The Last of the Moon Girls(73)

Lily of the Valley . . . for reconciliation.

My Lizzy,

We’re here again, you and I, meeting across this scribbled page. It gives me pleasure as I write, to think of you holding this book, propped up in bed, or perhaps in my reading room. It makes me feel close to you, though I’m not sure you’ll like what I have to say. Once again I must speak of your mother. You’ll think I’ve already said my piece concerning the two of you, but I find there is more to say, and so, at the risk of running you off for good, I must say it.

You were always an inquisitive child, the sort who asked why over and over again, who needed to peel back the layers of a thing until you got at the truth. It didn’t matter what it was—you needed to understand it all. You liked knowing about things. What they did. How they worked. What would happen next. You thought if you knew enough, nothing would ever catch you off guard. You liked things mapped out, predictable, safe. But that’s not the nature of who we are. Life, particularly for women like us, doesn’t come with a road map.

Nor do the people in our lives.

Even as a child, this seemed to confound you. You needed to be able to put people in neat little boxes, to label them as friend or foe, safe or unsafe. Because then you’d know what to expect, and how to protect yourself. But with Rhanna that didn’t work. She was your mother, and she wasn’t, living under the same roof, but absent in all the ways that matter to a little girl.

She was so unprepared for you, so terrified of the responsibility. And so young. I was afraid she would do something rash—something that couldn’t be undone. And so I struck a bargain with her. She would bring you into the world, and I would do the rest, raise you up and train you in our ways. Even then I knew the Moon legacy would fall to you.

You were too young to understand such a bargain, and you hated her for it, though you pretended not to care. The chasm between you continued to grow, until you barely spoke at all. Meanwhile, Rhanna was coming apart. You didn’t see what I did, because you didn’t know her. But I did, and I watched her change—almost overnight. She was in pain, tormented by something I couldn’t see, and she wouldn’t explain. I begged her to talk to me, to let me help, but she just kept getting further and further away. We each have a shadow-self, a dark place we go to hide when we’re hurt or afraid. For Rhanna that place was at the bottom of a bottle, or in some stranger’s bed. And there you were, watching it all. That’s what you remember—how she was at the end.

You’re a smart girl, Lizzy, and I love you, but there are areas of your life where you choose to wear blinders. Your mother is one of them. You made up your mind about her years ago, leaving no room for the possibility that there might be more to her story. More than either of us will ever know.

I’ve lived a good many years, and seen a good many things, and one thing I know to be true is that we are all scarred, all broken in our own way. Some of us may break more quietly than others, but break we all do, when this world dishes out its worst. It’s part of the journey we all came here to make, the stings and losses all part of our walk. But we can rise above those wounds if we choose. If we’re willing to let down our guard, to look beyond the flaws and the shortcomings, to what lies beneath. It’s easier to be prickly than to be vulnerable, to distract with harsh words rather than show our bruises. But we must do the hard things. That is the work of healing.

All this time, while you’ve been reading this, you’ve been thinking of Rhanna, of her flaws and her shortcomings. But I speak of you too, my Lizzy. You must let down your guard. The time will come when Rhanna will need you—and you will need her. You can’t imagine this now, I know, because of the gulf that’s always existed between you, but the day will come, perhaps sooner than you think, and when it does, you’ll finally understand—there is no quarrel sharp enough to sever the bonds of blood.

A—





TWENTY-EIGHT

August 10

Lizzy ran her hands through her hair, checking for cobwebs as she came down the stairs. She had awakened early to gloomy skies and a drenching rain, still brooding over Althea’s latest journal entry. It had seemed like a perfect day to hide out in the attic and sort through another round of dusty boxes.

Most of it had been unremarkable—linens, cookware, old rugs, and unused lamps. But there’d been a few interesting finds too: a set of scrapbooks belonging to Althea’s mother, Aurore; a crate of salt-glazed pottery that had almost certainly been thrown by Dorothée Moon; and a sketchbook of botanical prints signed by Sylvie Moon.

So many lives. So many stories. But what was she supposed to do with it all?

She was still mulling her options as she wandered into the kitchen, ready for coffee and some toast. Evvie was up and sitting at the table, repairing the pocket of a faded chintz apron.

“Morning,” she mumbled through a mouthful of straight pins. “Where’ve you been?”

“The attic.” Lizzy turned on the tap and scrubbed the grit from her hands, then measured out coffee and filled the carafe with water. “You want tea?”

“Rather have my paper from off the stoop if it hasn’t disintegrated in all this rain.”

“I might actually be able to manage both. It looks like the rain’s let up.”

Lizzy put the kettle on and padded to the foyer. It had stopped raining, but the distant growl of thunder hinted at a fresh round of storms. She scooped up the Chronicle in its sopping plastic bag and gave it a shake, then straightened when she saw a silver Camry crawling up the drive. It stopped near the top and the engine went quiet. A moment later, the driver’s door opened and a rangy figure in khakis and a navy blazer emerged. Roger.