To See the Moon Again (16 page)

At Pamela's insistence, the route for the trip had been slightly modified. Julia had planned all along that she and Carmen would rent a car and drive since her Buick got poor gas mileage. Before beginning their tour of authors' homes, they would stop for a day of sightseeing in four cities: D.C., Philadelphia, New York, and Boston. They would end the authors' tour in Hartford, Connecticut, and from there would fly home. By then, Julia figured, even Carmen would be tired of driving.

The change was only on the front end of the trip. Now they were leaving South Carolina a day earlier than originally planned so they could stop by Pamela's house in Twin Lakes, Virginia. “It's no fair that you get her all to yourself,” Pamela had told Julia more than once in recent weeks. “She's my niece, too, you know.”

This from the same person who only months earlier had said things like “Just tell her she
has
to leave,” who predicted disaster when Julia told her the girl was staying, who threatened to drive down from Twin Lakes to give Julia a lesson in “how to say no,” and who told Julia to lock up her jewelry, her good silver, and anything else portable that could be pawned for cash. Also the same person who said, “All right, have it your way, I wash my hands of all responsibility”—her last words before all communication ceased.

But only for two weeks. One afternoon in early August, Pamela's dark green van had pulled into the circular drive of the stone house. Julia's only surprise when she looked out the kitchen window and saw who was ringing the doorbell was that her sister had held off so long. “Where is she?” Pamela had demanded as soon as Julia opened the front door. “Have you gotten rid of her yet?” Her eyes scanned the living room, as if checking for missing art objects and other valuables.

This from the same person who a few days later left great wet blots of tears on Carmen's T-shirt as she said good-bye and climbed into her van to return home, who over the following weeks asked to speak with Carmen at the end of every phone call, or sometimes at the beginning, who repeatedly begged her to come visit “Aunt Pam and Uncle Butch in Virginia.”

•   •   •

J
ULIA
turned away from the window and went back to her bedroom to get dressed. The next time she looked out, Carmen was standing up, her hat on her head, dragging the hose back toward the front of the house. When Julia went to the kitchen for coffee, she watched Carmen rewind the hose. When she finished, she shook her head vigorously so that the fishing lures danced. Julia wished she wouldn't do that. Though she had snipped all the barbs off, the hooks were still sharp.

Suddenly the girl looked up at the sky, then turned and headed down the driveway toward the street, moving quickly as if late for an appointment, still wearing the hat. Now that Julia thought about it, the hat could be a sign that the girl's spirits were lifting, for she usually didn't wear anything playful on her sad days.

All at once something fell into place in Julia's mind. This wasn't the first time she had seen Carmen leave the house this way, walking with the same sense of purpose instead of her usual moderate pace. No sooner had this thought come to her than the probability of a pattern presented itself: She was quite sure the time of day was always the same—late morning. And the direction—on these days, wasn't it true that the girl always turned left at the end of the driveway instead of right as she most often did?

Not a second later Carmen came to the street and turned left. She soon disappeared from sight, still walking swiftly, as if on a mission. This meant she probably wasn't headed to the college since this way would take her twice as long. Julia thought through the possibilities. The streets to the west were mostly residential, some of the homes rundown. Tucked among them stood the old Presbyterian church on a big corner lot and a smaller Baptist one two blocks away. Neither of these was the one Carmen had chosen as her church, though. That one was on the east side of town and much smaller. Beyond the Baptist church were the elementary school, a set of apartments, and a feeble attempt at a shopping strip—a Laundromat, a convenience store, and a doughnut shop. After that the town gave up and turned into open fields and scrubby stands of pine and poplar, with a few farmhouses and barns scattered here and there along the old highway.

So where was Carmen going? Julia tried to remember how long these westward excursions had lasted in the past and how the girl had behaved upon returning home. And how many there had been. It was hard to believe she hadn't noticed the pattern before, for she was always curious about the girl's comings and goings, though she tried to give the impression she wasn't. She liked to think that this was one reason they were so compatible—they allowed each other space, respected each other's privacy.

And often enough there was no cause to wonder, for Carmen sometimes spoke openly of where she was going or where she had been—to the college campus, to the public library, to a park, a church, a store, a neighbor's house. So why was she sneaking away now? Well, maybe not sneaking. Maybe there was some simple explanation. Maybe she was doing yard work or odd jobs for someone in that direction. If so, that might be cause for secrecy since Julia had told her more than once that it would be safer to work only at houses at this end of Ivy Dale.

Throughout her life, Julia's brand of worry had never been the teapot variety—starting slow, heating gradually, steadily, before a brief boil, then a quick cooldown. It had always been more like a natural disaster—an earthquake, a volcanic eruption, a tornado. Her worry exploded now. What if Carmen had once again trusted unwisely and gotten herself into another dangerous situation?

She was in the Buick within minutes. Her heart pounded as she drove down Ivy Dale, all sorts of disturbing scenarios running through her mind. If she saw the girl on the sidewalk—and she couldn't bear the thought of
not
seeing her—she would pull over and watch from a distance, then creep along to see where she went. And if she saw her go into a . . . but suddenly her plotting ceased, for she saw her. Not from behind, however. Carmen was coming directly toward her, apparently already returning from wherever she had gone, or having changed her mind about going.

Well, this was awkward. There would be little chance of avoiding her notice, though Julia held out hope at first. Carmen was walking more slowly now, looking up into the trees, her lips moving as if talking to herself, one hand sweeping back and forth. Oh, so that was it—only another of her prayer walks.

But then, just when Julia was almost past, Carmen glanced toward the street and saw the Buick. She stopped and made binoculars out of her hands, peered through them, and then cheerfully waved. There was nothing for Julia to do but stop and roll down her window. “I had a sudden craving,” she said. “I'm going to the doughnut shop. Do you want one, too?”

“Well, okay, I guess so,” Carmen said, more polite than eager, for she rarely ate sweets. She got into the car, humming something. As they passed the Presbyterian preschool, a line of children was leaving the play area, heading toward a side door. One little boy lagged behind, leaping about and slashing the air with a stick he was carrying. A woman came from the front of the line and took the stick away, then held his hand and walked with him.

Julia pulled over to the side of the street and applied the brakes. “I don't want a doughnut,” she said, looking straight ahead. “I just made that up. I was out looking for you.” She sighed. “I got worried and let my imagination get carried away.”

Carmen let out a low whistle. “Seriously? It's been forever since anybody worried about me. Lulu used to when I was little. And Daddy did, too, but he didn't wring his hands and fuss out loud like Lulu did.” She tapped a finger on the dashboard. “Daddy used to call me Bob—did I ever tell you that? My middle name is Roberta.”

Julia made herself look at Carmen. “Well, Bob, I should have told you the truth to start with. I shouldn't . . . equivocate.”
Lie
was a hard word to say. “It's a bad habit I have, and I don't want to do it anymore. I don't even like doughnuts, really.”

“Me neither.” Carmen held her gaze for a moment, then jiggled her head to make the fishing lures shake. “I could make you a hat like this. Want me to?”

Julia smiled. “Thanks, but I'll pass.” She took her foot off the brake, and the Buick rolled forward a few inches.

Carmen put a hand on her arm. “Wait, Aunt Julia. Can I ask you a question?”

Julia felt a prickle of dread, but she stopped the car and put it in park. “Well, sure.” She rolled down both of the front windows and turned off the engine, for she knew Carmen's questions were usually plural, not singular.

•   •   •

C
ARMEN
looked over at the church. All the children were inside now. She took off her fishing hat and set it on the seat between them. “Sitting in front of the Westside Presbyterian Church,” she said to Julia, “Carmen asked her aunt a probing question.” She turned back to Julia and gave a nervous laugh. “Do you ever have this funny feeling like you're not really
here
?” She pointed both index fingers down. “I'm not just talking about here in this car, but just wherever you happen to be. Like this person”—she lifted both hands and stared at them—“isn't really
you
? And all this stuff around you”—she touched the door handle, motioned outside toward the sidewalk, the treetops and church steeple—“is just in a
picture
or something?”

“Is this your probing question?” Julia asked. She was suddenly struck with the oddest sensation that what Carmen had just put into words was indeed something she had felt before, many times.

Carmen made a face. “Sitting in front of Westside Presbyterian Church,” she said again, “Carmen started stalling with other questions because she was halfway afraid to ask her aunt Julia the
real
question.”

Julia raised her eyebrows. “And Aunt Julia said to Carmen, ‘Afraid of what? Not of me, I hope. Please tell me you're not afraid of
me
.' After which Aunt Julia waited for Carmen to answer.”

Carmen smiled but didn't reply immediately. She looked at the church again. The side door opened, and another line of children appeared. These looked even younger than the other group. They were holding on to a rope as they slowly made their way down the long sidewalk to the playground. One of them tripped and fell, and the child on either side went down, too—a modified domino effect.

“There they are,” Carmen said. “They're late coming out today. I thought I'd missed them.” She watched for a moment, then turned back to Julia and took a deep breath. “No, not afraid of you—I just don't want to upset you. You might think I'm being nosy.” She laughed. “Well, I guess I am.”

“Go ahead and ask your question,” Julia said. “I need to get home before sundown.”

The line of rope-holders had come to a halt now, and a woman rushed forward to help the three children to their feet, one of whom was crying. Another woman, a large one wearing a polka-dot smock, was standing at the front of the line, holding the end of the rope, her other hand raised like a policeman stopping traffic. Near the back of the line, a little girl in denim dungarees let go of the rope and plopped down on the sidewalk.

Julia looked away and fixed her eyes on the steering wheel. Suddenly she wished she could retract her last words and replace them with
Well, then, let's don't go there. Just save that question for another time.
She should have turned on the radio, then gunned the engine and headed straight home. But, no, she had chosen this time to be warm and inviting, even teasing, parking the car as if she had all the time in the world.
Go ahead and ask your question
, she had said. And now Carmen had shifted in her seat to face her, and there was no way to stop whatever was coming.

“Did you ever . . .” The girl cleared her throat longer than could possibly be necessary. “. . . did you ever wish you had . . . a child of your own?”

Of course. It was inevitable. There had been a few close calls before, timid advances toward the subject, but Julia had always held them off by diversionary tactics and Carmen had always retreated. But now this. And Julia had no one but herself to blame. She had set the whole thing in motion. She was the one who had panicked, had flown out of the house to track Carmen down, had tried to cover up with a falsehood. She was the one who had pulled over in front of a church—a church with a daycare, of course—and proceeded to deliver a principled little confession about telling the truth and not pretending anymore, and then, for good measure, had pressed Carmen to
ask her question
.

She stared hard at her hands in her lap, thinking how wonderful it would be if she really wasn't the person attached to them, if the Buick and the church and the children were only things in a picture. But she was here, and a question had been asked. Truth seemed to be the only choice.

“Yes, there was a time when I did wish that,” she said, knowing that her answer, instead of closing doors, would throw them wide open. “But many years ago I . . . did something. I forfeited my right to motherhood.”

•   •   •

N
EITHER
of them spoke for a long moment, though there were other sounds: the children's voices at play like the twittering of birds, the rhythmic swish of a broom as a woman swept her front steps across the street, the barking of a dog farther away, the throb of a small-engine airplane overhead.

At length Julia turned to look at Carmen. “It was all a very long time ago.” She looked down at Carmen's fishing hat on the seat and touched the brim. “Nothing to be done about it now. It was my fault, but I didn't mean for it to happen. I could have easily prevented it, but . . . well, I didn't. I'll tell you about it if you want me to.” She started the car. “At home, though. Not here.”