Authors: Parker Blue
The sun slipped beneath the veranda's overhanging roof. I held the pendant to the light and gasped as sunlight sparkled and danced on its opalescent surface. “It's beautiful,” I said. “What do you call it?"
"A moonstone,” Kizzy said. “It was my mother's. Her name was Magda.” She leaned forward and looked deep into my eyes. “What do you see when you look at this house? When you see the way I live?"
Whoa, was there a right answer here? I loved Kizzy for the good person she was. But I was pretty sure her question wasn't about that. I remembered my mother saying, “Look at that house! She has people to drive her around, cook for her, clean for her. Where do you get dough like that?"
"Well,” I said, clearing my throat and looking away. “You seem to be pretty rich."
"Exactly!” Kizzy's eyes filled with tears. She dug around in the pocket of her dress and pulled out a tissue. She dabbed at her eyes. “But my mother was the saddest person I've ever known. She said it was because of the moonstone."
I dropped it like it was a burning ember. “Why?"
Kizzy shrugged. “She claimed she was being punished for misusing its power."
Oh great, I thought, looking at the pendant. More magic B.S.
"She wanted more children, but my father died when I was four. It was just the two of us in that big house in Seattle, surrounded by riches my mother could not enjoy."
"How did she misuse the moonstone?"
"She said she'd done something shameful, that she'd been greedy. She blamed herself for my father's death. Somehow, in her mind, it was all connected. The moonstone, the money, her loneliness."
"That's all she told you?"
Kizzy nodded. “I didn't know about the moonstone until Mother was dying. She told me to keep it safe until I met the right person."
"But what about your daughter? What about Carmel?"
Kizzy and her husband had adopted Carmel as a baby. The only thing she'd told me was she and her daughter weren't close and that Carmel hung out with a rough crowd. Kizzy always rolled her eyes and murmured, “Bad blood,” when I mentioned her daughter. Today was no exception.
"Not Carmel,” she said firmly. “She's not the right person."
"Right person for what?"
"Someone with the Gift. Someone pure of heart who would use it for good, not evil."
"Oh,” I said. “Somebody like you."
Kizzy took my hand. “No, my dear. I don't have the Gift.” She looked at my palm, traced the arc that circled what Kizzy called “the lunar mound,” and ended below my little finger. “Mother had a line exactly like this, but you have something she didn't."
I rolled my eyes. Not this again. “Yeah, right,” I mumbled and tried to pull my hand away.
Kizzy tightened her grip and pointed at a tiny constellation of whorls and hatch marks in the center of my lunar mound. “Look,” she said. “A perfect star."
I jerked my hand away. “Everybody has that."
"No."
Kizzy showed me her palm. No star. No line. I shook my head in denial, suddenly uncomfortable with the whole spooky business.
Kizzy slipped the moonstone pendant from around her neck. Once again, she took my hand and turned it palm up. I knew what was coming and felt powerless to stop it. I watched, hardly daring to breathe. She dropped the moonstone onto my palm, the glistening silver chain pooling around it. She gently closed my fingers.