Spinning the Moon Read online

  He shrugged. “All right. If it means that much to you.” He kissed me quickly on the lips and reached for his daughter.

  I was fascinated by comets—those ghostly apparitions from the past traveling along sweeping pathways through space and time. Historically, comets have always been harbingers of doom, having made appearances prior to the assassination of Julius Caesar, the Black Death, the defeat of the Alamo, and the fall of Atlanta to the Yankees in the summer of 1863. Ancient man thought that comets were God’s messengers alerting mankind of what was to come. Despite Mr. Haley’s scientific explanation on the origins of comets, I, too, thought there was something more ethereal about those dirty snowballs of ice and dust.

  I was especially intrigued because of something my grandmother had told me when I was a girl. As I was leaving her house after a day of learning about folklore and her own brand of ancient astronomy, Grandma had held my arm and whispered in my ear, “Be careful of moonless nights and speeding stars. Though the magic is there, there is danger, too, and great heartache.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about, and she refused to elaborate further on subsequent visits. But her prophetic words would always return to me as I climbed Moon Mountain to witness yet another astronomical event.

  Double-checking the diaper bag for Annie’s hat and sunscreen, I loaded it into the Explorer. As I bent down to tie my shoelaces, a bead of perspiration dripped on my knee. At ten o’clock in the morning, it was already sweltering—a typical August day in Georgia.

  It had rained during the night. Not one of those gentle rainstorms found in northern climes, but a powerful combination of window-shaking thunder and daylight-making lightning common to Georgia and other Southern coastal states. But the sky above was now cloudless, a blue dome over the baking earth.

  By the end of the day, we found ourselves at the foot of Moon Mountain. The National Park Service had fashioned an asphalt parking lot at the foot of the hill, and I was happy to see that there were no other cars. Even at nine o’clock at night, the heat rose from the blacktop. Perspiration prickled down my back as I stooped to get our sleeping Annie out of her car seat. I had tried to keep her awake in the car, but her exhaustion had finally overtaken her. I hoped she would wake up in time to see her first comet.

  Her head lolled to one side and I carefully cradled it as I lifted her out. I zipped her snugly into the carrier on Michael’s back and laid a gentle kiss on her sweaty cheek.

  The gravel path cut across the hillside and disappeared around the bend. We hastily checked the car door, then began our ascent, refraining from talking so we wouldn’t disturb Annie. Despite the additional twenty pounds on his back, Michael kept a grueling pace. The only sounds besides the crunching of the gravel beneath our feet were the constant whirring of the cicadas and the distant hum of traffic from Highway 9. My shirt began to stick to my back and quickly became drenched under the arms. With a quick glance behind me to ensure that we were alone, I slid off my backpack for a moment to remove my shirt and continue the climb in my bra. Michael raised an eyebrow and shook his head in mock exasperation.

  My heart softened as I watched Annie in her little cocoon, one plump hand resting on her father’s shoulder and her thumb on her other hand firmly implanted in her mouth. During our climb, I could occasionally hear frenzied sucking coming from the little bundle on Michael’s back, and it made me smile. She was worth every visit to the fertility clinic, every poke and prod from doctors, every ounce of despair. Even after all we had gone through, we almost lost her to placental abruption in the delivery room. Only an emergency C-section had saved her life. And mine. We longed for another child, but I wasn’t quite ready to accept the risk again.

  We reached the crest in about thirty minutes. I quickly took off my backpack and rifled through it for Annie’s blanket. I laid it on the ground by the side of a pine tree and gently lifted the still-sleeping Annie. She stirred slightly and raised her ruffle-covered rump in the air. Her thumb found her mouth again and she settled back down.

  I walked toward the edge where a coin-operated telescope was mounted, unnecessary for reveling in the beauty of our secluded spot. The twinkling skyline of Atlanta lay to the south and I could pick out the Bank of America tower rising higher than its sister skyscrapers. A halo of light, outlined in the purple tinge of dusk, surrounded the skyline in a gentle benediction. Genetti’s Comet glowed dimly on the horizon.

  Michael approached and pressed his bare chest against my back. I reached behind me to grasp hold of him. His expert hands quickly unsnapped my bra and then slid around to cup my breasts. I laid my head on his shoulder as he planted lingering kisses on my neck.

  “You taste salty,” he said as his lips traveled down to my shoulder.

  I sighed, enjoying the caress of goose bumps as they traveled down my spine. “Michael, not here. Someone might see.” I made no move to step away.

  Annie grunted in her sleep, and I shifted around in Michael’s arms. “Can you hold that thought until later?”

  He touched my cheek, his fingers slowly traveling down to my neck. “If I have to.” He reached behind me and refastened my bra.

  “I have something to cool you off.” I stepped back and walked toward where we had dumped our gear. “We should drink something so we don’t become dehydrated. I learned that in my new-mommy CPR class.” I squatted in front of my backpack and pulled out two bottles of water.

  We sat next to each other, leaning against a scrubby tree trunk, and drank our water in companionable silence while waiting for night to fall completely. A soft snore came from Annie, and the rhythm of it lulled us both to a semiconscious stupor. Michael’s head sagged forward and I reached my hand up to wake him, only to find myself seemingly paralyzed. I willed my limb to move, but it lay limp and useless at my side. I struggled to keep my eyes open, but an unseen force seemed to be dragging me into a deep, dark slumber. I made an attempt to wiggle my toes, recalling how doing that had brought me out of bad dreams when I was a girl. Nothing moved; I was completely immobile. The last thing I remembered was reaching for Annie.

  I dreamed I was running through darkness. My legs were leaden weights and would not propel me toward a dim light shining though the murkiness. A pervading sense of loss enveloped me, and I knew escape was neither imminent nor possible. A loud whirring sound buzzed in my ear and I turned my head from side to side to make it stop.

  I woke up to find a cicada screeching loudly on the tree trunk next to my head. I struggled to orient myself for a moment until I remembered where I was. It was too dark to see my watch, but the sunlight filtering around the earth’s edge had turned the moon a vivid red. A black shadow had already hooded a quarter of the moon, causing me to recall the Mayan myth of a jaguar wolfing down the lunar orb.

  I reached over to feel for Annie and my hands found the warm tangle of her hair. I moved my palm to her back to feel her strong rhythmic breathing and the heat of her body. Michael’s outline slumped asleep against the tree trunk next to me, and I decided not to disturb him just yet. I wanted a private moment with the comet alone before I had to share it. Standing, and trying to recall how much wine I had had at dinner, I walked to the clearing to get a better view of the eclipse. I caught a strong whiff of gardenias, which surprised me, as I didn’t remember seeing any on our climb up.

  Genetti’s Comet hovered brightly in the darkened sky. A chill swept down my spine, raising the hair on the back of my neck. I shivered involuntarily and wrapped my arms around me. It was then that I realized that the insects had ceased their nocturnal chorus. I couldn’t hear the traffic anymore. Silence hugged the hilltop, enshrouding us. A strong wind began to blow, whipping my hair about my face, but the sound it made wasn’t the gentle whooshing noise that precedes a storm. Instead, the wind howled loudly and then softly, swirling around my head so I couldn’t determine the direction. The strong scent of gardenias assaulted my nose again, and I trembl
ed with an unseen fear. My head pounded and the blood rushed through my ears, the pressure so intense that I fell to my knees.

  Annie. Something was wrong and I had to get to Annie. I panicked, trying to reach the spot where I had left her in the dark. I stumbled on something hard and rough and fell to the ground. I cried out Michael’s name, but I couldn’t hear anything over the din of the wind. I crawled on my hands and knees, crying out their names. Only the wind answered me. My fingers grasped the edge of the blanket where Annie had been sleeping, and I began to sob with relief. I crawled over it until I realized it was empty. The bile of pure terror crept up my throat and I threw up. I was still gagging when a hand touched my shoulder.

  I screamed and leapt up. I felt the reassuring touch of Michael’s embrace and the soothing words of his voice. “Laura, it’s me. Are you okay?”

  I struggled in his arms. “Michael, do you have Annie? I can’t find her!” My voice sounded frantic and I worked hard to bring it under control.

  “No. Isn’t she on the blanket?” Michael knelt down to feel for her blanket.

  “No, Michael, she’s not here! Oh, God! We’ve got to find her.”

  The shadow slowly swallowed the moon. I threw my shirt back on, grabbed a flashlight, and went flying down the path in search of my daughter.

  * * *

  Neither the police nor we found any trace of her. Huge search groups swarmed the area for days, despite the heat and torrential rains. After a week, they had given up. The police said it was still an open case and they were still looking, but I knew they had given up. Nothing was found—no clothes, no blood, no signs of anything. It was as if she had been absorbed into the moonlight. I know the police suspected us, but no evidence ever surfaced to incriminate either one of us, or anyone else. Annie was just . . . gone.

  In the days that followed her disappearance, guilt gnawed at my conscience. I had been the one to insist we bring her rather than leave her with my mother, as Michael had suggested. My grandmother’s warning spun around inside my head. Was this what she had meant? Why hadn’t I listened? I wanted Michael to lash out at me, blame me. His silence was worse than any accusation could have been.

  When the doorbell rang two weeks later, I was in the middle of mending one of Annie’s dresses. The tear in the seam at the bottom had come from her stepping on the hem as she tried to stand. She kept doing it again and again, thinking it enormously funny. I had joined in, for her silly giggles were hard to resist.

  The needle jabbed and plunged into the yellow fabric, closing the hole sure and swift. The smile on my face faded when I realized the doorbell had rung at least three or four times. I laid my hand on Michael’s shoulder as I passed him, his eyes blankly staring at a rerun of Quantum Leap. The old clock in the hallway announced the hour, the Westminster chime echoing throughout the still house. I opened the door, still clutching Annie’s dress.

  A woman and a man stood on my front porch, looking uncomfortable in the heat.

  The man spoke first. “Mrs. Truitt?”

  I stared at them for a brief moment before finding my voice.

  “Yes, I’m Laura Truitt.”

  “Mrs. Truitt, I’m Detective Peterson from the Roswell Police Department, and this is my partner, Detective McGraw.” He indicated the woman with his chin. “We have some news for you.”

  He paused. I could hear the sounds from the TV inside and Michael coughing. A car passed by on the street in front of our house. Loud music from the radio evaporated as the car sped away.

  “Mrs. Truitt?”

  I must have said something.

  “Mrs. Truitt. We’ve found a child’s body.”

  The yellow dress fell from my hands, puddling on the floor like crumpled sunshine. “Annie?” My voice sounded a lot stronger than I expected.

  “The body is unidentified, but it matches the description of your daughter.” The woman’s voice was kind, and she took a step toward me.

  “A body . . . And you want us to . . . You need us to come down . . .”

  I looked behind me and into the parlor at Michael. Angry red marks of exhaustion marred the skin under his eyes. His sun-streaked blond hair looked gray against the pallor of his skin, and for the first time since the beginning of our ordeal, I knew his pain was as great as mine. I recalled how he had wept when Annie was born, and I suddenly wanted to slam the door shut and erase the choked sound of the detective’s voice from my memory. I had the impulse to run into Michael’s arms and pretend that everything was normal again and our dear, sweet Annie was upstairs in her crib. But Michael’s arms lay powerless and empty beside him on the sofa, his palms turned upward in silent supplication.

  The man swallowed, and I turned back to face them.

  “Mrs. Truitt, we need you and your husband to come to the morgue for identification.” More firmly, he said, “You should have someone bring you. If— Well, sometimes, afterward, it’s not easy to drive. . . .”

  “We’ll be fine,” I said.

  He gave me the information I needed; then I shut the door silently, wondering how I would tell Michael. I forced myself to breathe. I sat on the stairs and took as many deep breaths as I could.

  As we hurtled south on I-85, the huge and shimmering Atlanta skyline beckoned from the horizon. The giant peach structure rose on our left, and I fleetingly thought of how Annie always pointed at it and said “apple” when we passed by. I stole a look at Michael and saw a tear escaping down his cheek, and knew he was remembering, too.

  We clung to each other as we walked through the fluorescent-lit halls of the Fulton County Medical Examiner’s Center. The unnatural light made the hollows and shadows of Michael’s face more prominent, and I knew if I bothered to look in a mirror I’d see the same devastation.

  We walked ahead as a unit, my husband and I, and stopped before the metal slab. The doctor pulled down the top of the sheet that covered a small form. Two little feet barely stuck up high enough to make the sheet rise.

  My gaze traveled to the top, where the doctor held the cover open. Dirty blond hair was matted to the delicate forehead, partially obscuring a large plum-colored bruise. Translucent skin stretched over the small bones of the face, and dark lashes on the closed eyelids fanned the pale cheeks. It could have been Annie; there were so many similarities. But it wasn’t my daughter. It wasn’t Annie. I broke down then. I don’t know if it was from relief that it wasn’t our baby or for this loss of gentle life. Maybe it was for all the empty years I knew lay before us.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Press close bare-bosom’d night—press

  close magnetic nourishing night!

  Night of south winds—night of the large few stars!

  Still nodding night—mad naked summer night.

  —WALT WHITMAN

  The loss of Annie had been the beginning of the unraveling of my life. The end of it came five years later.

  Shortly after Annie’s disappearance, Michael took up flying. I remembered the heated argument we had when he told me how he was going to deal with his heartache.

  “Laura, I’ve signed up for flying lessons.” Michael continued to read the paper as if he had just mentioned that he was going to plant a bed of daffodils.

  “You’re what?” He had never mentioned such a thing to me before.

  “One of the partners at the law firm pilots his own plane, and I thought that might be what I needed.” He sipped his coffee and continued to peruse the paper.

  “What you need for what? To kill yourself? Or to spend even more time away from me?” I cringed at the shrillness in my voice. I went over to him and knelt beside him. I rested my head in his lap, blinking away tears.

  “I miss you,” I mumbled into the striped wool of his pants. “I need you. Please come back to me.” I looked up at him, uncaring of my tears that soaked into his pants.

  He looked at me with shad
owed eyes and sighed, pushing his newspaper away. “You’re so strong, Laura. You’ve picked up the pieces of your life and have learned to live with your grief. But I’m falling apart inside. I need to see Annie again. When I’m here or at work, all I see are the memories. I need to go where I can create new images of her and feel her close to me again.” He ground the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and rubbed them harshly, as if to clear them of whatever image he couldn’t bear to see.

  I wanted to argue with him that I wasn’t so strong. I had managed to survive by compartmentalizing my grief into a tiny box in my heart and only allowing myself to peek inside when there was no one around to witness the devastation.

  I stood, kissed him softly on the lips, and left, a tight ball of fear growing in my stomach.

  Later, as I sat and tinkled halfheartedly with the piano keyboard, Michael sat down and put his arm around me. He apologized, but didn’t back down.

  I could feel the tension in him, felt his need, and knew I couldn’t tether him to me forever. “Okay, Michael. If this is what you want to do. Just please be careful. I don’t think I could stand to lose you, too.”

  So Michael searched for Annie in the cumulus clouds and soaring winds while I remained earthbound, but with my eyes toward the heavens. By the time I got the dreaded late-night phone call, I had already prepared myself. I had been down this route before. The voice on the other end of the line mentioned something about engine failure, but I listened with only half an ear. Whether it had been engine failure or a lightning bolt, the end result was the same. I was a widow at the age of thirty-five.

  For almost a year after his death, I strived to remember the feel of Michael’s touch on my skin. I lay awake at night in my empty bed, trying to feel his presence beside me, the encroaching warmth that would draw me toward him during sleep. The thick air of a Georgia summer settled around my ghosts and me. If sleep did come, it was only to dream he was there. I would breathe deeply and smell his warm, slumbering breath and hear his quiet murmurings in the stale morning air. Then I would open my eyes and know I was alone.