Beneath a Meth Moon (10 page)

donnersville moon

MOSES WASN'T THERE
in the morning, when I grabbed a stranger's sleeve and begged him for money. Wasn't there when the man looked in my face, and in pity dropped a twenty-dollar bill in my hand—then pushed me hard away from him.

Moses wasn't there when I ran drug sick to the small cabin in Donnersville, where the meth heads went, where the people who weren't me smoked the moon right outside, not caring. He wasn't there when I handed the strange kid hanging from the window the money, stood there hugging myself, my face and hands feeling like a million bugs were crawling all over me. He wasn't there as I stood there scratching till the blood ran down.

Wasn't there to see me crowded next to the meth heads, smoking the moon up until I couldn't breathe, until I couldn't see. Until the world disappeared in a white-hot light of pain and noise and my own voice screaming out,
I can't breathe! I can't breathe. Somebody help me. I can't breathe anymore!

And then . . . nothing at all.

Where are you, Moses?

I'm looking for you.

Where is your bread? Where is your chocolate?

I'm looking for you, Laurel. I'm looking for you.

another second chance

AND WHEN I WOKE UP
in the hospital room, Daddy and Kaylee and Jesse Jr. were there—standing at my bedside, their eyes red and swollen, their smiles trembling. My head hurt, and my chest felt thick and heavy.

You messed up your heart
,
Laurel,
Jesse Jr. said, coming to the edge of my bed.
But it's still working.

And when I tried to move, I couldn't. And when I tried to hug him, I couldn't lift my arm.

You have to rest,
my daddy said. He looked old standing there, more gray than I remembered, broken and unsure.
You got another long road ahead of you, baby girl.

And for a moment, we just looked at each other, his eyes pleading,
Please make it this time.

Does your heart still work to love me?
Jesse Jr. asked, his tiny face so close I could smell the applesauce that he'd eaten.

It still works,
I whispered, the words hurting as they came out of me, my throat burning, a new unfamiliar burn.

They had to incubate you,
Jesse Jr. said.

Intubate,
Kaylee said.
You've had a tube down your throat for a week. Did you feel it at all?

Kaylee picked up my hand. There was a tube running up from my wrist along the inside of my arm. I couldn't tell where it stopped. I tried to squeeze Kaylee's hand.

You okay?

She nodded.
I'm not letting you leave me out in the country by myself again. You know that, right?

I squeezed her hand again.

How about you? You gonna live to tell the story?

I smiled but couldn't answer her.

My daddy collapsed into the chair beside my bed and took a long, hard breath.

She's okay now, Daddy,
Jesse Jr. said, patting my daddy's shoulder while Kaylee held tight to my hand. There was the sound of Daddy's tears and the sound of something close by beeping and the sound of nurses calling over the intercom, asking doctors where they were. The sound of life going on—and me there, in it.

Me there in it.

I'm okay, Daddy. I'm gonna be okay now.

She's gonna be okay, now, Daddy,
Jesse Jr. echoed.

My father took deep breaths and nodded. He looked at me, his eyes so full of so many things I had to look away.

Is Moses here?

Who's Moses?

I closed my eyes. How would they know him? How would anybody know anything about that world I walked in? So far away from this one?

Is he the guy who found you?
Kaylee asked.
They said somebody called the ambulance, said you were from Galilee.

I was looking for you.

Are we in Galilee?

Kaylee shook her head.
Donnersville Hospital.
She bent down to kiss me on the forehead, her hair falling across my face. I tried to reach up to hold her. But couldn't. So I pressed my face against hers.
Give me your sun, Kaylee,
I wanted to say.
Take this pain away from me.
But only tears came.

elegy for mama and m'lady

THE MORNING WE LEFT
Pass Christian, my mama came into my room and whispered,
You behave yourself at your cousins' house, Laur. Ask to help with dishes and make your bed without Aunt G. having to ask you, you hear me?

I woke up slowly. It was still near dark outside. My mama had her hand on my face, looking down at me. Jesse Jr. had just turned three months old and was asleep in his crib across from me. He stirred, making tiny baby noises.

C'mon, Laur, time to get up now. I have to get the baby up and dressed. Get y'all on the road.

It wasn't until she was buckling Jesse Jr. into his infant seat that it hit me she wasn't coming. I had heard them talking late into the night. I'd heard my daddy fussing with her. I'd heard M'lady saying,
I don't need anyone staying here with me.
And then I'd gone to sleep.

Soon as the rain is done, Daddy's gonna bring y'all back here,
my mama said. She kissed the top of my forehead.

But, Mama—

Hush, Laur. Don't you wake that baby and start him to crying.

Jesse Jr. was just a baby, so I didn't know if Mama's tears were about him leaving her for the first time or seeing the tears in my own eyes. But she turned away from us, wiped her eyes real fast, then turned back again.

I don't want to hear that your aunt had to ask you to make your bed.

I nodded but couldn't speak. Couldn't look at her. M'lady sat swinging on the front porch.

Just gonna be a day or two,
she said.
Don't know why you all falling apart so.

That was the last time we saw them breathing.

daddy

I WANT TO SAY
I remember leaving the hospital, remember the drive back to Galilee, my father in the front, humming along to the radio and me beside him. Jesse Jr. in the back talking nonstop, like he wanted to fill me in on everything I missed. I want to say I remember the way the sky turned clear blue as we drove and when I looked up into it, I thought,
This is what's beautiful about living—the way the world seems to go on and on.
I want to write that I left that hospital not wanting the moon, entered that rehab already done with it. But what I remember most is how it hurt to not feel my moon pipe against my lips, how the scratching scars on my face reminded me for a long time how the moon had made me itch and cry out. How, late some nights, I wanted to run from rehab back to the House, any House, and erase, erase, erase.

How I dreamed M'lady saying,
The moon will stand beside you with the Lord . . .
But what comes clear to me each day is the morning my father came into Second Chances and handed me my knapsack, smiling. It was the first smile I'd seen on his face in a long time.

Your friend Moses brought this by,
he said.
Bet you didn't know we're the only Daneaus in Galilee.

Moses came to our house?

He said he wanted to make sure you got your stories back. He . . . saved . . . he saved . . . he saved you.
My daddy's voice caught, but he shook his head, took a breath
.
I know I keep saying it. Feel like I have to so I know it's true. He's going to come by here. See how you doing. I hope that's okay.

Yeah, Daddy. I want him here. I want Moses to come see me. Tell him please come . . .
We got quiet for a minute. My daddy's hands on my face, looking hard in my eyes.

He never did the moon,
I said.
His mama did, but not him. I don't want you thinking—

I know, sweet pea. I didn't at first. When he rang our bell and had that bag, I was ready to kill him, ready to go to jail with all the mad inside of me. But he stood there, said real clear, “Mr. Daneau, my name is Moses. You don't know me, but you can find my name in the Donnersville hospital records.” And that was all he needed to say before I threw my arms around that boy. Hugged him hard.

I nodded, not able to speak. My daddy kissed my forehead, like he used to do when I was little.

My hands were shaking as I unzipped the bag. It was filthy and smelled like the room I'd stayed in—musty and damp and meth-smoke sweet. I felt my stomach creeping up as I opened it, watching the months of notebooks and envelopes and paper bags and pieces of paper fall out.

I pulled a wrinkled envelope from the pile. The edges of it were brown, like maybe I'd held my lighter to it.
This is me,
I'd written.
In this room. High. Beneath a meth moon. My name is Laurel Daneau, and once upon a time . . . once upon a time . . . before the rain came and washed us all away . . . Laurel,
my daddy said,
you held on to it, baby girl. You wrote it down. Don't cry like that, sweetie. It's the past. It's behind you now.

My daddy sat down and I climbed into his lap like I was five instead of fifteen. Put my head against his chest and cried and cried. And my daddy held me. Held me like he was never gonna let me fall.

elegy

IT'S NOVEMBER NOW.
Summer feeling like it's long behind me. Jesse Jr. holds tight to my hand as we walk the half mile to his day care center. Even when he skips ahead of me, he refuses to let go.

This is an elegy for Jesse Jr., who lived so many months without me. An elegy for the boy who lost his grandma and his mother
and almost lost his sister, too.

In the pocket of my jeans is the medal I got from Second Chances—a small gold coin marking ninety days without the moon.

This is an elegy to the moon no longer running through my veins.

My pom-poms bounce against my legs, my cheerleading uniform in my bag, the mighty Tigers will be waiting this afternoon, for me and Kaylee and the rest of the squad to cheer them on. Kaylee, coming over every evening, counting the days with me. Moonless days. Days till Texas or Colorado or wherever we go from here.

Some mornings I see T-Boom wandering the streets of Galilee, his eyes wild.
Hey, beautiful girl,
he says to me.
How about a dollar for the guy who loved you once. You know the House is blown up and gone now. They got me paying for it now. Crazy, huh?

And sometimes I hand it to him.

I could help you move through it, T-Boom. You don't need the moon.

I know,
he says.
I'm getting off this train. Gonna play ball again. Soon, baby, soon.
Then he's walking fast away from me.

This is an elegy for T-Boom and prayer for the ones who didn't make it.

In the distance, I hear a train whistle blowing and smile, thinking of Moses. In January he will leave Donnersville, heading to college in another town.
Psychology,
he said when I asked him what he plans to study
.
Because you were my first successful patient. My golden girl.
But before he leaves, we'll spend many hours sitting by the train tracks, talking about our futures, talking about our past, a loaf of bread, a bar of chocolate and so much more between us.

At the corner of First and Holland, Jesse Jr. stops, pulls me down and kisses my cheek before we head inside.
You'll be here to get me later, right?
he asks, his brown eyes bright.
You'll be waiting for me?

And I hold tight to him, because I know I'll be waiting for him, today and the next day and the one after that. Waiting and watching out for him until we're grown and gone from here.

Grown and gone from here.

I watch him skip into his day care center as his teacher waves to me from the top of the stairs.
He's a joy,
she says. And I smile, proud as Mama and M'lady would have been about what a joy Jesse Jr. is.

Later, after school, I'll shop for the ingredients for M'lady's gumbo—okra, sausage, chicken . . . the spices coming quick to my brain like I'd never forgotten them. By late afternoon the house will smell like Pass Christian . . . As I turn and start walking, I hear M'lady's laughter coming toward me, and I can see her blue braid dancing over her back as she tosses her head toward heaven, saying softly,
Lord, girl, you surprise me every day.

The wind picks up as I walk. The sound of it moving through the trees reminds me of the water, and I know that sound will always be inside of me, gentle as time.

Laurel!
I turn to see Jesse Jr. standing there.
I need another kiss good-bye, please.
Then, while his teacher looks on, he runs back into my arms, hugs me hard as anything and kisses my cheek. Then I watch him walk back inside with his teacher, excited as any four-year-old can be about something new. I wave long after he's turned away from me, wave until my eyes blur and burn.

It's a long walk away from meth,
my counselor said to me.
It's a slow walk. It's a hard walk.

But I put one foot in front of the other. And I keep on moving.

 

 

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