Catherine Baker Blotted Moon

Blotted Moon Catherine Baker

“Lily, you’ve got to go a liitttle faster…” Mia glances up from her task at me, and I do the same. She shows me a small distance between her index and thumb to emphasize her point. I roll my eyes with more sass than necessary. She crosses her own eyes and sticks out her tongue in return. I purse my lips in an effort not to laugh, which amuses her. Her laugh is contagious, and soon both our voices fill the air. They mix with the ensemble of Pentatonix voices coming from the black speaker above the kitchen sink. The smell of warm sugar wafts up from the cookies in front of us. I know she isn’t trying to be bossy or overbearing, and I know she’s right, but I really am trying my best. A group of cookies she’s already frosted stare up at me blankly. It’s my responsibility to add red and green sprinkles, but for some reason, I’m frustratingly slow today. Four of them are missing their embellishments, and their icing has already dried. It’s obvious because of the way the shine of the frosting becomes dull once it has dried. I’ve missed the window of opportunity to make the sprinkles stick. Annoyed, I try to add sprinkles to them anyways, but they simply sit at the surface. Mia picks up one of these lame attempts and turns it on its side to prove her point. All the sprinkles fall off, and I groan. She stays calm, though, and quickly adds more frosting. She’s not as easily aggravated as I am. Maybe that patience comes with age-- from being the older sister. Regardless, I’m grateful for another chance to complete my job correctly. This time, I add the decoration before the icing has time to dull. The sprinkles catch the attention of the glowing kitchen lights above us and make the sprinkles shimmer. They’re a little “globby” because of the extra icing, but it’s not too noticeable-- thankfully, the sprinkles cover up a multitude of sins. As we finish the last few cookies, Mia only frosts one at a time, in an effort to not leave me behind. After icing each cookie, she patiently waits for my touch of red and green before beginning to frost the next cookie. With the extra time in between, she leans against the counter, tapping her spatula to the beat of the music playing. She scans my work to make sure it's to her liking, nods without looking up, and continues frosting. The song switches to a fast remix of “Up on the Housetop,” and her drumming matches the song to a T. I watch out of the corner of my eye as her pink spatula flies up and down. This fast tempo encourages me to hurry up. Soon, I’m adding green sparkles to the last cookie. Examining the four trays of glittering cookies, I reach out my arm to begin to plate them, but Mia stops me. She patiently explains how the last couple of cookies need to completely dry to prevent a mess. We watch the last three cookies, then the last two, and then the final cookie becomes matte as we dance around the kitchen like two of Santa’s elves. We finally begin to place the trays’ contents on four separate disposable plates, and Mia wraps each plate with a special see-through paper. To finish, she uses her nimble and strong twelve-year older fingers to tie each plate closed with a

ribbon. I leave this intricate business to my sister and jump onto the counter, swinging my legs to the tune and watching the magic happen. I remember a couple of weeks ago, Dad told me there would be a full moon tonight. I wonder, now, how lucky we are and what the chances are of a full moon on Christmas Eve. A few songs later, mom’s warming the car, and we’re securing the plates in the back seat. Delivering cookies on this night to family-friends has always been a tradition of ours. Once the goodies are properly secured, Mom and Mia hop into the car and buckle themselves. I’m also about to enter when Mia notices I’m not wearing a jacket. She wears her thick jacket over her red Christmas dress made of tulle and satin. She warns me that I’ll be very cold soon, and I grudgingly run back into the house, leaving the car door open. I quickly pull on a puffy jacket over my simple blue sweater. As I leave the front door and step onto the porch, I stand in the cold air, distracted by the sky. I arch my head back, searching for the full moon, and have to catch my balance so as to not fall backward. It’s not there. Mia has become impatient with the cold air drifting into the heated car and yells at me to close the door. I quickly slam it shut and continue my search. I turn around and around, my heavy head resting on my shoulders, my eyes wandering up and down. Left and right. My eyebrows furrow, and I can feel the skin on my forehead buckling. The cold air nips at my nose, and I habitually begin to fiddle with the hem of my jacket’s sleeves. I spin quickly, beginning to wonder if this is how it feels to be tipsy. I move my feet to see if the expected silver moon is being blocked by the roof. Nope. I see the bright headlights of Mom’s truck and the smoke of the engine but no moon. It must be too cloudy. Mom honks the horn. I give up my search with a sigh and buckle myself into the warm car. I comment on the obnoxious clouds as I enter, and Mia pats my shoulder to console me. She tries to find the silver lining by suggesting that lots of clouds could mean snow tomorrow morning. I roll my eyes and smile. Oh, how she loves the snow. It seems a white Christmas is all she ever wants. I remember she wrote that on her Christmas list a few years ago-- in her letter to Santa. I was seven then. She was nine. I didn’t actually believe in Santa, but it seemed everyone wanted me to believe, so I stubbornly went along. While my list included an American Girl Doll and pink Legos, she wrote with a crayon in big cursive letters: SNOW. I never really liked snow. It’s wet and cold, and my jacket and scarf make me itch. But I did love playing with Mia in the snow, so I held my crayon tightly and copied her pretty handwriting as best as I could, asking for the same wish. That same year, our wish did come true. Mia jumped up onto my bed and shook me awake on Christmas morning. Her bright eyes reflected the snow on the roof outside my window. She yanked my arm and pulled me down the carpet stairs and out the front door. I watched, rubbing my eyes and leaning onto the door’s frame as she began to spin around on the porch. She pranced around in circles in her pajamas and opened her mouth wide to let snowflakes fall in. While a couple did, most fell and contrasted against her chocolate hair. Her giggles filled the cold air as she breathed vapor like a dragon. Her eyes squinted, the skin around them wrinkling, not to avoid flakes, but because she smiled so wide.

Mom begins to pull out of the driveway, and Mia and I giggle as the cookies slide every time we make a sharp turn. My mom looks back, wearing a disturbed expression. I check behind me to make sure I’m not sitting on any cookies. I’m not. She must be tired from all this cookie business. I try to give her some peace of mind by talking more quietly with my sister. We pass different stores on our trip. All their trees are dolled up with Christmas lights, and there are a few Hanukkah bushes too. We reach the first house on the delivery list, but nobody’s home, so we leave the plate of cookies on the house’s welcome mat. We return to the car and move onto the second house. Mom knocks on the door, and Mrs. Stevenson is home. She accepts the cookies from my mom’s hands, and the two women make small talk for a couple of minutes. Mia and I slowly become less and less interested in the adult conversation and gradually drift about a foot or two away to talk about whatever random things come to mind. I laugh to myself as she makes a joke, and Mrs. Stevenson glances from my mom to me, confused. Mom turns around and shakes her head. Her mouth is pursed into a fine line, warning me. I nudge my sister in the side, and the two ladies continue with their conversation. It’s getting cold. Soon enough, though, we’re back in the car and on our way to the third house. Then the last one. I make sure to stay quiet during the next two deliveries and don’t allow Mia to make me laugh, although she tries. My face remains stone and sour like an old grandpa’s. My arms stay tightly crossed in front of me as we pull up in the driveway, but she manages to maneuver her strong fingers through the thick material of my jacket to tickle me. I jerk away, laughing. The ice thaws between us, but I make sure to get my reward. I let her know that she still owes me and that I am contemplating her payment. We enter the house and take off our jackets as Christmas music continues to shuffle through the speaker. We both need to go to the bathroom, but she beats me there. I shove my foot in the crack as she tries to close the door and press my body against the wood. She eventually gives up and lets me in. I make sure the counter is dry before hopping onto it, waiting for her to finish with her business. We talk about what gifts we hope to open tomorrow morning, but the conversation, as always, drifts from one subject to another. Finally, it’s my turn, and I beg her to hold my phone, taunting that she still owes me. She accepts, wanting to be freed from her debt, and I finish my business contentedly, knowing my phone is safe. I stand up and flush, and as I go to wash my hands, I notice that my phone is on the counter. I catch my reflection in the mirror. My stomach drops and my eyes widen, as I realize what I’ve done again. Mia isn’t here. I scan the mirror for my best friend. Nothing. My stomach turns, and a hole begins to form. The room starts to sway. I grab the counter with shaking hands in an attempt to keep myself upright. Turning my head, again and again, I scan the bathroom for my sister. Nothing. I begin to fiddle with my sleeves; they ground me as I become dizzy. The pit in my stomach travels up my body, its heat radiating through my chest. It finally stops to lodge itself in my throat. The seed grows and grows here. I begin to sweat. The pressure it creates is too much to be contained in my small skull, and it forces water out of my eyes. A specific memory of a cold night comes flooding back to me, and I fight to push it and the budding seed out of my head.

Jolly music seeps under the bathroom door. I bump into the wall, confused and disoriented in my search to find my sister through the clouds and darkness. I feel nauseous, but I’m so empty that I don’t know what would come up. I quickly stuff my phone that’s been waiting on the counter into my pocket and push myself out of the bathroom. I stumble along like a drunk. I follow through the foyer, with wobbling steps, and with no one to tell me to put my puffy jacket on, I walk out the front door. Stumbling out onto the porch, I half fall over as I crouch close to the ground. I scowl up at the sky, straining my neck as I search for the moon. But the sky’s empty. Gone. Replaced by gray. Gray clouds that blot out life. I allow myself, just for a second, to think back to that night a few years ago. My family and I taking a stroll after a certain late-night play. As we walked, we’d searched for stars and constellations, just like I do know. Mia was ten then, I was eight. We both wore our special Christmas dresses. Mia’s was crimson and mine, evergreen. The fabric of the dresses rustled in the wind, and we listened to the fast waves lap against the shore a short distance away. We reached a pier and Mia slipped off, falling into the water. That was the last time I saw her. When a search team finally found her body, I only heard my mom’s wailing as she shoved her hand to cover my eyes. No, I didn’t see what was left of my best friend, but I’d heard enough. Strangers standing around whispering during the closed-casket funeral. They disclosed details to each other with voices lowered and heads bowed: she was found purple and peeling, her red dress tattered and soaked to a deep maroon. She’d slipped, her thick red dress probably weighing her down as she treaded water. She probably panted quickly out of fear, breathing in water as easily as air. Her lungs, two wet sponges, had become too heavy, and she was quickly carried under the deep waves. I think now, that while she fought to stay above the water, she probably looked up to see the big moon above her. It looked back down at her, watching, unbothered. She must’ve been so scared. I look up now at the blank sky. Grey clouds blotting out the moon. I yell at the moon to come back. To stay with me. I curse it for leaving me alone. For pulling the tides that crushed my sister. For allowing the clouds to cover its face. No response. It’s so hot. I pull up the sleeves of my sweater and begin to unconsciously scratch, reopening fragile wounds. The disfigured and wrinkled patches of skin warn me to stop, but I methodically itch. Desperately clawing. Soon enough my fingers become wet. The smell of iron rises around me. Fast angry tears stream down my face, and my throat begins to burn in protest. It’s hard to breathe. My yelling melts into shallow gulps of cold air. I gasp for breaths just like Mia had done that night. I pull at my hair as I bury my head in my pleading forearms. After some time, my pulling becomes slower, and my breaths less shallow. Deeper. My tears slow and my breath blends in with the silence of the cold air around me. I wipe my cheeks of tears, then shield my melting eyes with my hands, staining my face with blood in the process. I know more than my parents think I do. I know they wish I would just let the memory of Mia sink away. That they’re tired of being reminded of that night on the pier. They whisper at night about my progress with different medications and therapists, hoping that if enough time passes, the scars on my small arms might just

heal over, and I’d stop needing to pull at my sleeves to cover them. I know they’re haunted by the face of the girl in the red dress with bloated cheeks and prune-like skin. That they’re hesitant to continue old traditions that could trigger episodes like today’s. Honestly, though, I just wish I was better at hallucinating. Something about the glittering and sparkling illusion I create is never exactly right. I wish my unconscious wouldn’t forget some minor detail, like adding Mia in the mirror with me. That way, my dream wouldn’t come crashing down like it does now, and I could live forever with Mia. Beautiful Mia. With her silky braided hair and smiling eyes. She still wears that glamorous red dress, but instead of it dragging her down, she swims in it. I want to see her now, if only in a dream. I pull again at the threads of my baby blue sweater, but more slowly now. We’d once picked out books at the library together, held hands as we walked to the bus stop. Went to the bathroom together, baked cookies. We were best friends. We would entwine our pinky fingers together when making promises. Mia would take care of me for as long as I can remember. She’d braid our resembling brown hair into matching flower crowns with her capable fingers and would help me into my leotard before ballet class. She would let me lick the spoons after we finished baking and taught me how to draw a star and how to write in cursive. She’d taught me to ride my bike and helped bandage me when I toppled over. When I was overwhelmed or confused, she’d tell me what to do. She would hold up my hair for me while I drank from the water fountain at school, and I imagine that if she was alive now, Mia would hold my phone for me while I go to the bathroom. But she’s not here. Instead, she travels with me as a mere imaginary friend. She’d been more alive than life itself. Breathing vapor like a dragon. Now, when I imagine my sister, I’m forced to complete both roles-- that of the older and younger sister. I try to fill the hole of the wiser and caring sister. I stand in the kitchen, making cookies alone, laughing to myself as my imaginary friend tells a joke. I ice the cookies and talk to the air. Then I go back and shower sprinkles on top. Sometimes, I have to stop and ice each cookie individually because, without help, I can’t get the sprinkles on fast enough before the frosting dries. Suddenly, I feel the smallest touch on my shoulder. I look up, startled. Big clusters of snow fall from the mocking sky. A delivery just in time for tomorrow: a white Christmas. A whimper escapes my mouth as I contemplate why the universe loves to tease me. I’m tired of being the punchline to its great joke. Mia should be here. She would dance in the snow and wipe my tears. She would gently pull my hair out of my face and bandage my arms, then wash my fingernails. She would order me to go inside and to take a shower. She would tell me what to do. She’d poke my ribs and tell me a joke. I remain crouched here, now, and slowly rock myself back and forth, my knees shaking. I remember her spinning right where I sit now-- The snow falling into her hair and her contagious laugh bubbling around her. That was only a few years ago. Time passes so slowly now. Her laugh replays and reechoes in my ears. It mixes with the echoing of my own wailing from tonight. Our ten-year-old voices are so similar yet contrast so much. It’s too loud. I shove my fingers in my ears. I squint tears and snowflakes out of my eyes

and wish I had been holding my sister’s hand, like usual, that night as we walked on the pier. I wish that I would have skipped off the pier with her, and we would’ve tripped under those waves together, our hands intertwined. The seaweed grasping at our small legs and the moon illuminating a tangle of red and green tulle. She’s not here, though, and she’s not coming back. Eventually, I follow my sister’s example and let my body be taken over by the cloudiness around me. My body slowly falls over to the left, and I curl on my side into a tight ball. I let my sweaty chocolate hair create a pillow, and I sink into it. I shiver now, my sobbing moving my heavy chest up and down quickly. I lay here, gagging and drunk on the cold air, waiting for it to drown me, as the impartial snow falls into my tangled hair. It hypocritically attempts to wash away the sticky sweat and blood and tears off my face. My small forearms clench my stomach, staining my sweater, as if with enough pressure, they might fill the hole inside me.