The Last of the Moon Girls(47)

Calendula . . . for the healing of scars.

My dearest girl,

You’ve returned to the pages, seeking answers or comfort, perhaps both. How I wish I could be there to soothe you, the way I used to when you were little and smarting over some unkindness. You’ve been through so much in your short life. But then, being born into our clan, what choice did you have? You never wanted to be like us. Not when you learned the cost of it. I can’t blame you for being bitter. You have a right to that, and more I suppose. Isolation can be a terrible thing. And what girl doesn’t have her dreams? A white dress. A church full of flowers. Happily ever after. But we’re warned early on that those dreams are for other girls. Normal girls. And we none of us were ever that. Our path was mapped out eons ago, not a better path, though a different one to be sure. And for most of us, it was enough.

But not for you, my Lizzy.

You were never comfortable in the Moon skin. You wanted something else. Anything else. I think I knew it before you did. And though I hoped you’d change your mind one day, I was determined to let you find your way. I never pushed. Your mother taught me only too well where that can lead. You were all that was left—my hope and my pride. And so, I gave you your head, as they say, hoping with all my soul that one day you’d find your way back to your roots—to our roots.

And then the girls went missing . . . It took twenty-four hours for the fingers to start pointing in my direction. I was the one. Because I had to be, didn’t I? The crone living at the edge of town, who grows herbs and mutters spells. I poisoned them, strangled them, hexed them with my dark powers. But the police had no case, no way to bring me to their so-called justice. And so the people of this town punished me in the only way they could, with their tittle-tattling and their cold shoulders. They crossed the street when they saw me in town and chased me from their stores—and you watched them do it. Day after day, week after week. As if things weren’t already hard enough for you, you had to end up with an accused murderer for a grandmother. You never spoke of it—you were far too stoic for that—but I could hear you through the wall at night, crying into your pillow, and it broke my heart to know what it was doing to you.

Time leaves its wounds on us all, battering us in ways we do our best to hide. But you could never hide anything from me. I saw the wounds, felt the pain of each lash you suffered in my name. And I watched the scars begin to form, and watched you hide behind them. Because you don’t feel in the scarred places. There’s no registering of pain, just numbness meant to protect against future cuts. You shut yourself off from it, erected a wall around the soft parts of yourself. And in my desolation, I let you. I watched you slipping farther and farther away from me—and from yourself—until I barely recognized the tender girl I’d loved and raised.

And now that you’ve been thrust back into all of that, your wounds, I fear, have reopened. But you must remember what it all meant, where it came from, and why. It wasn’t about anger or even hate. It’s never about those things. It’s about fear. Of anything that doesn’t fit into their tidy notion of what’s right and good. We upset the balance, you see, because we walk our own path and live our own truth. It’s always been a rough road for those who live differently from the herd. We’re seen as Other, a threat to the proper way of things. And so they label us, and they lash out. Because as long as they’re lashing out, they don’t feel their fear.

Knowing this doesn’t make the knives easier to bear, but it does help us understand—and perhaps forgive. And you must forgive, my darling girl, and give up your scars. Bitterness is a subtle poison. It lulls with its righteous indignation and its false sense of power, then turns on you and burns your heart to ash. But forgiveness is balm to the wounded heart.

And love. We must never forget love.

Not only as something we feel, but as who we are deep down in our marrow. Which is why fear must never be allowed to eclipse it. Like most things in my life, I learned this the hard way, and am sorry to say I had to learn it more than once. To love truly is to risk the deepest cut, but it’s always a risk worth taking.

Forgive me, Lizzy, for my preaching. Now, when so many years have passed. There were things we never spoke of, things that might have made that time easier for you. But I was struggling with my own wounds then, and my own fears. And so I must say them now, in the hope that you’ll remember them when you’re tempted to harden your heart. Salve your scars with love, my girl, whatever comes, and keep your heart open. Love—even love that cannot be returned—is never cause for regret.

Love always,

A—





SIXTEEN

July 28

Lizzy stared at the desiccated flower resting in her lap, golden once, now nearly leached of color.

Calendula . . . for the healing of scars.

Once again, Althea had known exactly what to say, and when to say it. She’d been cautioned not to hurry through the book, to come back to its pages when she was ready. And this morning, when she opened her eyes, she had felt the familiar pull, beckoning her to read—to remember that fear often masquerades as hate, and that forgiveness is balm to the wounded heart. Could she forgive?

Evvie was right. Not everyone in Salem Creek had turned their backs on the Moons. There were some—people like Penny Castle and Judith Shrum, like Andrew and his father—who had refused to believe the whispers. But the steady stream of baseless lies was easier to remember, the betrayal carved indelibly on Lizzy’s memory. That people who had known Althea all their lives could have abandoned her so completely was still incomprehensible. But they had, falling away one by one, leaving her to the mercy of public opinion. Except there’d been no mercy.