To See the Moon Again (34 page)

Though it was one of the girl's favorite questions, Julia felt a sudden surge of hope. Maybe this was the day they had been waiting for. For weeks now Carmen had been checking online several times a day to see if her GED scores were posted yet. She had even found a phone number and called to ask about them. Evidently she wasn't the only one who had called, for there was a recorded message: They were “experiencing a delay” in reporting all test results, due to the high volume of spring test-takers and a programming error in the electronic grading equipment, which necessitated rechecking. The voice apologized for the “inconvenience” and said tests were being regraded in the order taken.

So maybe today was the day. Maybe while Julia had been out buying groceries, Carmen had found her scores online, and now she was about to break the news that she had passed, maybe even with honors.

•   •   •

J
ULIA
took some cans of soup out of a bag and tried to act calm as she said, “What?”

“There's a new color of iris that just opened up,” Carmen said. “It's the color of cherry cola, and it's all frilly. It's right under your bedroom window. Did you see it?”

As a matter of fact, Julia had seen it. She hadn't put a name to the color, but cherry cola was as close as anything she could think of. She nodded. “Gil said he's going to pull up all the irises and separate them after they've finished blooming. He says they're too crowded.” She took several more items out of the bags.

Carmen ran a little more water into the glass and drank it down. “Yep, I'm going to help him. We're tagging the stems so we'll know what color the bulbs are. Guess what else?”

“What?”

She pointed to the colored tiles of the backsplash above the sink. “I finally figured out the pattern. I don't know why it took me so long. See, if there was another row going down over here on this side, it would start with white, then gray, then blue, then white, then red. See? And on the other side, it would be blue, gray, yellow, white, red. That's because every fifth tile going across is gray and every third is white and in between . . .”

“Okay, I'll take your word for it,” Julia said.

“Oh, and you know the thousand longest rivers in the world?” Carmen said.

Julia looked at her, puzzled.

“Remember—that big tapestry thing we saw in the art museum in New York?” Carmen said. “By Somebody Boetti.”

Oh, that.
The Thousand Longest Rivers in the World.
Julia tried not to sound disappointed. “What about it?”

“Well, guess what I found out?” Carmen said. “Turns out Mr. Boetti hired
women
in Afghanistan to embroider the names. Just as we suspected.”

“Imagine that,” Julia said.

“And guess what else?” Carmen said.

“What?” Julia knew this could go on indefinitely if Carmen had been on the computer this morning. Now that she had finished retyping all of Julia's class notes, she was exploring the web just for fun. She loved the way she could find answers for the most trivial questions.

“I also Googled lily of the valley,” Carmen said, “and you know what? It said it's poisonous if ingested but it's also used as a folk remedy in small amounts. For things like ulcers and earache and fevers. Isn't that weird? And it's a symbol of humility. Oh, and guess what else? I Googled that woman's name—the one who gives the news on NPR at noon. You know we were talking about how to spell it the other day? Well, it's L-a-k-s-h-m-i S-i-n-g-h. So we both missed it, but you were closer. It showed a picture of her, too. She's pretty. Oh, and she's not Indian or Pakistani. Her parents were from Puerto Rico and Trinidad.
Lak-shmi Singh
.” Carmen said the name clearly, slowly, savoring each syllable. “I wonder if Lakshmi is a common name where she grew up. Maybe it's like Mary in the U.S.”

“Why don't you Google ‘common girls' names in Puerto Rico and Trinidad' and find out?” Julia said. She stuffed the empty plastic bags into the pantry with the others.

Carmen laughed. “Maybe I will. Oh, and that house next to Dr. Boyer's is listed for a hundred fifty-nine thousand, and . . .”

Julia laughed and held up a hand. “Save the rest for when I get back, okay? The car's still running out front. I shouldn't be gone long.” She headed out of the kitchen.

“Okay,” Carmen called after her, “I'll wait till you get home to tell you about my GED scores.”

Julia came back to the doorway. “You'd better not be teasing.”

Carmen held the glass up to the light and studied it. “No, I'm serious. I'll tell you when you get home. You know, I thought there was a crack in this glass, but I believe it's just part of the swirly pattern. Cool.”

Julia pointed in the direction of the front door. “Go. Now. Turn the car off. I'll wait right here.” She sat down at the kitchen table.

“Are you feeling sick?” Carmen said. “Why don't you lie down and let me run your errand for you?” She laughed. “Stay right here. I'll be back in two seconds.”

A perfect score on the GED was 4000 points. To pass with honors, you had to score 3200 points or higher. Carmen's score was 3940. Science was the only part of the test she hadn't aced. She thought she might have missed a question about the effect of temperature on solubility and maybe one about carbon dating, but that one wasn't really fair, she said, because its premise was that evolution was true. “You can retake any section to try to do better,” she said, “but I guess I won't.”

So this, thought Julia, is how parents feel when their children excel—the initial “I must be dreaming,” quickly countered by “No, it's true, she really did it,” back and forth many times, until in the end it wasn't blood pumping through your veins, but pure euphoria. It was a joy that couldn't be contained. If you didn't talk about it, you would explode. Already Julia was making her list: Pamela and Butch, Luna, Marcy, Sheila and Hope, Colleen, Dr. Boyer. She would tell them first.

And children, no dummies when it came to handling grown-ups, could get a lot of mileage out of a single achievement. They could ask for anything in the following days and get it. Which could have been why Carmen asked Julia to go to church with her the next day. For sure it was why she got a different answer than the one Julia had given all the other times.

S
INKING
D
OWN

Pulling into the church parking lot the next morning, Julia wondered again whether Carmen realized today was Mother's Day. They hadn't talked about it, but it was the kind of event that would be hard to miss with all the commercial hoopla surrounding it. She wondered if it would be a hard day for the girl, another reminder that she was a mother but had no child to show for it.

It wasn't a day Julia had ever celebrated, certainly not on the receiving end and only rarely on the giving end in the form of a few cards sent to her mother. Never the sentimental kind of card, though, and never any personal note beyond a generic “Happy Mother's Day” and her name. Pamela had always done much better. Flowers and gifts, always planned so as to arrive in plenty of time, followed up by a phone call on the actual day, all of which she talked about at length in the weeks and days before, with the obvious intention of spurring Julia to similar outpourings of gratitude.

If she had given more thought to it, Julia might have made an excuse for today and promised instead to go with Carmen the following week. But it was too late for
ifs
since they were now walking to the front door of the church. She could only hope that Pastor Chris wasn't the type to make a big deal out of Mother's Day, a hope that was dashed as soon as they stepped inside, where two ushers were presenting a long-stemmed rose to each woman with a smile and a greeting: “Happy Mother's Day! We're giving these to all the ladies today.”

Julia took hers mutely—a salmon pink, tinged with yellow—and followed Carmen to a seat near the front. She was already wishing the morning away. The only thing she wanted to hear was Carmen's solo.

But there was much to be endured both before and after that. Songs and announcements, a choir number and responsive scripture, in which one of the lines read by the congregation was
that our daughters may be like cornerstones adorning a palace
.

Then a prayer, and offering plates were passed as the organist grappled with a piece that was beyond her ability. Another prayer, this one longer, and, finally, Carmen's solo. No theatrics, no microphone, just Carmen's voice and the guitar. She sat on a stool on the platform. The sanctuary was small, and her voice filled it. She was wearing a skirt as she did some Sundays—not her necktie skirt this time, but a green print, gypsy-style, long and flowing—and a white peasant blouse with a braided belt, all from Julia's closet of castoffs.

Julia wondered if everyone else was as disappointed as she was when the three stanzas were over. She wished she could leave now, but Carmen returned to sit by her and Pastor Chris stood up for his part.

Julia had never wondered how students could sit in her classes and hear so little of what she said, judging from their performance on papers and tests, for she knew from experience what flights her own mind was capable of taking. And so it was today. Instead of listening to the preacher, she kept replaying Carmen's solo.
What wondrous love is this, O my soul . . . When I was sinking down, sinking down . . . And when from death I'm free, I'll sing on . . .
She kept seeing the girl on the platform, sometimes bending her head to her guitar, sometimes lifting it to look out at the people.

And the happy news of the previous day—Julia relived that, too. A score of 3940 out of 4000—intelligence as well as beauty and musicality! And inevitably she found her mind wandering to the future. Carmen could enroll as a student at Millard-Temple for the fall, perhaps take one of Julia's writing classes at some point. There might be a scholarship of some kind for her high GED score. And perhaps Julia could put together a case to present to the financial committee so that Carmen might be considered a “faculty child” and therefore qualify for a tuition discount. She would write out a proposal first, then ask her dean to set up a meeting with the committee to discuss the matter. She even composed the opening few sentences.
For twenty-seven years I have taught full time at Millard-Temple . . .

And then she was suddenly aware that the pastor must be concluding his sermon. Class was almost over, the bell was about to ring, and if she were to be given a quiz on today's lecture, she knew she would surely fail, for she had heard only isolated snatches, along with some communal laughter. Now he was wrapping things up with a prayer that God would raise up from among their midst “women of honor.” He repeated the phrase several times, enough so that she knew his sermon must have been at least loosely related to the occasion of Mother's Day.

The prayer was still going when Julia felt a slight rustling beside her. She looked over to see Carmen wiping her eyes. Clearly, she had been listening. Julia was suddenly and deeply ashamed for her self-focus. What a host of sad thoughts must have been aroused in the girl by a sermon about mothers. What a sinking-down feeling.

•   •   •

I
F
Julia had thought that Carmen's quiet, brooding spells were a thing of the past, she was wrong. But what a time for melancholy—right on the heels of an academic triumph, just when they needed to be making plans for the months to come. Evidently word of her GED score had already been issued from some official source, for a reporter from the newspaper called the next day to talk to her about doing an article and coming by to take her picture. She told him to call back in a week or so.

Two days passed as the girl came and went, aloof and morose. She went for long walks, disappeared to her room early in the evening, played and sang only a few songs over and over, an odd rotation. “Rock of Ages,” “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore,” “He's Got the Whole World in His Hands.” At supper she tried to put on a smile when she joined Julia at the kitchen table. They talked—about the gardenias budding, a neighbor's new fence, an accident on I-85, the price of gasoline. A few times they resorted to talking about the weather.

There was nothing to be done except wait it out. Whatever the cause, it had to be linked to the sermon on Sunday, the sermon Julia hadn't heard. She wouldn't think of asking the girl outright:
What's wrong? What's on your mind?
She knew, of course, that it ultimately related to Lizzy. And what was there to say about that?

On the morning of the third day it occurred to Julia that she could attack one last pocket of disorder at the stone house—the attic. She lowered the folding steps in the hallway and climbed up. There was a light with a pull chain, so she turned it on and looked around. Standing on the top step, she felt something almost like disappointment. As attics went, hers was probably less disorderly than most, certainly less so than she remembered.

Only seven boxes were stacked along one side. On the other side were several old suitcases, coated with dust, a large ice chest, and a lumpy stack of door wreaths wrapped in plastic garbage bags. Ah, yes, Julia remembered a time in her life when she used to change the wreath on the front door with every season. And next to the wreaths were the bins of Christmas decorations. Lying beside them was the artificial tree, each section neatly wrapped inside a plastic dry cleaning bag.

It suddenly struck her why things looked tidier than she had expected. Carmen had been up here before and after Christmas. She had gone through the boxes of decorations, had brought the tree down, taken it back up, and obviously done some reorganizing while she was at it. Julia looked back at the stack of boxes. The word
BOOKS
was scrawled on the side of one, but she knew such labels were never to be trusted when it came to attics. She made her way over to investigate. She could sort through whatever was inside them, probably discard most of it.

As she knelt to open the first one, she couldn't help thinking of all the “attic epiphanies” her students had written in their stories over the years. The main character goes to the attic to get something, only to stumble across something else that conveniently solves a mystery or helps him put his shattered life back together.
You're forcing a resolution.
Julia had written it on so many stories that she had considered having a rubber stamp made to save herself time and effort.

•   •   •

B
EFORE
long she was sitting down, surrounded by scores of useless things. There was something dispiriting about handling them all. What had ever possessed her to keep an old rolling pin? A shoeshine kit with ancient tins of hardened wax and smudged rags stuffed inside? Matthew's old fondue pot from his bachelor days? A framed needlepoint of a kitten?

She went through five of the boxes, consolidating into a single box the few things she wanted to keep and shoving the others over toward the steps. She opened the sixth box, the one labeled
BOOKS
, and saw that it did indeed contain some books and quite a few magazines. Whose idea had it been, she wondered, to store
books
in the attic? She pulled one out and saw that the years had done to it exactly what would be expected in such a humid climate. Several she recognized as Matthew's, some as hers, but none were of any value or interest. The same with the magazines, no doubt. She picked up a few and looked through them.

If someone had asked her before today where the magazines containing her two published stories were, she would have thought about it briefly before admitting, “I don't know.” Never would she have guessed they were in a box labeled
BOOKS
in the attic, but here they were. Two different issues, a year apart, of a magazine titled
Green River
. She opened one of them and found the story by “J. Frederickson Rich.” Jeremiah's story. She stared at the picture some artist had deemed an appropriate illustration—the top of a tall rundown apartment building with articles of clothing hanging on balcony rails and heavy rain falling at a slant.

Well, so much for epiphanies. None here. No mysteries unraveled, no broken pieces of life put back together, no resolution of anything. Only a reminder that no amount of time or remorse could wipe away sullied honor.

“Aunt Julia?”

The sound made her jump. She looked up to see Carmen standing at the top of the ladder.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you,” the girl said. She climbed up into the attic and sat down facing Julia. “Can we talk?”

Julia's eyes fluttered down to the magazines in her lap, then back to Carmen's face. “Sure,” she said. “This can wait. I was just going through these boxes.” She tried to be nonchalant as she laid her hands over the magazines.

“I need to go to Wyoming,” Carmen said.

It took Julia a moment to find her voice. “Wyoming?” she said. “When? Why?”

Carmen took the questions in order. “Yes, Wyoming. Right away. Among other things, to honor my mother.” She must have read confusion in Julia's eyes. “You know, Pastor Chris's sermon on Sunday—he was preaching directly to me.” She paused, then tried again. “What he said about how a woman who wants to honor God always honors the woman who gave her life—you know?”

“Oh, right,” Julia said.

“But when he said it's never too late to make things right,” Carmen continued, “I felt like standing up and saying, ‘Uh, excuse me, what if your mother is
dead
? Isn't it a little too late then?'” She stopped again as if hoping for a reaction, at least a flicker of agreement, perhaps wondering if the same kinds of thoughts had crossed Julia's mind. She went on. “But then it was like I had asked my question out loud because remember the next thing he said?”

No, Julia didn't remember the next thing he said, and she didn't want to be told, but she knew she was about to be anyway. She felt a wave of dread, for she knew now where this was heading, especially since the thesis had already been stated:
I need to go to Wyoming.

Carmen was evidently picking up on the fact that Julia hadn't heard much of the pastor's sermon, for she started summarizing. “He said if your mother's dead, maybe there's someone else back home you need to make things right with, which might mean making a trip. A
literal
trip. Life is too short, he said, to carry grudges around in your heart. Spiritual freedom always requires forgiveness. He also said you might need to write out a confession or apology and read it out loud at her grave.”

Julia raised her eyebrows but said nothing. Maybe Carmen was testing her, throwing in something preposterous to see if she would take issue. Surely the preacher hadn't really suggested a graveside speech, but if he had, maybe that was good. Surely Carmen could see the absurdity of that. Surely that part would make the whole idea of a trip sound a little silly. Especially such a long trip.

The girl continued. “But he said you should start by asking God to forgive you for not showing her the respect she deserves. And by remembering the good things about her and being thankful for those.” Carmen looked down at her hands, closed into fists. “So I've been doing a lot of remembering. I tried for a long time to forget all the good things about Lulu because deep down I was still so angry at her.” She looked back up at Julia. “But now I feel like I owe it to . . . Lizzy to do this.” She paused and swallowed. “It didn't make sense at first—I mean, Lizzy won't ever even know me, and for sure won't ever know if I honored my mother, but I can't get away from it. I owe it to Lizzy to honor her grandmother. And to do that, I need to go to Wyoming.”