Keeping The Moon(17)

twice. Three times, if you counted my first day in Colby. It was always the same, beginning with some offense in the later part of

the night. She’d declare herself fed up, take off her apron and toss it down indignantly, announcing that she was quitting. Then

she’d slam out the door to give someone a piece of her mind. But they had always just left, so she’d come back in, grumbling, and

tie her apron on again.

Isabel didn’t even flinch during these episodes. She never seemed to get ruffled or upset; she took nothing personally. It was

clear that Morgan was dramatic enough for both of them.

Some days I pulled double shifts, working for Morgan so she could wait for Mark to call. She was always incredibly grateful.

Sometimes I worked for Isabel so she could sleep off a hangover or go to the beach. She wasn’t. The most I’d gotten was a bland

“Thanks” tossed over her shoulder as she was coming or going. When we worked together she turned the radio up loud, so we didn’t

have to talk. And after we locked up she usually drove away toward town, leaving me to walk home alone in the dark.

It didn’t really bother me. I’d spent years hearing whispers, taunts called across gyms and locker rooms, and I was thankful even

for those compared to the insults right to my face. I’d been called fat and easy, slut and whore, Hole in One. So I didn’t mind

being ignored. For so long, it had been all I wanted.

When I worked lunches I came home in the late afternoon, while Mira was taking her nap. She had to have one every day, just like a

toddler; she said she was no good otherwise. I’d take off my shoes and creep around, exploring, all the while careful to listen

for the creak of her bedroom door.

Mira wasn’t much of a housekeeper. Everything was dusty and there were cobwebs hanging from the corners of the ceiling. The first

week I’d taken the initiative with my own room, washing the windows and cleaning under the bed, kicking up an entire colony of

dust bunnies and some lost socks. In the downstairs closet I found three vacuum cleaners, all of which were, of course, broken,

leaving me to do the best I could with a broom while I wondered, again, about Mira.

She rode her bike everywhere, even at night, when she attached an incredibly bright light to the handlebars, which occasionally

blinded oncoming traffic. She lived off grilled chicken salad, homemade doughnuts, and junk cereal. She was constantly beginning

projects: among other things, the living room contained a cane chair with a broken seat, halfway re-strung; a china pig with three

legs, sitting next to a tube of Super Glue; and a toy bus with two missing wheels and a dented front fender, as if it had been in

some kind of very small, violent accident.

I wasn’t even going to ask about that.

At night, while she sat in front of the TV—jiggle to get 11—Mira worked on her projects. Nothing ever seemed to get completely

fixed, just tinkered with and then labeled with a note. I came back one day to find she’d taken apart the alarm clock in my room—

which, although I reset it each day, had been consistently FIVE minutes behind—and then put it back together. She was very proud

of herself until she discovered she’d left out one huge spring. Now, instead of ringing, it made this awful moaning sound. The

next day I’d snuck out to the drugstore and purchased a nice, new digital clock, which I kept hidden under my bed as if it was

contraband and illegal just because it worked.

The strange thing was that she had enough money to buy all new appliances, if she wanted; I’d discovered a stack of bank

statements in a lower cabinet while searching for a vegetable steamer.

The evening I found the vacuum cleaners, I came downstairs to find her sitting on the back porch watching TV.

“Mira,” I said, after shoving the broom into the closet, “why don’t any of these vacuums work?”

She hadn’t heard me, her eyes fixed on the TV. I walked down the dark hallway to stand behind her chair. Then I heard my mother’s

voice.

“My name is Kiki Sparks,” she was saying, right there in her trademark windsuit, blonde hair cut and curled, hands on hips in the

can-do pose. She was in a fake living room set, with a plant and sofa behind her. “And if you are overweight and have given up, I

want you to listen to me. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. Because I can help you.”

The music started, that same tune I knew so well; I’d seen this infomercial a million times. It was the one that had made my

mother a star.

“Mira?” I said softly.

“It’s just amazing what she’s done,” she said suddenly, as we both watched my mother clap her hands and walk toward the studio

audience, grabbing a woman to demonstrate how to do a deep knee squat (perfect for toning those glutes!). “You know, I never

doubted your mother could get thin. Or conquer the world, for that matter.”

I smiled. “I don’t think she ever did either.”

“She was always so sure of herself.” Mira turned around in her chair to look at me, the light of the TV on her face. “Even

during those terrible years when you two were moving from place to place, she was never scared. And she’d never take a cent from