would it be wrong—I mean, would you mind—?” I cleared my throat. “Would it be strange if I worked on Mom’s story?”

  He turned to me with a wondering expression on his face.

  “I sort of dreamed about it last night,” I said. “I think I might be able to work up an ending. I mean, I know I won’t be able to replicate her writing style, but maybe I can tell the story in a different way.”

  I was stammering, I realized, like an idiot. Oh, good; it had come to this.

  “I mean, would that be wrong?” I continued, seemingly unable to help myself. “Do you think she would’ve—”

  “I think she would’ve loved that,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  I smiled back at him. These minutes were mine, right now, and there were so many possibilities, I felt anxious over them. Not in a closed-casket kind of way, either, but in a when-do-we-leave kind of way. And maybe writing about everything filling my head would help me to sort it all out.

  A clatter and a hiss drew my attention back to the fire, where my father’s makeshift griddle had toppled over completely, taking his charred cakes with it.

  “Well, that’s that,” he said, adding his stick to the flames. “I give up.”

  “It was a valiant effort,” I told him.

  He crossed his arms over his chest, then turned with an eye on the roof. I hadn’t seen that look on his face in a long while.

  “You want me to go get your fiddle?” Who cared if it wasn’t even ten in the morning? Our neighbors would have to deal.

  “In a bit,” he said, as black smoke billowed behind him. “I’ve still got to feed you two, and myself. I’m starving.”

  The phone rang from inside the house. Olivia shrieked.

  “You think it’s Hobbs?” His crooked grin added, This could be interesting.

  “It might be,” I said, thought, I hope so.

  A quiet minute passed as we stared at the door, and then my father’s stomach growled.

  “Let’s go.” I nudged him in the side. “I’ll make you a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m glad for the opportunity to thank some of the many people who helped to bring this book into being.

  To my editor Christine Kopprasch, for her unfailing support, wise guidance, and kind encouragement; I am more grateful than I can express. And to Kate Kennedy, for an early and important critique that helped to shape this novel.

  To my agent, Elisabeth Weed, for her many editorial contributions, for never losing faith in this story—or in me—and for negotiating a two-book deal with Crown in the first place. You rock.

  To leading synesthesia researcher Jamie Ward, Ph.D., professor of cognitive neuroscience at the University of Sussex and author of The Frog Who Croaked Blue, and to James Sheedy, O.D., Ph.D., director of the Vision Ergonomics Research Laboratory at Pacific University, for answering questions that helped to define the mannerisms and experience of the most unique character I’ve ever imagined, Olivia Moon. And to heath-care providers Gary Dean, M.D., and Walid Hammoud, M.D., for other medical guidance.

  To Sean Day and his superb Synesthesia Listserv. Thank you for letting me snoop about, and for all of the inspiration.

  To Cindy Butler, executive director of the West Virginia Department of Transportation’s State Rail Authority, for answering questions about trains and distances, and for providing railway maps; and to both Cindy and John Smith, president of the Durbin and Green-brier Valley Railroad, for a fun ride while pointing out details that helped to make this story come alive.

  To followers of my author page on Facebook who leaped in with suggestions when I requested ideas for fictional West Virginia towns, and especially to Rebecca Bussa Saunders (Spades Hallow) and Leah Welsh Lowe (Jewel) for their appealing suggestions.

  To all of my friends, and especially my colleagues at Writer Unboxed. To Kathleen Bolton for her unfailing support, and to Jeanne Kisacky for being the first to understand what this book wanted to become. To Marilyn Brant, Keith Cronin, and Jael McHenry for thoughtful observations, suggestions, and encouragement that made an impact. Your perspectives helped to make this a better book and me a stronger author.

  To my most beloved readers—my husband, Sean; my sisters, Heather and Aimee; and especially to my daughter, Riley. Riley, your understanding of both human behavior and storytelling is insightful beyond your years, and your tolerance of your indecisive mother—“This word better, or this one?”—is truly commendable. I have no doubt that you will one day take over the world, and your brother will be there to capture it all on film. (That’s you, Liam. Go, New Hamsterdam!)

  And finally to my mothers and my fathers. Thank you for all your love and support. You can read it now. (xo)

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THERESE WALSH is the author of The Last Will of Moira Leahy and the cofounder of Writer Unboxed, an award-winning website and online writing community. She lives in upstate New York with her husband and two children. She loves haiku, photography, and tormenting her characters. She has a master’s degree in psychology.

 

 
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