Losing the Moon Read online

  Lisbeth spoke with the soft shawl of Jack’s arm flung over her shoulders. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.” Lisbeth blinked. Amy did not. Something about Lisbeth’s jaw caused Amy to feel as though she needed to reach out to touch it.

  Jack turned to his father. “And this is my dad, Phil.”

  Phil held out his hand. “Nice to finally meet you.”

  “You too, sir.” Lisbeth shook Phil’s hand.

  Amy stared at Lisbeth’s face: familiar and unfamiliar, nagging. Lisbeth turned, blushed under Amy’s stare. “My parents are on their way, if you don’t mind. I tried to explain where you were.”

  “Well, you keep an eye out for them. I’m sorry we couldn’t make it to dinner last night, but we’d love to meet them. We have plenty of food.” Amy reached for Phil’s hand. “We’ll unload the car.”

  She turned from her son and his new love; she somehow felt young, their age. It was easy to do on a fall day with gold leaves crackling under her feet, old friends surrounding her on the university campus.

  Phil carried the chairs to the other side of the lawn, and before Amy could finish unloading the cooler, Jack called to her.

  “Mom, come meet Lisbeth’s parents.”

  Amy turned. Lisbeth’s father moved into her field of vision. She tried to speak, but the autumn air gripped her voice in a tight portent fist.

  The man hugged Lisbeth. “Lizzy, darlin’, I thought we’d never find you.” He kissed the tip of her nose.

  Amy stared at this man, at Lisbeth’s father. He was tall, at least six foot three, tree-trunk solid with hair the color of the burnished leaves under her feet; a scar dented his lower chin. The scar: a slice of open flesh as a beer bottle slit his chin in a barroom brawl—something about whose turn it was at the pool table. Amy reached for the side of her SUV and missed.

  Lisbeth giggled and Amy heard it through a long, echoing tunnel. “Daddy, come meet Mrs. Reynolds. Amy, right?”

  “Yes . . . yes.” Amy glanced behind Jack for Phil. He was across the lawn with his back turned.

  She smelled noises, heard smells; her senses moved and crowded each other for attention, mixed up with their true function as the air wavered with an actual and measurable width. A slow tingle of recognition began as an electric pulse in her stomach, her inner thighs; memory only in body, not yet mind.

  “This is my dad, Nick Lowry.”

  The air separated, Nick reached out his hand to Amy, as if he’d not just risen from the grave of the past, the coffin of dead promises. He looked at her. His grin broke open to the wide and recognizable face of her Nick Lowry. She held out her hand to greet her old lover as mind’s memory met visceral memory with the internal sound of grinding bone.

  His face was wider, thicker on the bottom, the jaw softened, but it was his. Those brown eyes were still like liquid copper in his face. He didn’t look surprised—he must have known she’d be here.

  “Well, hello, Mrs. Amy Reynolds.”

  “Hello” is all Amy managed to utter. She smiled, grasped Nick’s outstretched hand, amazed at her good manners while the world swam sideways.

  “What a coincidence this is . . . what a—”

  Nick’s wife interrupted as she appeared from behind a van, tucking her blond hair behind her ear. “Yoo-hoo. Well, hello there, Reynolds family. I have just heard so much about you.” She stepped up to Nick and ran her hand down his bare arm, held the other hand out to Amy. “Hi, I’m Eliza Lowry.”

  “Oh.” Amy shook Eliza’s hand.

  Eliza looked up at Nick, then back at Amy. “And you are Amy Reynolds? Mother of the adorable Jack Reynolds?”

  “Yes. Um, yes.”

  “Well, nice to meet you,” Eliza said.

  Phil appeared at Amy’s side; she reached for him, grasped him like a life preserver. Phil held out his hand and introduced himself to Nick and Eliza. Eliza gave a curtsy. The ground seemed to dissolve; Amy felt wide, rising.

  Eliza wrapped Phil’s hand in both of hers. “It’s nice to meet you.” She tilted her neck a little more to the side, her smile widening just a tad as she swung her hair behind her shoulders.

  A stray yellow leaf threaded with red fell into Phil’s hair. Amy plucked it from his head—ordinary motions an antidote to the unexpected.

  She glanced at Jack and Lisbeth standing next to Eliza, searched for something, anything to say to Nick and his wife—but she only found a gray swirling space as her mouth opened and closed. God, this woman, Eliza, must think her a mute fool, just standing there with an open fish mouth.

  “Aren’t these football games fun?” Eliza said.

  “Especially when they’re having a winning season,” Phil answered, squeezing Amy’s elbow.

  “Yeah, the last time Saxton won the national championship was when Nick was here.” Eliza giggled. “We won’t say what year that was.”

  Jack laughed. “Jeez, that was like, what? Thirty years ago?”

  “Oh, thanks for the reminder.” Eliza tickled the side of Jack’s arm. Amy wanted to slap her hand away.

  Amy looked up at her son. “No, more like twenty-five years ago.”

  Eliza then turned to her daughter, pulled her away from Jack and began to attempt to smooth down her curls while talking to her.

  Phil looked at Amy with large eyes, with furrowed forehead. Everything about Phil looked eager, even when it wasn’t. His smooth skin, without freckle or mole, gave the appearance of everlasting youth—soft mouth, wet eyes and rounded eyebrows creating an anticipatory look. Amy had appreciated this when he first came to her—his softness a place to finally lay her wounded self. She brushed his hair back from his eyes, his blond hair always falling in the wrong places.

  “Did y’all know each other at school?” Phil said.

  “Sure . . .” Nick answered.

  “A long time ago,” Amy said, reaching for Phil’s arm.

  Nick laughed and smiled at Amy. “Yes, a very long time ago.”

  Nick possessed the same goofy “I’m uncomfortable but aren’t I hiding it great” grin that moved across his face in waves, waves she’d ridden . . . before. She smiled—certain she showed nothing of what cracked within her.

  “So how have you been all these years?” She found she was speaking.

  “I’ve been fine, just fine. And you?”

  “Perfect . . . thanks,” she said.

  Phil tilted his head and rubbed at a spot between his eyes, at the top of his nose—something he did when he was confused.

  Eliza turned her attention back to the group. “So, Reynolds family, where do y’all live?”

  “Darby,” Phil said. “And you?”

  “We lived up north in Maine for way, way too long, but we moved back to Garvey about eight years ago. That’s where I’m from—grew up there. You know, there’s just no place like home.” Eliza sighed—a long, exhausted sigh as if the journey of her life had finally led her to a place of rest.

  “Oh, how nice . . . how very nice . . . that you and Nick are . . . home,” Amy said. Eight years ago. Nick Lowry had been living less than two hours away from her for eight years. As Carol Anne might have said if she were standing there, Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

  “Of course, Nick still doesn’t think of Garvey as home. But he will. He will. It does grow on one.” Eliza grabbed Nick’s hand.

  “Like a bad fungus,” Nick joked.

  They all laughed, too loudly. Obviously Nick still had the gift: to alleviate tense moments with sarcasm. The memories began with his scar, then his sarcasm and Amy fell toward a well-packed storehouse of images she’d never planned on looking at again. Ever.

  She excused herself and, without feeling the solid ground, walked through the tailgating crowd over to Carol Anne.

  Carol Anne was not only Amy’s childhood friend and college roommate, but often her source of sanity. She’d also married a hometown boy and they lived
two blocks away from each other—more proof of the comfortable ease of Amy’s life. She didn’t want or need any change or surprise right now. She collapsed next to Carol Anne in a green canvas chair with a huge S.U. logo embroidered on its back.

  She stared straight ahead and mumbled, “Oh, God.”

  “No, it’s me, your dearest and best friend. Don’t get us confused.” Carol Anne touched her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  “Look over at my car.”

  “Okay . . . I see your cute son, Jack, your adorable husband, Phil, and some cutesy girl with her parents.” She glanced at Amy. “Okay, so Jack has his first serious girlfriend. You will live through this.”

  “Look! Look at the man. Look.”

  Silence from Carol Anne was a rare event worthy of comment, but Amy had none. Carol Anne took a sharp breath. “Oh, God. No.”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought he . . . disappeared—you know, after Costa Rica—shit, twenty-five years ago.”

  “So did I.”

  “Who’s that? Who’s his wife?”

  “I don’t know—Eliza. I’ve never met her. She didn’t go to school here. Says she’s from Garvey.”

  Carol Anne snorted. “Okay . . .”

  “My son—my son is dating his daughter.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “This cannot be good.”

  “I want to go home.”

  Carol Anne groaned. “Me, too.”

  The afternoon became a slow dream sequence for Amy, no bridge between each scene—just snapshots of her son, her husband, her old lover. Everyone else seemed to move with comfort while she struggled to breathe without stops and starts, to function without twitches and flutters, to touch and kiss her husband of twenty-three years without feeling as though she were betraying her boyfriend when his back was turned.

  Jack stood next to his dad, flipping cheeseburgers on the grill. He was tall and gangly, still adjusting to his height and long-limbed youth, two inches taller than the father he adored. Jack’s height had come to him later in life than his friends, and at times he had seemed to trip over his own feet as though his shoes were too large. He was handsome, as expected, since his father’s genes dominated in the bones, muscles and eyes. The only thing Amy could detect of herself in her son was his mouth—a wide smile that couldn’t be faked. His blue eyes were softer in color than his father’s, but identical in the silk-fabric appearance. He pulled Lisbeth closer.

  Amy stared, shamelessly stared, at Lisbeth. She would not have been able to identify Lisbeth as any part of Eliza if she’d not been introduced. She would have expected a woman like Eliza to have a daughter who was a doll-like version of herself—a Skipper to her Barbie. Instead, Amy was stunned by the exotic beauty of a pale, dark-haired girl whose only attribute from her mother was her blue eyes snapping from a face of Nick’s curves and lines. Oak- and molasses-colored ringlets fell to her shoulders; a small barrette clung to the curls—a vain attempt to restrain them. She seemed a wild and beautiful child—exotic, opposite to Eliza.

  Jack and Lisbeth floated from the grill to a cluster of people without letting their hands ever leave each other—some body part in constant contact. There was no fighting for attention as was common in youthful gatherings. They were the exact same age she and Nick had been when they dated in college—when Nick had left and never returned. Unbidden images ran through her mind: tousled sheets, murmured promises, wet limbs. She pushed them to the back of her mind to examine later and turned from her son and his girlfriend.

  Eliza—Amy had to fight the urge to call her Barbie—found Amy alone and sprawled in a chair, avoiding Nick. Eliza sat down in the empty seat next to Amy, who damned Carol Anne for vacating the seat to find a bathroom in the chemistry building.

  Eliza smiled, flipped her hair, and nodded toward Jack and Amy. “They seem pretty serious, huh?”

  “They sure do.” Amy lifted her hand, dropped it to the chair, not sure where to put any part of her—as if Eliza might know where her hands had once been.

  “I never understand the hoopla around these games, but Nick and the kids sure do love them.”

  “Well, they’re a lot of fun . . . and it’s always good to see old friends and—”

  Eliza raised her hand in the air. “I know—that’s what Nick always says. My college didn’t have a football team, so I never got into the whole tailgating thing.”

  “Where did you go to school?”

  “I went to William-Dean—the private college about half an hour from here.”

  “I know William-Dean. Then you must’ve at least come here a lot in college—to go out or go to the games.”

  “Not really. . . .”

  “Oh.” Amy again felt as if she were floating, lost. How had Nick come to meet this woman, marry her? None of this made sense, like a picture blurred and off-kilter.

  Eliza and Amy turned together in some synchronous mother-way to watch Jack and Lisbeth mingle with their friends. Eliza began to talk of her family, of her sons at home—All-State wrestling and football.

  Amy turned back to Eliza and stared at her. She guessed from Eliza’s matching linen pants and shirt, her forehead which didn’t move or wrinkle, her diamond-stud earrings that were bigger than Amy’s engagement ring, that Eliza’s and Amy’s paths in college would never have crossed. Amy’s group was more the “Let’s go to the beach and find a place to crash—don’t forget your bathing suit,” while Eliza’s clique seemed to be the “Let’s go to my parents’ condo in Hilton Head—pack your Gucci bag and don’t forget the curling iron and blow-dryer.”

  When Eliza asked Amy what she did, Amy told her about her part-time job at SCAD and although she considered telling her about the island—about the house and land she was trying to save—she was too distracted to even try, and she wasn’t sure Eliza was interested in much aside from her matching shoes and purse. So Amy smiled and cooed when appropriate and talked of her own daughter, a senior in high school and a Georgia state tennis champion in her age group.

  Nick entered their sphere a few times to give his comments or opinion on talk that Amy could later never remember. She used her energy to regain her composure after he moved away. She would not allow the past to come rushing at her without warning, flaring heat inside her as she chatted with Nick’s wife. It was . . . inappropriate.

  “I’ve been thinking.” Eliza looked away and then back to Amy. “Jack and Lisbeth seem so happy, so . . . I was wondering if you—you and Phil—would like to come to our lake house next weekend with the kids? I think it would be fun. We could all get acquainted while the kids hang out.”

  “The lake house?”

  “Yes. Well, actually it’s my parents’, but my sister and I share it. It’s at Lake Hardin—that should only be a couple hours from y’all in Darby.”

  Ah, yes. Amy remembered parties in college that she had never been invited to on the exclusive lake in South Carolina.

  “Yes,” she found herself saying. “Well, Phil has a busy schedule with work, but . . .”

  “Well, that’s the benefit of Nick working for Daddy—he can always make his own schedule.”

  For Daddy?

  “That’s great. I’ll check with Phil. I think a trip to the lake sounds just lovely.”

  As soon as she agreed, as soon as she knew she would see Nick again, some ancient, hurt piece of Amy rose within her. In agreeing to go, in saying yes to the lake, the worst part of her—the part that still clung to whatever had happened with Nick Lowry—was having its say, words and actions already coming from her without her willing them.

  In the clogged traffic on the drive home, Phil listened to the postgame show on the radio. Amy closed her eyes, tried to find a calming point. Her body vibrated as if it were a tuning fork humming to a new energy. She couldn’t settle her mind or her limbs, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to quiet herself
—it had been a long time since she’d thought about or reacted to anyone like Nick Lowry.

  Phil touched her leg. “Now, Ame, how did you know Nick?”

  “We hung around the same crowd in college. Not a big deal.”

  It was a lie. She knew it was a lie. But she couldn’t bear to have Phil half-listen to her, to the story of Nick, with the postgame show on the radio. It seemed these days that Phil only partially heard anything she said and the effort needed to listen to the old and painful story required much more from him than she knew was in him to give right then.

  “I never knew what happened to him. He kind of disappeared after college—went to Costa Rica or something like that.” Now that was the truth.

  “You know, I sort of remember Nick from Hank’s Pool Hall. Could you imagine if he and Eliza ended up being Jack’s in-laws?” Phil laughed. “My God, Nick drunk and rambling at every gathering. It would be an entertaining way to spend holidays, wouldn’t it?”

  Phil laughed. A nail file rubbed against Amy’s nerves.

  “Drunk? I’m sure he doesn’t drink like that now. And he didn’t just hang out at Hank’s. He actually worked there.” Amy looked out the window. “He wasn’t drunk today.” She pushed at the bridge of her nose. Phil had already agreed in front of the Lowrys to go to the lake house. “You agreed to join them next weekend. Our children are dating and we’re obviously going to have to spend some time with them. I’d like for it to be pleasant for Lizzy, Lisbeth, whatever her name is, and Jack.”

  Children: a great excuse. Amy felt dirty, hungover with the first lie, now the second. She leaned her head against the window.

  “You’re right. I’m sure this girlfriend will pass like all the others, so let’s make the best of it.” Phil reached out, laid his hand on Amy’s knee while arguing with the announcer about the outcome of the game. She startled herself with the need to flick his hand off—which she didn’t do. Instead, she told herself to pull it together, compartmentalize her emotions in as efficient a manner as her closets and drawers at home.