Moon (Glimpsing Stars, 1.5) (2 page)

My
sister is at the washbasin, staring into her own eyes in the mirror. Neptune
and I could not have looked more unalike if we’d been birthed by two different
mothers. It is funny to me that though everyone in New Amana is some shade of
brown with dark hair and eyes, we can all look so different.

Neptune
clearly carries more North American genes in her than I do. She is tall and
thin, her skin pale, her eyes wide and dark. Her hair, more brown than black,
falls to her waist in a thick braid. I, on the other hand, am small and sturdy,
my ink black hair cut short to just under my ears. My eyes are small, like
Mother’s, closed off and clouded. My mother says I’d be a good secret-keeper;
the perfect person to work in BoTA with all of its classified information.

Neptune
sees me in the mirror and turns around, a small smile on her face. “Did she
send you to check on me? See if I was sneaking out the window to a Rad
meeting?”

My
heart pounds at the expression on her face. It is angry and shuttered. “M-mother
just wants...” I trail off, unsure how to continue. Because I know exactly what my
mother wants, and it seems Neptune does, too. What would be the point of lying?

Neptune
steps closer to me; so close her perpetual scent of fabric dye burns my nose. It
has seeped into her skin over the past year; if we cut her, she will bleed all
the colors of New Amana. “Mother wants to be sure her womb didn’t produce a
Radical. She’s obsessed with proving those who refused her entry into BoTA wrong.
She wants nothing more than to show she’s New Amana’s finest patriot, and she
doesn’t care if she has to sell her own daughter down the river to do it.”

I
shake my head, but I don’t argue. We can both see the truth clearly. Mother
thinks Neptune is the enemy. I can’t blame her, not completely. Neptune does
have ideas that go completely against what we’ve been taught, and she doesn’t
do much to hide them or her disdain for Mother. “Why don’t you just make more of
an effort?” I say quietly so Mother won’t hear me. “Show her she’s wrong about
you.”

Neptune
stares at me for a long moment and then she laughs. “I think we’re well beyond
that, don’t you? There’s nothing I can say now to convince her otherwise.” She glances
toward the doorway, and then, leaning toward me, she says in a whisper, “I’m
leaving New Amana.”

I
feel myself tremble deep inside, in the fibers of my muscle and the marrow of
my bone, though I don’t show it outwardly. I’m not sure what to say to this. If
Neptune leaves, I won’t see her ever again. And perhaps worse than that, it
will prove to people—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that she is a dissident. Why
else would one choose to leave?

But
if she stays, Mother will never stop prodding her, she will never stop examining
her behavior for signs of terrorism. With the two of them, it is as if I’m
constantly straddling a fault line, just waiting for the earthquake that will
change the terrain of my world forever.

I care
for my mother, though I know she has a kernel of something fiery and bitter
inside of her, something that tells her that she, personally, solely, is
responsible for weeding out terrorism in our midst. But I also care for my
sister, because I have never known life without her. She has always been
Neptune the grown-up, the one with the exciting life and outrageous ideas. I’ve
always marveled at her—off on her own to school and then to work at the garment
factory, with her important job of dyeing uniforms for everyone to wear. I imagine
her standing over a big vat of every color the eye can see: Violets and
crimsons and indigos mixing together, pouring out, painting the world vivid as
she stands watch.

“What...what
do you mean? Where will you go?” I swallow, hard. Thirteen is much too old to
cry.

But
she shakes her head, a small smile hovering over her lips. “Knowledge is
dangerous. Isn’t that what they say?”

We
hear Mother moving in the kitchen and Neptune stiffens. “I must go.”

“Already?”
I ask, my heart still pounding from the news she’s given me. Neptune’s leaving...for
good. When will she go? How will she get there? Doesn’t she care that she’ll
never see me or Mother again? Doesn’t she care that she’ll be disobeying the
regime, that she’ll be gassed if they catch her? But of course, I can’t risk
asking her any of those questions right now. Not with Mother in the house. So I
push those thoughts aside. They will have to wait.

I
stare at my sister. I haven’t seen her in weeks, haven’t had anything to
distract me after I come home from school. Mother and I sit in silence or
listen to the radio broadcast until the lights come on, and then we eat supper.
After that we clean up and go to bed. I lie sleepless for hours until dreams
claim me. Then I wake and we start over.

When
Neptune visits on the nights my mother works, she tells me stories of the work
she does, of the new people in her life. Now that she’s made this trip, she
won’t be back for days. She says this place feels like a prison.  The time
stretches out before me like a deep, dark tunnel—no end in sight.

“I’m
in desperate need of a cigarette and I know I can’t tell
her
that.” She
points her chin toward the wall, on the other side of which is the kitchen.

“When
will you return?”

“I
can’t be sure, Moon.” She sighs, and then, a bit awkwardly, smoothes a strand
of hair off my forehead. “It won’t be too long. All right?”

“All
right.” I try to smile and then step out of the washroom, making my way back to
the kitchen.

A
minute later, Neptune joins me. “Happy birthday, Mother. I’m off to the
factory. We’re working extended hours today.” Her face is smooth; there is no
hint of a lie there at all. If she
were
a Rad, she’d be a good one, I
realize.

My
mother doesn’t look up from her tea. “Farewell.”

Neptune
glances at me, a message in her eyes—
I’ll be back soon.
And then she’s
gone.

Mother
lifts her head slowly and turns to me when the door has shut behind Neptune. “Do
you know where she’s going?”

Heat
flashes to my face. I am not like my sister; I am not good at lying to Mother.
“Sh-she told you. She’s going to the factor—”

“Ah.”
Mother smiles. Her teeth are yellow in the morning light. “But that isn’t what
I asked, is it?”

This
is what I mean when I say I am not good at lying to her. Somehow, she always sees
through my words to the meaning buried under them. She chips away until it is
plain to see the truth. “She didn’t tell me w-where she’s going, exactly.” At
least that was the truth.

“But
she isn’t going to the factory, is she?”

I
glance down at the table, trying not to picture Neptune’s wide brown eyes as I
shake my head in answer. Perhaps if I don’t look at Mother while I do it, it
won’t be as big a betrayal. Perhaps.

There
is a harsh scraping sound, and then my mother is standing, her hand
outstretched. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“I
have a feeling you’re about to witness something important. Oh yes, indeed.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her hungry, desperate eyes. Though she is
speaking to me, it doesn’t seem like she sees me at all. Her eyes gaze past my
shoulder, out the window that overlooks the sprawling, gray city. I wonder who
she does see—is it a younger version of herself?

When
we walk outside, flecks of fallout speckle the air like a million black insects:
My lungs are being damaged irrevocably with every breath I take. The acid rain
stings as it pelts down on my skin, the sun gone behind a cover of smog and
colorless clouds. People in New Amana don’t bother using umbrellas to protect
themselves anymore. We found out quickly that any material we used only
tattered under constant assault from the acid. Now the stinging of our skin is
just one more thing we accept as our lot.

Mother
clutches my hand tightly in hers. She is pinching my fingers together, and I am
much too old for her to hold my hand, but I don’t say anything. Because across
the street, at the bus station with its cracked shelter, I see Neptune waiting.
My mother must spot her at the same time; the pressure on my hand increases.

We
stay there in the alley next to our apartment building, waiting amongst the
genetically-mutated, homeless Nukehead children until the bus has come, picked
up its passengers, and started back down the street. Then we hurry across the
street and wait in the shelter for the next bus.

The
sound of the acid rain drumming on the plastic shelter roof is incredibly loud.
Mother and I do not speak. Her eyes are on the road, anticipating the arrival
of the bus that will take us where Neptune’s going.

I
wonder what she is thinking as we wait. I wonder what she’s seeing as she looks
down the road. I wonder what I am doing, here with her. I wonder if I should
tell her no; if I should insist that we go back to our apartment. But I know
she would never listen to me. Besides, I don’t have a chance to say anything.
The next bus arrives, and we climb aboard.

There
aren’t many vehicles on the road; citizens aren’t allowed to drive personal
vehicles. I keep silent track of every starving Nukehead we pass; their limbs
like dry twigs, their stomachs bloated. Some are blind, most have grotesque
mutations—ears where mouths should be, too many fingers or not nearly enough. Today
all of them, even the blind ones, seem to be looking straight at me.

As
we travel on, civilization begins to peter out. The buildings we encounter,
hugging cracked sidewalks, have long since been abandoned. The empty windows
with their absent panes are like hungry mouths, opening wide. I hold my breath
as we drive past.

Finally,
we arrive at the checkpoint. We will soon pass into the outskirts of the city
of Ursa, and to do this, everyone on board must be accounted for. In line
directly in front of us is Neptune’s bus.

I
glance at my mother as we take our place behind it. Her hair drips acid
raindrops onto her face. She appears not to notice, her eyes trained on the bus
before us like she can see past the metal to the inside where her oldest
daughter sits nestled away. The water runs down her skin, streaking it a
virulent red. Right now, pain is nothing; discomfort does not exist. She is in
the thrill of the chase. She is almost to her prize.

“Mother.”
I have spoken without meaning to.

She
looks at me, as if she has only now remembered that I am here, and a brief
smile flashes across her face. “We’re almost there,” she mutters, patting my
knee. “Almost there, don’t you worry.” I wonder if she is speaking to me or
herself.

Our
bus is cleared shortly after Neptune’s and we swallow mile after mile, chasing
after her. Every now and then a pack of scavenging dogs, the ridges of their
ribcages undulating like mountains and valleys, dart between the spindly shrubbery,
glaring at our noisy intrusion.

Ambivalence
picks and tears at me; I want to tell Mother that Neptune is merely going to le
marché noir. On the other hand, I know Neptune is not completely innocent; I
think perhaps my mother has a point. I am losing my mind, trying to see things
from both my sister’s way and the way I have been taught to view things: with
suspicion.

We trundle
to our stop. When we disembark, I’m amazed Neptune doesn’t see us only a few
yards away from her. But she keeps her head down, walking across the street
with purpose. She disappears down a small alley that reeks of mold and urine.
Going to le marché noir, just like she’d said.

Mother
clasps my hand again, crushing it in hers. “There,” she says, her voice just a
hiss of pleasure. “There, it is as I thought. That alley leads to a Radical
meeting place.”

I
look up at her, and I see the madness gleaming in her eyes. I try to pull my
hand out of hers, but she holds on tight, refusing to let go. “That’s also the
way to le marché noir,” I say in a burst of bravado. My knees are shaking with
the effort of speaking to Mother this way. “Perhaps that’s where Neptune is
headed.”

My mother
turns her too-bright gaze on me, an unpleasant smile twisting her mouth. “Do
you dare side with a Rad instead of your mother? Shall I report
both
daughters instead of just one?” She lets go of my hand and moves her fingers to
my chin; she pinches it tight. “You’re not too young for the gas chamber.” Her
breath is vile and acrid, but I can’t turn away.

That
familiar tremble begins deep inside me. I recognize it for what it is this
time: an internal earthquake. I am on dangerous ground. I can see past the
madness, and there is no hint of an empty threat. She means it. My mother will
report me just as easily as she’d report Neptune. I try to imagine a small
chamber, noxious fumes pouring out of holes in the ground and ceiling, filling
up my lungs, incinerating them. The quaking inside me gets stronger. “N-no.
You’re right. Of course you’re right.”

“Good.”
Mother lets go of my chin and strokes my cheek gently, but the fire still
simmers in her eyes. “Then you shall be the one to report her.”

She
watches me carefully for a reaction, so I control every muscle in my face. I
make sure my expressions are locked up tight. “Yes, Mother.”

The
regime has made it nearly effortless for the common people, like me and Mother,
to report a suspected Radical. And yet, it is the most difficult thing I have
ever had to do.

Back
at the apartment, Mother points to the telephone on the corner table. We haven’t
even taken off our boots. “Let’s do our duty,” she says. I wonder if she knows
she is smiling.

I
pick up the receiver. It must weigh a thousand pounds. My hand trembles as I
bring it to my ear. I watch in disbelief as my finger pushes the button that
will engage the reporting line.