Shadows of the Moon
A true love found in the stars
Since childhood, I have been enamored with space. The dark canvas dotted with speckles of constellations and answers to questions my mind could never even imagine formulating. I feel comforted lying in the dry country grass in the shadows of the moon and finding peace as I contemplate the patterns of Orion’s Belt and the Big Dipper.
I grew up in the small Michigan town of Paw Paw, which is surrounded by silence and the protection of trees. Winds whisper gentle secrets into the cornfields and blueberry patches. The moon is almost always on full display in the sky.
Going back home after being away at college for months at a time is a delight, the city lights of Grand Rapids fading into my rearview mirror and the sunset against my Aviator sunglasses. Home is on the horizon and I find myself again in the arms of the skies that raised me up from the ground.
I go outside with my two old dogs, the back-garage door creaking shut behind me. I shove my hands in my pockets as the floodlight flickers on. The night meets me in icy punches. My breath creates a fog flowing from my lanky chilled body.
“Come on, y’all. Hurry up,” I mutter to the dogs, who are taking their time sniffing the frozen ground; the same frozen ground they had been smelling since they were puppies.
The leaves and twigs crack under my black lab’s arthritic paws as he slowly makes his way to the rest of backyard. I follow him and my golden retriever step by step. No need to be careful of my step, except for the occasional pile of dog poop in the cool, dry grass. No breeze. No ice. No snow, apart from some melting heaps bordering the neighbor’s lawn. The night is quiet, and the trees are open, free from the burden of leaves for a few more weeks. There it is. The moon. A first quarter moon, to be exact. The dogs go on. I stand, shivering.
It’s right there. If only I could reach it. The Apollo 11 mission was decades ago, having taken its place in history books and the Discovery Channel documentary lineup.
Beyond human understanding
The concept of space is expansive, stretching beyond even Stephen Hawking’s comprehension. Earth is only a small variable in the infinite equation of the universe, a mere flapping of a butterfly’s wing. NASA is underfunded yet they keep attempting to understand the vast canvas. They send out spacecraft to obtain the answers that they have formulated over years of research. Information comes back in pixels, taking months to receive just one picture. Nevertheless, it’s a miracle,
Here is of the information that we have learned about space since NASA began its grand galactic expedition:
Pluto has a heart, which is collapsing due to gravitational depression.
Jupiter holds possession of seven moons, known as the Galilean satellites.
Saturn’s rings have a five-year period under the Roche limit; the law causing space objects to be broken down in the gravitational orbit.
The Moon controls the tides of our oceans due to gravity and the Sun.
Speaking of the Sun, one day it will die out or explode, leaving Earth in total darkness. It would be the end of our existence. Such power is held in a large heap of mass millions of miles away from us.
A Martian displaced
When I was in the first grade, my mom let me stay up to see Mars. The red planet was predicted to be the closet to Earth than it had been in centuries and it would not happen again until 2397. It had taken a lot of begging after seeing the news segment on Channel 3 out of Kalamazoo, but on the night of the event, she made it a rare family affair, yanking us out of bed on a school night and herding us into the driveway in our pajamas. Life and training a new puppy had kept us busy, leaving little time for quality time together.
“Alright, kids. Grab a blanket and hot chocolate. We are going to watch Mars,” Mom yelled from the garage, making a collection of lawn chairs in her strong arms.
“Really?” I exclaimed. All the begging had paid off!
“Yep!” she replied with a grunt, hauling the four chairs toward the yard. “But don’t be complaining when you’re tired tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry, Mom! I won’t!”
The excitement overtook me. I started shaking. A smile spread and spilled over my young cheeks. Nothing could contain the space nerd, not even gravity itself as I jumped up and down.
My siblings were much less enthusiastic, muttering under their breaths. My brothers were tired from the rigors of later elementary and high school. My younger sister would later throw a tantrum and Mom would have to tuck her in early.
However, the middle wonder child would not be shaken or forgotten. It was her night. It was her time to have the attention and get her way.
Within fifteen minutes, at about two-thirty in the morning, Mars was right there, in front of our eyes, just outside our reach. Mars wasn’t nearly as big as the moon, which sat nearby, wisps of clouds sewing along the texture of the heavens and over the Moon’s deep craters. The reddish tint of the dusty planet spread along the crispy grass and engraved kinship on my pale skin with temporary ink.
It was like a family reunion. For us, this was the first time we had all been in the same place, enjoying the same thing all at once. Every day we were a young beehive, busy in our lives of school and hours spent on homework, spending time together for more than spare moments. And, for Mars and the Moon – distant brothers in our universe – seemed to touch as they shared the sky for the first time in years. Only in rare times can they embrace in the atmosphere, just short by a couple hundred thousand miles.
Space isn’t only in the skies
The moonlight poured onto the kitchen floor as my dad walked away from his family for the first time; a family which included a newborn daughter. Space between my parents grew, the divorce papers arriving on my mother’s 41st birthday.
Eventually the space overreached and spread over my relationship with him and my Heavenly father. The trust shattered on the tile floor, spreading across the galaxies of our home. Time and time again, he was not there, on his own space missions of adulterous affairs, leaving his children with their grandparents when he had them every other weekend.
Now, I hold space in all my relationships, the swirling black holes of abandonment and trust issues ruining them one by one. A middle school dance I never attended, where “room for the Holy Ghost” was strictly maintained between awkwardly moving bodies. My best friends did not know more than my surface layer before I let them dig deeper, feeding them feeble information over the course of many years during late night bonfires and deep conversations.
Distance grows if I find myself getting too close, because I have been left out to dry before; people who ghosted me and did not give me an idea if they would ever return to my life again.
The stars are a constant. They are always there, even if covered by a blanket of clouds or hidden under the glare of bright city lights.
Lost in Translation
My mind boggles at the idea of human existence and why we are here. Religion aside, what is our place in the laws of the cosmos? Does it matter? Does anything really matter? The universe does not care, and the Earth will keep spinning, well beyond our blink-of-an-eye lifetimes.
After a lesson about the universe during youth group at the age of thirteen, my ongoing existential crisis began. Already battling chronic depression and a deep-rooted fear of people my own age, I could not dig myself out of this suicidal hole. After all, I was small, just a spec in the universe with limited years. Why did it matter if I died? My memory would fade and the universe would continue, forgetting me as my loved ones passed. My history would be kept in certificates signifying both birth and death, kept in yellowing hospital files.
Even with my love for space and asking questions about it, there are few answers to my questions in the realm of my Conservative Christian bubble. They never go beyond “God has a plan for you” or “The Great Creator is an amazing artist to have painted the skies.” I am growing weary of being told to read the Bible and find my answers in old, pre-scientific texts of the Old Testament Apostles.
The stars hold my questions and my wonder, but the answers are being lost in translation. It’s as if there has been a disconnection between manmade technology and understanding the rules of the universe. I need more than the answers I’m getting, and sooner rather than later. This existential crisis appears as quickly as the stars in the Earth’s atmosphere. It plagues me at night. My admiration turns to fear and sleepless endeavors. I turn and roll in bed, unable to grapple with a such temporary existence in the early hours of the morning.
Letters
14 february 1998
Dear Ma and Dad,
My first memory is of yelling coming from the oversized kitchen on Third Street. I toddle out of my bedroom. I’d just turned two a few days before. I peek around the corner.
Ma, you are crying, yet still yelling at Dad to stay. There is an urgency, a tension that had been captured in a birthday party photo. I’d just blown out my candles. Dad had been distant as always, eyes blank, smile absent. Had it been the depression or the infidelity?
The cool wood under my bare feet creaks and Dad turns around. His blank eyes glare at me and I flee back to the safety of my bedroom that was glossed in moonlight. My month-old sister sleeps quietly. I hope she doesn’t wake up like I had; I want to protect her.
Dad, I still don’t know if you saw me. I assume not, since you claim Ma plants the memory in my head. It’s there, though, and I think about it often.
30 September 2004
Dear Ma and Dad,
She is beautiful, with brunette hair that tumbles over a peach silk blouse. She smells good, like vanilla. She is nice. She encourages me to read and gives me hugs. I eat lunch with her in the classroom to avoid being around my mean classmates who won’t leave me alone. I make her smile. It’s so pretty, so I try to tell really funny jokes that I see in the Sunday comics.
My teacher is my best friend, and my very first crush.
“Can girls like girls?” I ask you in my quiet voice, round glasses sliding down the bridge of my nose. My short blonde hair sweeps against my cheeks in a bob that I will not let grow past my shoulders, much to your disappointment, Ma. My brother’s hand-me-downs are still too big, but I love them and I will not wear anything else, especially not pink.
The word “gay” is spoken in hushed tones around the house. Ellen is banned, Bible open, Leviticus read out loud. An abomination. Looks given through side glances and whispers, wondering if your tom boy of a daughter would eventually need fixing if she got too butch.
I bury that crush as deep as my tiny arms can manage, but I still blush at the sight of my pretty teacher, and visit her even after moving beyond to later elementary school. Or until she says not to do that anymore.
Dad, you are in and out, sneaking kisses from two different women and sneak out at night when you are supposed to be spending time with us. Don’t think I don’t notice or hear things. My nose isn’t always buried in a book. I pay attention.
Ma, you work two jobs to feed and clothe us. You’re so tired. I’m sorry. I wish my arms were long enough to hug you all the way around. But I am just a child. I can’t help. Still, I hear you crying at night.
29 JANUARY 2008
Dear Ma and Dad,
Grandpa passed away today. I knew it was coming, but now I feel like I am nothing but empty on the inside.
The razor met my left wrist the first time tonight. I feel terrible about it to the point of blacking out. The memory fades and my tears dry up. The only evidence are the puffy scars the next morning.
This is when my soul truly began to die, and the light I had been told to stretch out toward and obey has died out. I want nothing to do with anyone. Gramps was all I had, and now I’m alone.
The following week, I will see Dad flirt with his mistress. Ma, you will leave the funeral room beforehand. I will feel even emptier, and long to be buried with my grandfather. I don’t want these secrets anymore.
Instead, I cut my wrists again.
21 february 2009
Dear Ma and Dad,
I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. Well, not entirely.
If you want to blame anyone, blame me. I wasn’t a good daughter. Not smart, straight, skinny, or Christian enough. I wish it could have been different.
Dad, some of the scars on my wrist are from you, and so is the depression; a heavy fog that has genetically passed from you to me. It’s the one gift you didn’t give me to buy my love. I was doing well, and even got a birthday card from my basketball teammates and teachers. I had that, something to hold onto.
Then you left a day later, and the kids at school got meaner.
Ma, I’m sorry. I tried to be strong for you. I know you have enough to deal with. I’m sorry for breaking your heart, especially since you’ll be the first to find me in the bathtub.
I’m sorry. I tried. I just wish I could have tried harder.
22 February 2009
Dear Ma and Dad,
Can I burn that last one?
I think I’m ready to try again. I promise I won’t disappoint you again, or at least not in the way I would have.
16 April 2010
Dear Ma and Dad,
You two got back together last July. So far, so good. I still watch for your suitcases to be in the garage, Dad, and I will until well into college.
You just sat me down to discuss LGBTQ+ rights again, or what you believe they shouldn’t have. Like marrying who they love or not being antagonized by other American citizens.
What brought on this conversation? Well, I had participated in the National Day of Silence the day before. I had been told that it was about protecting teenagers from bullying and speaking up for them, especially LGBTQ+ kids. As someone who was berated to the point of almost killing herself, I was more than willing to take up that torch.
Unfortunately, both of you wouldn’t listen to my reasoning. Now, after an awkward lunch with Leviticus opened, I am forced into silence, sipping slowly on a cup of flat Dr. Pepper and having beliefs that are not my own laid onto me.
Maybe you do know what you’re talking about, and I just need to listen more to you and God than the feelings I have for two male and female friends. I keep praying, but the feelings don’t go away.
I’m confused and I’m scared. I can’t tell the therapist. She tells both of you everything. I don’t trust her.
My arms are longer now. Ma, you and I don’t hug much anymore and I know we would stop altogether if you find out the truth about me.
The feelings are buried in thorns, and I jump at the chance to reject the stereotypes that I wore on my back in flannel shirts. I grow out my hair and talk about Taylor Lautner’s abs, even if Kristen Stewart is the one who holds most of my attention.
12 april 2012
Dear Ma and Dad,
Someone told me on Twitter to stop being homophobic for not supporting same sex marriage. I told them what you had told me through the years. Love the sinner, hate the sin. Leviticus. They replied with their own personal stories and other people’s as well. Conversations start, and I finally start listening to them, and to the crush on my second-grade teacher from all those years ago.
I slowly begin to excavate my own attractions. The thorns are sharp. I can’t unwind them all right now, but at least the hatred I felt for the LGBTQ community – and for myself – is beginning to fade into the old texts where I believe they belong.
15 june 2015
Dear Ma and Dad,
Same sex marriage is made legal today. I watch in tears of the couples who have been waiting to marry for decades exchange their vows. One battle is won, alongside the election of Harvey Milk and the repeal of DOMA.
The war still rages, transgender women are being murdered despite Caitlyn Jenner coming out. She still speaks out against same sex marriage, and Ellen refuses to invite her back onto the show.
I change my profile photo on Facebook to a rainbow. I am no longer shy about my support for the LGBTQ+ community, as many of my friends identify as it. Not sure if that is a coincidence that I am friends with some many lesbians, but I cheer them on as they enter their first relationships; something I long for deep down.
I write in my journal about the feelings coming up, but erase the word. Work in progress. I’ll get there eventually.
21 February 2016
Dear Ma and Dad,
It’s bad again. My brain is numb. I don’t feel anything. I don’t leave my room for a week. All I do is watch Netflix and sleep, munching on Ruffles and mayonnaise to meet the most basic nutritional standard. My roommate checks to make sure I’m still alive, but she avoids the conversation of if I’m okay, because she knows I’m not.
I hate college. I am so lonely. Again, I have no one. Ma, you saw me breakdown before the spring semester began yet you still insisted to take out a loan for me to go back. You must finish, you’re the only one who has ever attended a four-year university. I had made Deans List freshman year and now, somehow, I have it keep it up, despite a heavier course load and harder classes.
I can’t do it and I’m not sorry about it anymore. I want to drop out.
12 june 2016
Dear Ma and Dad,
49 LGBTQ+ people were just murdered in a nightclub. I can’t stop crying for them.
Ma, stop yelling at me to get over it. I will not back down, even if it means screaming matches between us. Leviticus holds no relevance to me anymore. It is willful ignorance like yours that gets people killed.
Dad, you’re trying to listen and you take me out to lunch to get my mind off it. Thank you for that.
15 July 2016
Dear Ma and Dad,
It’s her, a short brunette with a charming smile. Dimples pop from her cheeks. She gives me hugs. I fight them playfully, but the butterflies fly unhinged in the pit of my stomach.
It hits me like a freight train. All that work, all the excavation; I finally accept it. I’m done fighting. Once the walls drop and I allow myself to feel, I accept me for me and my heart is lighter. The burden is gone for just a moment.
Then I remember. You, my Christian, Trump-voting parents, would disown me, send me to therapy, kick me out. Fear replaces pride and the rainbow flag lowers.
The world is heavier again, and the closet is my home. I am too tall and tired for this.
10 May 2018
Dear Ma and Dad,
So, here it is. Blunt. No more hints in the short hair and flannel shirts. No more hints in referring to Carrie Underwood as my wife or somehow having more female celebrity crushes than male. I remain adamant about the fact that I am gay.
Whoop, there it is.
Ma and Dad, you tried so hard to make sure I didn’t feel like this. All the lectures, all the discouragement, all of the references to Leviticus. But I can assure you, I have not been converted into this from the groups I support, not from the people in Orlando that I still shed tears for and will never forget.
Most importantly, I did not choose this. I would never choose to disappoint you in such a manner. I am a product of both of you. Born of wedlock, raised in infidelity and instability, and only just able to find reassurance in a single label.
Survivor.
With nothing but love,
Hannah
Canadian Bacon
My mother is very picky when it comes to how and where she grocery shops. Coupons in one hand and a firm grip on the handle of the shopping cart with the other, she is every cashier’s worst nightmare. Not in the way that she is relentlessly rude, but in the way that everything she buys is on sale, clearance, and/or has a coupon for and she has the list, price, and ad present in her purse’s arsenal, ready for battle at any given moment.
She can be a real pain in the ass, and I can’t go grocery shopping with her anymore without being ready to apologize to the self-checkout cashier.
Meijer is the only place in the west Michigan area that she will go, even when the Walmart arrived in Paw Paw in the summer of 2014.
“Meijer is clean, the employees are always willing to help, and I get their ad online,” she says when someone from our small farm town asks her why she goes all the way to Meijer when Walmart is five minutes away. “Walmart is for midweek runs and basic needs. Besides, Meijer has better produce and organic choices.”
So, the sixty-year-old woman drives twenty minutes every Saturday morning to shop at the nearest red-lit storefront parking lot in Kalamazoo. Black, hazelnut coffee runs through this woman’s veins. She is unstoppable on her path to get produce, frozen pizzas, and shampoo.
#
Meijer is a Michigan based franchise, brought to life by a Dutch immigrant barber, Hendrik Meijer, and his son, Fredrick. It started in Greenville during the Great Depression, when Hendrik took his life savings converted his barber shop into a small store where the impoverished could buy essentials, such as bread, eggs, and milk.
The store, known by locals by an affectionate Dutch term, “Thrifty Acres,” was very successful, breaking off into other stores in 1961 in Hudsonville and Grand Rapids.
Fredrick took over the business in 1964 after his father’s death and transformed it into the franchise it has become and remains to be today. He valued family, community, and his customers, evident in the orientation I attended when I was hired in September 2016.
He was a smart, passionate, and wise man, bringing international recognition to the southwest Michigan area as his business continued to grow. He was even invited to meet President Carter at the White House in 1974, presenting the leader of the free world with a non-expiring, personalized Purple Cow ice cream card.
#
My first experience with a nasty customer was during my fifth shift and first open. It’s an experience that I tell at family parties and to friends around the lunch table, as it is one of the few memories I have that stands out from the usual smiling faces and warm voices of simple requests and thank you’s.
I had been called in because someone had a doctor’s appointment and the manager, Adam, had forgotten that he would be short that early Monday morning. So, he had been forced to call in the new girl after she had been told that she would not be on open shifts until she had more seniority and had stayed up late the night before closing the deli, and then retiring to watch Netflix into early hours of the morning.
My phone had vibrated under my pillow, bringing me to consciousness. I blink heavily, trying to silence it. It was 6:30. Did life even exist at that time?
“Hello?” I mumbled.
“Wakey, wakey, Hannah Montana!” Adam’s chipper voice answered. “I fucked up the schedule, so I need you to come in.”
“What time?” I pushed myself up, desperately trying to get my brain on track. Where was my uniform?
“As soon as you can. I fucking need you here. It’s just Betsy and Dorothy,” he responded. “You can have Friday off, too.”
“I can get there by seven.” I trudged to the bathroom, rubbing my eyes. I didn’t want to wake up my roommate by starting the coffee maker, so I just went without.
“Cool. Thanks, Montana!”
I soon learned Mondays are usually slow in the deli. My team members and I often ache with desperation for any interaction with an order. Our prep is done by 9:00 or 10:00, and, on this Monday, the time was creeping on 11:30 before I finally waited on a customer.
He was an older gentleman, hiding his silver hair under a Red Sox baseball cap. His face was scarred, telling stories of bar fights and angry lovers with long, pointy nails. His eyes spoke of adventures long ago behind large rimmed glasses that he had to constantly push up his round nose.
The most prominent part of the old man was his nearly toothless mouth, apart from the cooked tooth clinging onto the gums. He did not smile.
I wondered how he'd lost them. Old age? Smoking? Cancer brought on by smoking? Just not brushing?
The questions staggered on the front burner of my mind as I asked in my high-pitched customer service voice, “Hi, sir. What can I get for you today?”
Toothless mumbled, adjusting his blue checkered shirt sleeves, “I’ll have a pound and a half of Sahlen's Ham,” he said, “and a half pound of Canadian bacon. Both cut thin.”
“Of course. Coming right up!” In the back of my mind, I knew we didn’t carry Canadian bacon in the deli. It had not been ordered in my first four days and I had not seen anything of the sort.
As I carefully sliced the Sahlen's ham, I looked toward the back at my trainer, Dorothy, who had arrived shortly after I had. “Where can I find Canadian bacon?”
Dorothy gave me a strange look. “The meat department maybe. But not anywhere here in the deli.”
“Oh. I have a customer asking for it.”
“Just tell him to go over to the meat department and ask them for it,” she said nonchalantly, going back to the fresh product project she did every Monday.
As I finished the ham and packaged, labelled, and squeezed any excess air from it, I walked to the front again and handed it to him. “There’s the ham for you, sir, but I have to apologize. We do not carry Canadian bacon in the deli. The meat department next door, however, should have what you’re looking for.”
He blinked blankly at me, not understanding the situation. “So, where’s my Canadian bacon? I ordered half a pound of it.”
I cleared my throat. Being an inherent sarcastic asshole did not come in handy when working in customer service. “I’m sorry, but we don’t carry Canadian Bacon in the deli. The meat department,” I pointed to my left and to the long rows of coolers several yards away, “should have some.”
“Why don’t you have it?”
“We don’t. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” The frustration bubbled up, mixing with the anxiety that stirred in the pit of my stomach.
“So, if they have it, can you slice it for me so then I can have a sample of it?”
Safety training: No cross contaminants from other departments or products that have been packaged in other departments that could otherwise help the customer.
“No, sir. I can’t do it. It’s against policy.”
“Go get it and slice it for me.” The pitch of his voice elevated above a mumble, causing a whistle of air to pass through his toothless mouth. It took me by surprise.
Fred Meijer’s voice entered my head, telling me that the customer is always right. “Sir, there is nothing I can do. The meat department should have it and they will cut it open for you so then you can have a sample.”
Toothless scoffed. He did the whistle thing again. “This is bullshit. I want Canadian bacon! I’ve been looking forward to it all morning.” He shook his head frantically, as if his brain about to combust without the ham equivalent.
“I’m sorry–” I started to say through a gritted smile.
He cut me off. “All of you grocery stores are the same. You’re all inconvenient with incompetent employees.”
My social anxiety is a real problem I have never had to deal in the workplace before this. When I worked at McDonalds, I did the grilling and sandwich assembling, rarely ever having to deal with the brunt of a disgruntled customer. I had only ever heard stories.
Meijer was a whole new experience, putting me face to face on a Monday morning with very little sleep and no coffee with an angry and toothless old man.
The butterflies continued to churn. My mind raged on, grasping to things to try to keep me on the ground.
Deep breath.
Tap, tap on the leg.
Remember Carrie Underwood.
Or dogs?
Maybe even cats?
Think of nature.
Summer days spent in the hammock by the beach.
Breathe out.
“Again, sir, I apologize for the inconvenience. Have a great day.” By this point, I was ready to duck into the back room and allow the panic attack to take over. It was my fifth day and already, I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t handle it.
“Mhm.” He threw his ham into his cart with vigor and shoved off. His glasses started to fall down his nose again and he walked with a limp, but I was done wondering about him.
Dorothy looked at me as I tried to calm myself, pacing in the back room. “Hannah, are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m good.”
“That was… “
“I know.” I continued to pace.
What would have Fred done differently? He died in 2011, leaving his sons in sole custody of his small empire. Yet his words lived on the walls of the store and in the ears of new employees in the damp meeting room at the back of the Knapp Corner store.
One of his quotes resurfaced in my racing mind as I slowly paced myself into a still stature, leaning breathless against the wall.
Try to preserve dignity in every situation.
Mine was taken from me, but I had to prove this old grumpy man wrong. I am my mother’s daughter. Had I had coffee that morning, I would have been ready to fight Toothless.
As bad as my mom gets, at least she never pushes people to wanting to quit so early on in their jobs. She has some patience and says thank you when she gets what she wants. She remains poised and cracks jokes as she pulls out her coupon pouch.
I was tired from the lack of sleep and now just recovering from a near anxiety attack, but Fred Meijer’s legacy lied on my shoulders. The line had grown. Lunch time rush. I put on fresh gloves and pushed my glasses up.
Time to get back to work, to earn more life lessons from Meijer.
wide open scars
As the old bus that smelled of sweat and was full with antsy teenagers chugged down the pothole paved road, the cornfields moved in a blur past the dirty windows. They all became one under a gloomy fall sky, the trees in sync with the tassels as they danced to a faint breeze. Dana sat in a ripped seat with an old CD player on her lap and her dirty, hand-me-down backpack filled with disks beside her. The headphones just loud enough to turn her peers’ yelling into a quiet roar.
Alan Jackson’s voice managed to soothe her as the bus driver bypassed another farmhouse and slammed on the squeaky brakes. As another kid, one whom Dana couldn’t stand ran down the aisle and off the bus, she looked out the window at the house on the other side of the street and noticed the squashed pop-top camper that still sat in the front yard, pathetically covered with a ripped brown tarp.
Dana’s mother couldn’t stand it, even though their family should be the last place to judge, seeing as how their pole barn was filled with raccoon pellets, half-fixed trucks, and a hot tub that her absent father had gotten from a demo job two years ago. Or maybe it was three. Four, tops.
The bus lurched forward and hurled toward her neighborhood that was more like a collection of old farmhouses next to each other along a badly paved road, covered in loose gravel that nicked the rusted paint of trucks and worn out minivans.
Dana’s older brother, Bill, turned around in the seat in front of her and hit the top of her head. “Duck!” He flicked the headphones off and she was forced to interact with him. Yet whenever she wanted to sit with him, he shoved her out of the seat and pretended not to know her.
“What do you want?” she mumbled at him, wrapping the frayed cord around her CD player and putting it in her bag.
“Are we going fishing today?” he asked.
“They’re your poles, dumbass. It’s up to you,” she shot back at him. “I wanted to watch Full House and finish my book report. I am not in the mood to go out in the boonies with you today.”
He swatted at her again, but she managed to avoid the blow. “Come on, Dana. You have seen Full House a thousand times and that book report ain’t due forever. You’re, like, six weeks ahead of the reading schedule anyway, right?”
“Yeah.” Her older brother only knew that because he needed her to write his papers for him and she gave him an open window of when her skills were available for business. Five bucks and a Coke a piece.
“Besides, Ma scared them fishermen pretty good yesterday. You should have seen them run when she went out in her bathrobe and pointed the gun at their heads.” Bill laughed. “It was so badass.”
Ma didn’t ever let them go when the hordes of fishermen collected illegally on their property and caught the salmon. Most of her anger came from the fact that they were snagging the food that she could stretch into several meals for weeks, as she tried to trick Dana, who had an inclination to hate the smell and taste of fish, into eating.
“I’ll go. As long you promise to take the fish off the hook this time.” She hated fish. She really did. She only liked the thrill of snagging one of the female salmon with a rusty hook and reeling it in with all the power that her skinny arms had.
Bill sighed but nodded, his curly brown hair bouncing against his acne-scarred forehead. “Fine. You can be a little pussy about touching a little fish again.”
“Anderson! Turn your ass around!” The bus driver’s voice crackled over the half-broken radio before she could come up with a retort. “You know better!”
‘Yes, ma’am!” he called back sarcastically with a salute and plopped back in his seat. Dana rolled her eyes. He didn’t act out often, but sometimes the manners Ma had taught them were overshadowed by the need to screw everything up and land him in detention.
“Don’t be gettin’ smart with me, boy!”
Great. There’s another phone call Ma doesn’t need, Dana thought. I hope he gets a whooping for that one. A whooping that I can watch.
They arrived to their blue-paneled house with the broken white picket fence ten minutes later. It waved at them from its sore thumb position in the dry front yard. Ma wanted to tear it down with a borrowed Kubota and use the wood in the neighborhood bonfire in a couple weeks. It was more of an activity that she and their Vietnam veteran next-door-neighbor, who burned dead leaves and branches every year at the end of November, had created. It was pest control in the most redneck way possible.
Dana and Bill dropped their bags off in the garage and were just about to head to the woods when their mother came out with their black lab, Buddy, who was dragging her on the short leash from when he was a puppy. He trotted over to them, wagging his question mark tail with vigor at the sight of seeing them for the first time since six o’clock that morning.
“Hey, ol’ boy.” Dana leaned down and gave her dog a kiss on the snout that collected little grey hairs. A four year old dog shouldn’t already have them, but the breeder they had rescued him from hadn’t cared to keep his puppy mill from overbreeding.
“Where you think you two are going?” Ma demanded. She wore a stained pink t-shirt and worn out jeans, both of which she had bought at Goodwill before either of them were born. Her bleach-blonde hair was tied back in a faded ponytail, insinuating the wrinkles of time on a face that was too young to have them. The perks of being a poor single mom of four and the stress of keeping a home daycare, taking care of other people's’ kids with the help of hers.
Bill replied, “Fishin’.”
She looked at them up and down then shook her head. “Not in your nice school clothes.”
“I would hardly call them nice,” Dana muttered, glancing at her own clothes; a blue t-shirt that had not caught up to her growth spurt and barely covered her waist, accompanied by black Adidas nylon sweatpants that tumbled over the shoes that were too big for her. More hand-me-downs from Bill and her other brother, Charlie.
Her brother shoved her and hissed, “Shut up.”
It was too late. Ma had heard her daughter’s comment and was now glaring at her with her narrowed eyes, the icy blue lasers scarring her forehead. “Would you like to repeat that?”
Dana glanced down at the shoes and kicked the mud. “No, ma’am.”
Ma moved her hot gaze to Bill. “And would you like to repeat what you said to your sister?”
Bill joined Dana’s stare at the ground. “No, ma’am.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The second oldest son of the Anderson family grabbed their oldest brother’s former backpack that was destined for Dana and slipped it over his shoulder. “Come on, sis.”
With their mom’s eyes still hot their backs, they lumbered into the house. Behind them, still holding onto the dog who pulled her toward the woods to relieve himself, she called out, “And don’t forget to take off your muddy shoes before goin’ into the house!”
#
“Come on, kids! Food’s up!” Ma called from the kitchen.
Dana climbed from the top bunk bed and onto the wooden floor. She hit her little sister, Melissa’s foot. “Ma called us. Dinner’s ready.”
The youngest of the family turned her nose up. “What are we having?”
“I think she said she made chicken and rice.”
Melissa groaned and shook her head. “We just had that a few days ago. I wish Dad would take us more often. At least he takes us out to eat.”
“Well, he takes us to suburbia hell next weekend, so just suck it up and come sit at the table.”
“Why do you do that? Why do you always have talk about him like he’s the worst person in the world?” she asked pointedly, her green eyes fuming with guarded curiosity.
Dana bit her tongue. It was hard not to explain to her sister, who had been too young to remember when their father had left, that he took them out to eat to make up for the fact that he emotionally abandoned them whenever he had them, escaping to the place where he didn’t have to “entertain” the thought of being a father. Melissa didn’t catch on to it when she would berate him to play a guessing game or go for a bike ride. But Ma had forbidden Dana from ruining the idea of him for her, claiming that it would protect her innocence for a little while longer.
The door opened and Bill poked his head in. “Y’all might want to hurry up. Ma is in one of her moods again.”
Melissa snorted as she pushed herself off the bottom bunk and then shoved her siblings out of the way to leave the room. “She’s always in a mood.”
He looked over at Dana as they followed her down the hallway. “Why has she never gotten her mouth slapped?”
She shrugged. “She’s the youngest. The golden child. No matter how much she talks back, Ma would never dream of punishing her.”
“Melissa really pushes it too far sometimes, too,” he mumbled.
Soon enough, they had all served themselves and were sat at the old wooden table that had been their great-grandmother’s in the matching chairs. They creaked in agony, straining against the Gorilla glue Ma had fixed them with. Scuffed plates with snowmen and snowflakes sat under a glob of discount chicken and generic whole wheat rice.
Melissa poked it with her fork. “This looks gross.” Dana kicked her under the table. “Ow!”
“Dana,” Ma warned, “cut it out or you’ll be grounded again.”
“She rather be with Dad in a restaurant where he does nothing but ignore us and stick his nose in a stupid book.” She never talked back to her mother and she watched as Ma’s tired face harden. The creases on her forehead tensed and creased, her poorly plucked eyebrows furrowed above narrowed slits.
“He does not,” Melissa shot back defensively. Her greenish blue eyes were wide. “He plays Tic-Tac-Toe and wins us prizes in the claw machine.”
“After you beg him to,” Dana coldly replied. “Ma starts making dinner as she takes care of the daycare kids and cleans and takes Buddy out to pee. All Dad does is–”
“Dana, that’s enough.” Ma slammed her tight fist on the table. “Let’s just have a nice dinner.” She looked over at Bill, who was sneaking scraps of chicken to Buddy, who has huddled at his feet. “Billy, how are the fish looking?”
“Well, it’s the end of the season, so most of ‘em are gone.” He shrugged, lips tight. “All the fishermen took the good ones with the eggs, which sucks - I mean, stinks because those eggs are worth more than the fish themselves.”
“We made a killin’ on them before all these men came around.” Ma shook her head before taking a bite off her plate. “We oughta call the DNR next year.”
Melissa looked up from poking at the chicken and rice. “But then we can’t fish!”
“I know, I know. Why do you think I haven’t called, hon? But I don’t feel like going out there to chase these guys out. Sooner or later, they’ll figure out I am using a broken bee-bee gun and not a rifle.”
“You know our neighbor, Mr. Donaldson? He said we could try on his property. The fishermen don’t go over there anymore since he held a cocked rifle to their heads.” Bill laughed wholeheartedly. “It pays to have a Vietnam vet next door.”
Dana joined in laughing. Mr. Donaldson, the one that Ma did the annual burn with, was not a guy that anyone wanted to cross. He had once bragged about eating German Shepherd when he was in ‘Nam. He hadn’t known about the true nature of the meal at the time, but he didn’t deny liking the taste. It made Ma mad, being an animal lover. She had once ranted about it for a straight hour and Dana just listened, watching as her mother’s cheeks reddened with rage as she spilled words against men and their carelessness.
There were rumors going around the small town that Mr. Donaldson had a mistress in the city a half hour away. His wife was battling cancer, Ma had said. She took casseroles over there sometimes on Saturdays and Mr. Donaldson wouldn’t be around, despite being retired and a bit of a homebody.
Just as the conversation was going to continue, the door to the garage opened and the oldest brother, Charlie, stepped in. He smelled of the dairy farm; the place he worked at to put gas in his guzzling old red Chevy.
“Hey, Chuck.” Bill and Dana said in unison.
“Hey, guys.” He planted a kiss on Melissa’s head as he took off his boots. “Did you hear about the meth lab outside the neighborhood? The cops are all over the place. It took me ten minutes to get past the barricade of DEA agents. Second one this month.”
“That’s crazy. It just happened?” Dana asked.
He nodded. “Yep. Paw Paw is getting real bad. Ma, didn’t you say that the county is number one in the country?”
Ma sighed and nodded. “When I was growing up in the city, we had crime, but not these explosions that happen every other week.” She pointed to the stove. “Anyway, I made you a plate, Charlie.”
“Thanks, Ma. I’m starved.” The scent of manure that clung to his pants and shirt spread throughout the room. None of them minded, though. It was a comforting smell, a sense of home that fit in with the woods and the corn fields. Ma would stop on the way to church to talk to cows in the same way she talks to babies and small animals.
“You can eat it after you get those disgusting clothes in the wash and take a shower.” Ma eyed him. “We already had this conversation.”
“Come on. I’m hungry.”
“Charles…” Dana ducked her head at the edge of their mother’s voice. Plus, she had used his full first name, the one he hated.
“Fine, fine. I am too tired to argue anyway.” Charlie made his way to the bathroom and shut the door behind him. After a few minutes, they all heard the shower through the thin beige walls.
Ma shook her head as she turned back to the table. The three kids sat there, motionless. She looked at them and gestured to their plates. “Y’all better eat every bite of that food.” She focused her laser gaze on her youngest daughter. “If you don’t eat it tonight, you’ll go hungry and have it in your cereal bowl tomorrow morning.”
#
“Have a good weekend with your dad.” Ma said as she leaned against their bedroom door frame. Her jaw was tight and straining against tan skin. Heavy bags hung under her eyes. “What time do you think you’ll be home?”
“He runs on his own schedule. You know that as well as I do,” Dana mumbled in response as she packed her bag for the weekend.
“Dana…” her mother sighed. “We’ve been over this. You don’t need to have this attitude when it comes to your dad.”
“He ran out on us.” She shook her head, light blonde hair swishing against her cheeks. “Ma, whenever he has us, he’s not there. He dumps us off at Grandma and Grandpa’s farmhouse and takes off. He doesn’t care about spending time with me and Melissa unless she begs him to.” She paused, trying to maintain a brave face and not give evidence to the thorns collecting at the base of her throat. “A child shouldn’t have to beg for her father to pay attention to her.”
Ma’s jaw tightened even more. “Do you want me to talk to him?”
“That never goes well. You get way too worked up and then I hear you crying yourself to sleep and Melissa has to hold you until you stop.” Dana hated hearing her mother cry. It was a choking sob that caught and ripped at her chest; something that she fought against, but would eventually lose.
Melissa crashed into Ma as she poked her head around the door, causing their mother to stumble. Dana bit the inside of her mouth.
“Hey, Daddy’s here! Time to go!” her little sister said excitedly.
Ma wrapped them both in a hug and placed a kiss on the top of their heads. “Have fun.” She shot a look at her eldest daughter, who was already dreading the night. “Don’t be a sourpuss. Spend time with your grandpa instead. You never know when he may go.”
There was a loud honk and a revving of a diesel powered engine that seemed to shake their old farmhouse. Ma shook her head. “No patience in that man at all.”
Dana hugged her mom again. She hated leaving her in an empty house with no one but the dog to keep her company. Unfortunately for her, all of her kids visited their respective father figures on the weekends; Tuesday, Thursday, every other weekend was when she was left childless. She had to wonder what the woman did when they were out of the house. Did she get a real meal instead the leftovers of what Melissa didn’t eat? Or did she take Buddy for a walk around the neighborhood, wandering into the tall grass to clean up his poop in old, ripped Meijer bags? Did she know how to rest?
“Go on, Dana. I’ll be okay.”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
There was a playful swat at her cheek. “You and your smart mouth. Go before your dad busts a gasket.”
“Hey.” Their dad said as Dana opened the passenger door and used her long legs to climb into the truck. His graying black mustache crawled above his upper lip, blending into the tan skin he earned from living a white collar life on a blue collar paycheck.
“What are we doing tonight, Daddy?” Melissa asked as she buckled her seatbelt in the backseat.
His green eyes darted to the rearview mirror to look at his youngest daughter. “I need to run some..errands, so you’ll be going to Grandma and Grandpa’s tonight.” His voice hung with the usual lie. Dana knew he was going to her house, the woman he had left her mother for; one who bribed her to like her with Mentos and M&Ms.
“Are we going out to eat tonight?”
Dana tried not to roll her eyes at the desperation in her little sister’s voice. Does she really like Bob Evans and Big Boy that much?
“No, um, not tonight. They made dinner for you, too.”
“I hate their food,” Melissa complained. “Grandma always burns something and then Dana spills something on Grandpa’s lap.”
Dana shrugged. “Then starve. See if I care.”
“Dad!”
“Dana, stop picking on your sister.” Dad warned as they pulled out of the driveway.
Dana wanted to retort, to say what she really felt. She wanted to say that she would stop when Melissa stopped being such a yuppie, a prissy city-slicker who resented the cornfields and the backwoods fishing. But her father was one, so she had to bite her tongue and had to pretend like nothing was wrong, as usual.
#
The drive was quiet, other than the gruffled voice of Bob Seger seeping through the speakers. Cornfields whispered their secrets to Dana as they drove past the multiple plots. She wondered if she kept wandering in them that they would eventually open up and give the most beautiful view of the stars.
Dana loved living in the country. She would never survive in an environment where she couldn’t see the stars. Or hear crickets beside her window at night. The drives in their mother’s van on dirt roads held her favorite memories, as they cranked Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash until the vehicle shook.
Grandpa greeted them at the door as their father pulled out the wrap around driveway and headed toward his mistress’s house in Mattawan, not even waiting for his daughters to get inside. There was no wave, no rolled down window, nothing.
“That boy, I swear.” Grandpa’s deep brown eyes creased underneath his round glasses. “Well, girls, what do you want to do tonight?”
“Um, pick apples?” Although Dana had her misgivings about her father, her grandpa had taken over the role the best he could at eighty-three He had helped teach her how to ride a two wheeler and let her operate the tractor by the time she was four. He helped her with homework and they shared inside jokes.
“That works for me, squirt.” He ruffled her hair and she wrapped her arms around his waist. He was always warm. He was a warm man with tan skin.
“Me too, Gramps!”
Melissa frowned. “I don’t want to pick apples. I would get too dirty.”
Gramps looked down at his granddaughter and shrugged. “If you wanna be a yuppie, go on up and paint nails with Grandma. She would like to play beautician with someone other than me.” He gestured his receding and greying dark brown hair.
Melissa shot up the porch stairs and slammed the screen door behind her, shouting, “Grandma!”
Dana and Gramps picked up their five gallon buckets and headed toward the field that held the treasures of his retirement: his small apple orchard. “So, how is your mother doing?”
“She’s alright. She works twelve hour days and picked up a shift or two at Goodwill when we’re with Dad for the weekend. She might have gone there tonight.” Dana shrugged. “It’s hard with us kids.”
“Hey now.” He pulled her close. “Don’t be blaming yourself for that. A mother provides for her kids in the best way she knows how. And yours has done a damn good job. With no help from my son.”
Dana giggled. “You said damn.”
“Shit. I mean…” he sighed. “Don’t be repeating these words. Though if you do, I won’t punish you.”
“When have you ever punished me?” She pushed him playfully.
“That time you spilled hot coffee on my lap and I made you do rounds with me the next morning at five.” He shook his head, a rare smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “You’re a good kid. You just have to keep still.”
“To be fair, that wasn’t a punishment. We got to watch the sunrise come up and then make apple pie.”
He nodded. “You’re right. I have to get better at punishing you. No more burnt pork chops.”
They shared a rich laugh and Dana couldn’t help but think of the time when she wouldn’t have him. He was the only one of her dad’s side of the family who had ever taken interest in her. She wondered if she would deny losing him every time she walked into the farmhouse or if she would cry herself to sleep every night. He was all she had, the only grandfather who had lived to see her grow up. The only one who appreciated her sense of wonder with the cornfields and the apple orchards.
When they reached the orchard, silence fell into the atmosphere other than the crickets and the buzzing of mosquitoes. Dana used her bucket to reach the apples and carefully twisted them off the tree, just as Gramps had taught her. October had treated them well, bright reds and greens spotting the trees. There were no bruises or evidence of worms. They were healthy and plump, not like the fruit Ma had to buy at Wal-Mart off of the clearance rack.
#
Dana awoke to the faint sound of an alarm and her eyes open to find darkness. They adjust to see the beige popcorn ceiling and she stretches under a worn purple blanket on the brown carpet. She looked around and saw Gramps pushing himself out the chair that he called his bed.
“What time is it?” Dana asked as she stood up. Her arms hurt from picking apples the previous day. She looked out the window behind the dining table in the middle of the kitchen. The stars were still out and she could see how the moon polished the fine wood in its white shadows.
“Three.” His old bones cracked under his white tank shirt that clung to a faint beer belly.
“Oh, sorry. I forgot.” Every other weekend, when her father would have custody of her and her sister, she would sleep on the living room floor to get up with Gramps. He had Type One diabetes and he had to check his blood sugar every six hours. By the time she was a couple years old, she was getting up with him, splitting windmill cookies during a game of cards.
“I’ll get my needles, you get the food, okay?” Dana nodded and Gramps flicked on the light and retreated to the kitchen table while she dug into the back of the fridge and grabbed the 2% milk that hid behind the big tub of butter.
By the time she had the food ready with the milk in two tall glasses and a row of windmill cookies on a paper plate, his blood was reading in the insulin machine. She saw commercials once about a high tech machine that would read faster and easier. Gramps didn’t seem mind doing it the hard way; besides, his AARP membership and Medicare wouldn’t cover a new machine.
She watched him as he loosened the band around his arm, throwing it into the box. “You don’t have to get up with me every time, squirt. It’s the weekend and you’re a kid. You’re supposed to sleep in late.”
“Not me,” Dana replied as she dealt the cards. “Ma has Melissa, Bill, and me up every Saturday at six to go to the grocery store with her. Sometimes we even go to the movies afterward and sneak in candy from Dollar Tree.”
“Your dad and uncles never slept in either. Not like now.” Gramps dipped a cookie into his milk and took a tentative bite, his fingers trembling.
“Why do you shake like that?” she asked curiously..
“That’s like me asking why you bounce at dinnertime and spill something.” He chuckled. “I’m just an old man with Parkinsons.”
“What’s that?”
“Um, here…”He took another cookie and, after a few moments, was able to split it apart. “You see the crumbs on the table? Well, that’s the part of my brain that controls the way I move my arms and hands.”
“Oh.” Dana paused and then cracked a smile. “I thought you were just old.”
In the daylight, Dana would have gotten in trouble for the comment by her grandma. But this was Gramps and they just shared a deep laugh. The kind that got caught in their chests and they couldn’t breathe. They rang off of each other’s enjoyment and collected in the farmhouse kitchen like specks of dust in the presence of the sun.
“Hey,” Gramps pushed himself to his feet. “Let’s go out on the porch for a bit.”
“But it’s so dark and cold out.”
“That’s alright. We’re out in the country. No bad people live out here.”
“Yeah there are! Down the street at home, there was a meth lab that blew up. Charlie said that the man had had it there seven years and no one knew!”
“Your brother is just trying to scare you.” He shook his head. “Sweetie, you are more likely to get hurt falling off the front porch than getting hurt by something out here. Get your jacket and put on your sneakers. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” He walked over to the gun cabinet and took out his pistol, slipping it into his tan jacket. “No one’s gettin’ us out there.”
“Okay.” Dana felt safe in the country in the daylight but she had never been out much in the dark. Paw Paw held coyotes in its shadows and deer with antlers that twisted into talons at the quick. Her brothers only heightened her nightmares by howling in her ear when they would walk Buddy.
They stepped out onto the porch and the wood creaked underneath their feet and then under their bottoms as they sat on the steps. They just sat in silence, watching the stars. The breeze blew. The leaves rustled on the long and dry grass. The crickets creaked under the porch and a frog nearby croaked. A light breeze blew through the trees across the street.
The October air bit at Dana’s pale skin and she huddled closer to her grandfather. He wasn’t warm like usual. She looked over at him. His head hung and his chin hit his hairy chest.
“Gramps?” Her voice pitched, an empty echo into a dark cave, disappearing as they left her tongue.
“Grandpa?” She shook him.
He didn’t budge.
“Grandpa! No, please, no. Please don’t.”
Leaning him back, collecting all his weight in her arms, she laid him back on the wood. Remembering the CPR class Ma had dragged her and her sister to, she clasped her fingers together and used all her strength to pump his chest. Under the chest hair, she noticed the scar from the heart surgery he’d had the year she was born. It was hardly noticeable, but Dana knew about the condition from the pills he took and the times he clasped his chest when he moved too fast or did too much.
“You can’t leave me. I have no one else!” Rare tears dripped off of Dana’s cheeks.
He’s okay. He’ll wake up. He’s fine, she thought. She continued to pump his chest, trying to get him back. She had to. She couldn’t go back in the house without him. She couldn’t go back into the house where her grandmother yelled at her and her father pretended she didn’t exist. Gramps was all she had. Come on, Gramps. Don’t be a yuppie. Push through. Just push through.
Gramps was gone just like that. His brown eyes were wide open and staring at her. It struck her to the core. It raked her face like the times Ma would swipe at her for having a smart mouth. The breeze tickled his receding hair and his fingers no longer trembled. She wondered if the crumbs in his brain had reattached to the cookie or they settled in the crevices, like a mother tucking in her kids at night, not knowing what may happen tomorrow.
