Read Online The Moon Sisters by Therese Walsh - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Therese Walsh
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it.
Alone and handicapped and without direction.
The absolute certainty of this, knowing that getting into the train would be a giant mistake, was the opposite of how I’d felt five minutes before, when I’d scrawled a message that may or may not have been legible on a napkin and left it on the table. When I’d stood with my bag in hand, and opened the door and walked through it. Just beyond the shade of the restaurant’s rooftop, I’d lifted my face. Even though the sun slipped into the dark space of my vision, I felt it on my skin and sensed Mama long enough to be sure.
I was going on alone, leaving Jazz, because doing anything else would mean failure. And despite what she thought—what she argued—this did mean something to me. Everything. I needed this trip, maybe more than I’d needed anything in my life.
The tang of something musty stirred in the air, as I followed along the brick building, trying to better my view of the tree line I’d seen inside, but still unable to make out the train. When I would’ve begun inching my way down the hill, a low hiss came from the direction of the tracks, announced to the world just where the train lay. And that it was leaving.
Now. Last chance.
I ran toward the sound, toward the tree line and the train’s cars, clearer now, through long grass and weeds that brushed against my bare legs like a thousand fairy fingers, scratched like a thousand fairy nails. One car caught my attention with its open door, but before I reached it I fell on the stones lining the track and landed hard on my forearms. They stung now, as I laid my hands inside the car’s vibrating body and realized …
I couldn’t do this. It was stupid.
Why didn’t I stay with Mama that day? We could’ve been together; I could’ve made her feel better. Dreamed her through her up-and-down and back to a better place. Taken her on a trip withwings as soft as flour, into a canyon on a summer day, or to a gurgling stream or bog full of will-o’-the-wisps. If I’d made that choice, the sun would’ve risen the next morning smelling like my mother, and with my mother in her bed instead of a morgue, instead of dark and death and grief and everyone broken.
I hadn’t made that choice.
Instead, I’d pulled my boot back on and left to meet Stan, because I wanted him to get into my knickers while I got into his. Mama died while I was getting busy with a boy who’d never meant more to me than a diversion, who’d disappeared like a puddle of rain in a hot sun after Mama died anyway, because this sort of thing was too hard. Too real.
Most everyone did that. Retreated. Jazz. Even Papa.
I didn’t want to go back to that, and if I didn’t go forward how would anything ever change? I gripped the car’s metal edge and leaned my forehead against the back of my hand as the train groaned and the hiss grew louder.
“Shit. That one!”
I froze. The male voice came from behind me. Was it the bull? Would I end up in jail now?
A dog barked.
“Run up, jump in, hurry.” A different voice.
“Hey, there’s a ladder right there. You gonna use it or—”
Hisssss. Pop .
Grung-grung-grung-clank .
“Well, help her, you asshat!” someone shouted, and I was pushed over the rusty lip and into the car—despite cries that I’d changed my mind, despite trying to propel my body back outside again.
All effort was lost as a rush of bodies piled in after me, as my head went light and a dog’s growl crystallized to my left. The world clouded over with darkness as the train bucked under my feet and we started to move. Someone corralled me into a corner and yelled, though I only caught pieces of it.
“What do you think, you—get us caught? Bull … yard … stay there … you blind?”
“I am blind,” I shouted back. And then I repeated it in a whisper—“I am blind”—as noises poured over us and creaks turned into squeals, squeals into screams, screams into a banging, trembling, thudding tumble of
Alone and handicapped and without direction.
The absolute certainty of this, knowing that getting into the train would be a giant mistake, was the opposite of how I’d felt five minutes before, when I’d scrawled a message that may or may not have been legible on a napkin and left it on the table. When I’d stood with my bag in hand, and opened the door and walked through it. Just beyond the shade of the restaurant’s rooftop, I’d lifted my face. Even though the sun slipped into the dark space of my vision, I felt it on my skin and sensed Mama long enough to be sure.
I was going on alone, leaving Jazz, because doing anything else would mean failure. And despite what she thought—what she argued—this did mean something to me. Everything. I needed this trip, maybe more than I’d needed anything in my life.
The tang of something musty stirred in the air, as I followed along the brick building, trying to better my view of the tree line I’d seen inside, but still unable to make out the train. When I would’ve begun inching my way down the hill, a low hiss came from the direction of the tracks, announced to the world just where the train lay. And that it was leaving.
Now. Last chance.
I ran toward the sound, toward the tree line and the train’s cars, clearer now, through long grass and weeds that brushed against my bare legs like a thousand fairy fingers, scratched like a thousand fairy nails. One car caught my attention with its open door, but before I reached it I fell on the stones lining the track and landed hard on my forearms. They stung now, as I laid my hands inside the car’s vibrating body and realized …
I couldn’t do this. It was stupid.
Why didn’t I stay with Mama that day? We could’ve been together; I could’ve made her feel better. Dreamed her through her up-and-down and back to a better place. Taken her on a trip withwings as soft as flour, into a canyon on a summer day, or to a gurgling stream or bog full of will-o’-the-wisps. If I’d made that choice, the sun would’ve risen the next morning smelling like my mother, and with my mother in her bed instead of a morgue, instead of dark and death and grief and everyone broken.
I hadn’t made that choice.
Instead, I’d pulled my boot back on and left to meet Stan, because I wanted him to get into my knickers while I got into his. Mama died while I was getting busy with a boy who’d never meant more to me than a diversion, who’d disappeared like a puddle of rain in a hot sun after Mama died anyway, because this sort of thing was too hard. Too real.
Most everyone did that. Retreated. Jazz. Even Papa.
I didn’t want to go back to that, and if I didn’t go forward how would anything ever change? I gripped the car’s metal edge and leaned my forehead against the back of my hand as the train groaned and the hiss grew louder.
“Shit. That one!”
I froze. The male voice came from behind me. Was it the bull? Would I end up in jail now?
A dog barked.
“Run up, jump in, hurry.” A different voice.
“Hey, there’s a ladder right there. You gonna use it or—”
Hisssss. Pop .
Grung-grung-grung-clank .
“Well, help her, you asshat!” someone shouted, and I was pushed over the rusty lip and into the car—despite cries that I’d changed my mind, despite trying to propel my body back outside again.
All effort was lost as a rush of bodies piled in after me, as my head went light and a dog’s growl crystallized to my left. The world clouded over with darkness as the train bucked under my feet and we started to move. Someone corralled me into a corner and yelled, though I only caught pieces of it.
“What do you think, you—get us caught? Bull … yard … stay there … you blind?”
“I am blind,” I shouted back. And then I repeated it in a whisper—“I am blind”—as noises poured over us and creaks turned into squeals, squeals into screams, screams into a banging, trembling, thudding tumble of
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