Meet the Moon

Praise for Meet the Moon

Jody Moran is an endearing guide—funny, smart, word-wise —through this sad and triumphant coming-of-age tale. There is such clarifying honesty here, about grief, friendship, resilience and faith. There is as well a keen and vivid sense of an era that seems more innocent than our own and yet remarkably timeless, perhaps because Kerry Malawista understands so well the enduring grace of family love.

—Alice McDermott, author of Charming Billy (National Book Award), After This (finalist Pulitzer Prize)

A brilliantly faceted, life-affirming story about a girl and her family as they struggle to go on without Mom during a single year in the early seventies. Delightfully poignant and equally funny, this story reminiscent of Judy Blume will no doubt steal the hearts of readers of all ages—just like it did mine.

—Jennifer Richard Jacobson, author of Small as an Elephant

"I fell in love with the entire Moran clan in this beautiful portrayal of a family learning how to navigate the loss of a parent. In Meet the Moon, Kerry Malawista has created an emotionally complex story that’s warm, funny and utterly real. I loved it."

—Frances O’Roark Dowell, author of Dovey Coe, Shooting the Moon, and The Secret Language of Girls

"Meet the Moon is a moving and captivating novel about the joys and perils of adolescence and family life—one of the rare books that appeals powerfully to both adults and children alike. I loved it."

—Susan Shreve, author of More News Tomorrow and The Search for Baby Ruby

"Meet the Moon captures a fractured world spinning out of control after the sudden loss of a funny and beloved mother who wanted her children to see the stars and beyond. Told through the eyes of thirteen-year-old, Jody Moran, one of four siblings, we go on a journey of hope and healing in Kerry Malawista’s tender, funny novel of a family finding their way home again.

—Kerry Madden, author of Offsides

"In Meet the Moon Kerry Malawista’s heroine, Jody Moran, brings us along as she stumbles from thirteen to fourteen, finding her way forward while grieving the sudden death of a mother whose love never seemed quite enough. This beautifully written, sharply observed novel takes us on a journey that is scary, tumultuous, yet grounded always in the love of family. Recreating 1970s America and the torture and promise of adolescence, Meet the Moon gives us a plucky narrator we want to enfold and never let go."

—Marita Golden, author of The Wide Circumference of Love

"Jody’s just a regular teen, with regular teen things to worry about. But then in a blink, there’s a wreck, a family in shock: Mom’s gone, baby brother is in the hospital. Boyfriends, best friends, teachers, siblings, the neighbor across the street, all have a part in helping Jody adjust—but can they deliver? Jody loves her big rowdy family, but soon sees that sometimes Dads can be dumb, big sisters too bossy, teachers too nosy, and even best friends don’t always get it. In the end, all the strength Jody needs is right inside her warm heart. Kerry Malawista knows that heart, and Meet the Moon rises full over the landscape of great reads for teens and grownups alike.

—Bill Roorbach, author of Life Among Giants, The Remedy for Love, and Lucky Turtle

"Kerry Malawista’s novel Meet the Moon is beautiful and profoundly moving. She brings to vivid life a family dealing with the tragic and shocking loss of their mother and notably a father we’d all wish for. Young people and adults, alike, should find this book both engaging, humorous and reassuring."

—Linda Pastan, author of Carnival Evening, former Poet Laureate of Maryland

Meet the Moon

Kerry L. Malawista

Fitzroy Books

Copyright © 2022 Kerry L. Malawista. All rights reserved.

Published by Fitzroy Books

An imprint of

Regal House Publishing, LLC

Raleigh, NC 27587

All rights reserved

https://fitzroybooks.com

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN -13 (paperback): 9781646032655

ISBN -13 (epub): 9781646032662

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021949154

All efforts were made to determine the copyright holders and obtain their permissions in any circumstance where copyrighted material was used. The publisher apologizes if any errors were made during this process, or if any omissions occurred. If noted, please contact the publisher and all efforts will be made to incorporate permissions in future editions.

Cover design © by C. B. Royal

Regal House Publishing, LLC

https://regalhousepublishing.com

The following is a work of fiction created by the author. All names, individuals, characters, places, items, brands, events, etc. were either the product of the author or were used fictitiously. Any name, place, event, person, brand, or item, current or past, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Regal House Publishing.

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

Dedicated to my siblings,

Kathy, Carol, Maryellen, Karen, and Bob

1

Although I’d begged Mom for dance lessons, I hated her for making me go to the Twinkle Toes class. I was stuck with my little sister, Mae, even though I was thirteen and as tall as Miss Dorothy.

The teacher tapped out the beat on the worn wood of the old Edgehaven firehouse, and as the floor vibrated, thoughts marched through my head. Rum, pum, pum… Again, and one and two and… How could Tracy not show up?

Three and four and… This leotard makes me look flat-chested. Five and six and… What kind of best friend bails at the last minute? No way was her nikkin’ throat hurting that bad.

Seven and eight and… Now my scab keeps catching in that hole in my tights. Did Mom get me a new pair, like she promised?

The clock was high in the corner, one of those classroom things. Just five more minutes. I eyed the line of girls who followed me, each of them doing her own quirky version of a pirouette.

Nice one, Cynthia, I said, patting Charlie’s little sister on the shoulder. She turned, giving me a big smile. She had those same dark eyebrows as her brother. Pretending to adjust my ballet slipper, I glanced at the doorway, trying to look like I wasn’t looking. Charlie sometimes showed up to walk Cynthia home.

Jody, pay attention, Miss Dorothy snapped. It’s your turn.

I twirled across the floor one last time, hoping I looked more graceful than gangly, and when I reached the other side I flipped my hair over my shoulder. Damn, no Charlie.

Miss Dorothy gave a final rap with her wooden staff, signaling the end of class.

Mae and I pulled our stretch pants over our tights and leotards, gathered our things, and stepped out into the early spring heat. Mae with her freckles and strawberry braids was our very own Pippi Longstocking, just not as skinny.

A zingy feeling itched at my nose. Even though the sky was blue I could feel a storm was coming. As we trudged uphill toward home, lugging our blue-plaid book bags, I could hear Mae’s flute case banging against her thigh.

My stuff is too heavy, she whined. I don’t want to walk home.

"Me neither. But Mom had to take Annie somewhere. It’s mandatory."

Is that today’s word?

Yep. It should be disgruntled. Tracy bailed on me. Charlie never showed up. And Annie and Billy were probably home already having Mom’s shortbread cookies. My new thing was trying long words, the weirder the better. In the Oxford English Dictionary I kept next to my bed, I learned that a sesquipedalian is a lover of polysyllabic words, which are words with lots of syllables. Every night, digging, I discovered a newer and bigger and weirder word, wrote it in my notebook, and the next day I challenged myself to see how many times I could use it. I wouldn’t go to sleep without finding a good one. Two nights ago, it was incomprehensible, meaning impossible to understand or grasp. One night ago, it was longevous: live to a long age. A good one, right? It gave me a feeling of power, knowing words that others didn’t.

What’s mandatory? asked Mae.

"It’s something you must do. Required, like going to school."

"Why didn’t Mom have to pick us up? That should be mandatory." Mae was three years younger and sometimes she could be pretty smart.

I guess a ride’s only mandatory for Annie, I said.

Mae liked that.

We skipped across Abbott Avenue, passing the tiny stream that ran behind the ruins of a house. If I’d had my net and jar, we would have stopped for tadpoles. My last catch had all died and I was aiming to watch at least one turn into a frog. I’d read that it takes fourteen weeks to transform from tadpole to frog. I was hoping it might work the same for humans, but in years. At fourteen I would transform from a skinny kid into a girl in need of a bra, and some of those other things that our big sister Claire was already into, now that she was fifteen.

A dark blue Plymouth pulled up beside us, someone inside waving—weirdness!—but it was only our neighbor, Mr. Geiger, without his wife, Mrs. Geiger. At least I thought it was that Mr. Geiger. His identical twin lived in their basement apartment with his wife, also Mrs. Geiger. What would it be like living with someone who looked exactly like you? I wondered about their wives. Could the two Mrs. Geigers tell their husbands apart? At the dinner table? In bed?

Mr. Geiger leaned way over and rolled down the passenger window. I was pretty sure it was the upstairs Mr. Geiger, Walter, and not the basement Mr. Geiger, Fred. Walter’s black hair didn’t pouf up like Fred’s.

Hi, girls. I’m sorry to bother you. But it’s important. Your dad, um. Your dad asked me to pick you up from ballet. Sorry I’m late. Hop in.

We’d never been picked up by a neighbor. Maybe Dad knew it was going to rain. I looked closely, making sure it was the right Mr. Geiger—Walter. The other one didn’t have kids and seemed kind of creepy. He never looked you in the eye. Mom said you should always look a person in the eye.

Mae was frozen. When grown-ups talked to her, she pulled her head back into her shell like a turtle. It was up to me to be the boss. I pushed her into the back seat as the first drops of rain began to fall. Perfect. As soon as Mr. Geiger pulled into his driveway, I saw Mrs. Geiger in the living room window, curtains pulled to the side, waving us inside with her cigarette hand. Barely moving his lips, Mr. Geiger said, Yeah, why don’t you two come on in for a snack?

A snack! In the seven years we’d lived on Randolph Court, I had never once been invited in for a snack. The last month had been weird: snow the day before Easter and another man aiming to walk on the moon. Now this.

We sisters followed Mr. Geiger inside.

I was shocked to see our older sister Claire in her new green bellbottoms—now that she’d turned fifteen she wore only bellbottoms—perched on their gold couch. I wish I looked like her—long, red hair and the bluest eyes, like Mom’s. Mine were drab green on a good day. The soft cushions pitched me into her as I sat. She’d been out in the rain, and her hair was still damp.

Far from taking charge, Claire whispered, What in Fred’s name is going on?

Like I know, I said, pushing my glasses up on my nose.

Claire sprung off the couch, started pacing, her coppery braid swinging behind. I looked around the room, afraid to touch anything. The house was so clean: a couch, two chairs, a coffee table with a single copy each of Family Circle and Ladies Home Journal. Not a sign that three kids lived here.

And where was my snack? Muffled voices from the kitchen. Mrs. Geiger didn’t even come out to check on us. I watched the wall clock: tick, tick, tick.

The Geiger’s oldest, sixteen-year-old James, tramped in the door, sweaty from Edgehaven High School baseball practice. The star second baseman. His T-shirt outlined his wide shoulders. Scruffy hair on his cheeks. He had the same shiny black hair and milky white skin as his mother. His father’s light blue eyes. He looked like his two parents had been smushed into one face, a really cute one.

Claire hated that she wasn’t with James in school. If we lived one town over she would already be in high school. But ninth grade in Edgehaven? That was part of nikkin’ middle school, and James was a sophomore.

Hey, he said, clearly surprised to see us there. A look passed between him and Claire, but I was the one who blushed. He gave my big sister a wide grin. My skin heated, my embarrassment plain to see.

James, called Mrs. Geiger from the kitchen.

Claire feigned disinterest at his leaving. She gazed out the front window. Our house, yellow and apparently Dutch Colonial, was directly across the street, black shutters and white front door like a face.

I looked over at Mae, who balanced on the edge of the couch, not moving, as if she had been put under a spell.

Suddenly Claire straightened, all the flirtiness scared out of her: Jody, come look. Dad’s van’s in the driveway. It’s large white lettering, Moran Tile and Marble, printed on the side.

Uncle Mike is there too, I said, pointing at his station wagon.

What the hell is going on? asked Claire.

Something’s definitely wrong, I said.

Incomprehensible, said Claire.

Hey, I said.

Word of the day, she said, giving me a nudge.

Mr. Geiger ducked in, all serious. He said, Come on, girls, I’ll walk you home.

Walk us home? Across the street? Claire and I shared a look, eyebrows raised. But it wasn’t funny. Mr. Geiger marched us outside into the pouring rain, hoisted a gigantic umbrella. We took shelter, the three of us, a solemn parade crossing the street to our house.

I led the way up the steps, ten of them, often counted. Mr. Geiger held the screen door open, practically pushing me after Mae, then Claire, inside. Okay, girls, he said.

Inside were my grandparents and a blur of other faces in the living room. Definitely not our usual Chicken Delight Monday. Our sister Annie, in an old Halloween princess dress, perched on our neighbor Mrs. Katz’s lap. A tiara crowned her curly golden hair, accompanied by an array of brightly colored barrettes. Annie always had a notable way of decorating herself. She hopped off Mrs. Katz’s lap and ran to me, wrapping her tiny arms around my leg.

I hoisted her up onto my hip, said: Where’s Mom and Billy?

My question hung in the air for a second, as if everything were all moving in slow motion. The adults turned and stared at me, but none of them answered. The hairs at the scruff of my neck were prickling and I jutted out my chin a little.

Finally, Dr. Katz cleared his throat. Your dad’s waiting for you.

Mrs. Katz led us upstairs. Why were the lights off? She opened the door to my bedroom, mine and Claire’s, dark except for a thin slat of light. The curtains had never been closed before. Dad sat on Claire’s bed, work shirt hanging loose on his shoulders, his hands in his hair. Mae hopped on the bed beside him. He seemed small. Apple-cheeked Annie and her precious Roo climbed up, too. Claire and I huddled close. Everything was normal—our pajama-bag dolls, Claire’s Polaroid snapshots that surrounded her dresser, my Oxford English Dictionary, our matching lamps, fringed shades, everything normal but Dad.

He put his hand on Mae’s chubby leg. Girls, he said. Girls…I… He slipped his Clark Kent glasses off, wiped his eyes. I rarely saw him without his glasses on; his eyes looked different—smaller, and tears welling, unheard of.

Girls, I have very sad news.

Are you crying? Annie said.

Daddy? Mae said.

There’s been a terrible accident.

2

If I had paid closer attention those three weeks before the accident, could I have seen what was coming? Or was life that uncertain, precarious? Precarious: dangerous; dependent on chance.

First, there was the unexpected, a blizzard on Easter weekend. Even our crabapple tree, bursting with early blossoms, was confused. That Saturday the snow kept falling and falling. I woke early and crept out of bed to be the first to see it, every surface blanketed in a thick layer, at least five or six inches on the mailboxes and not a snowplow in sight.

I wasn’t first: Mom and Dad snuggled close at the kitchen table, drinking their giant morning mugs of instant coffee. Mom’s golden-red hair puffed out around her round face like a lion’s mane. She had built the table with her own hands and painted it the same pea green as the cabinets. Dad had laid the mosaic floor tiles, which were a matching speckled green and black. They were reading the Edgehaven Record. The headline read: New Jersey Gets Dumped On, The Blizzard of 1970.

You guys! Snow, I said.

Mom was already dressed, black stirrup pants and a white turtleneck. Lowering her glasses, she looked up as if she’d been waiting for me. Hey, eat your breakfast and let’s go!

Go where?

That crooked smile. Sledding, she said. Just you and me. Here’s your chance. Finally.

I poured myself a bowlful of Cheerios, sugar, and milk, and spooned them in rapid fire. Dad put on a sad face, like he was being left out, but we knew he didn’t care. Mom loved anything that went fast, like roller coasters and ice skates, bikes and planes. Dad did not.

We had to pull my coat out of a box full of winter things ready for the attic. And off we went, just the two of us.

***

I expected we’d have the sledding hill to ourselves, but as we rounded the corner at the end of our street at least a dozen early risers whooped and hollered. All three Geiger kids. This was even better, the neighborhood kids seeing just me and Mom having fun.

Prospect Woods had two trails to choose from. With sleds flying, walking to the top was death defying. Mom and I hiked up along the old rickety wooden fence that ran along the McClearys’ property. Brittle branches snapped beneath my feet. The hills were steep, with a couple of moguls that, if you hit just the right spot, sent you airborne. Halfway down, the two paths met, making your timing a crucial calculation.

Yo, Moran, Timmy Geiger, the middle Geiger kid yelled to me, as a snowball hit me in the head. I stopped to pack my own snowball, but by the time I was ready to pitch it, Timmy was long gone.

Mom, seeing me turn, began expertly packing her own. I chucked one at her back, accidently hitting the side of her head. Hey, foul ball, she called.

A couple of high school boys were doing tricks, surfing upright on their sleds, arms stretched out wide, the metal blades glittering in the sun. A gaggle of high school girls stood nearby, nudging each other, pointing and giggling. Gaggle: a group of geese or a noisy or disorderly group.

Yo, James, yelled Rose Voss, one of the pretty older girls. I bet you can’t do that on one foot. Claire would not be pleased. I looked at Rose’s lip-glossed lips and her pink cheeks. Her maroon wool hat had a cool flower on it. Suddenly, I wished I could put her hat on my head and feel what it would be like to be Rose, even for a morning.

When we reached the top of the hill, Mom lay down on the sled. I stretched out on top of her, my belly against her back. She called this pancake sledding. It’s lucky you’re so light, she said. For once, I was glad to be skinny.

Ready for blast off, she called.

To the moon, I said. I snuggled into her neck, breathing in the smell of licorice and cigarettes.

And back, said Mom. Now hold tight.

I hugged her throat. I remembered last year, sledding pancake style, with Charlie Coggins. Since we’d played around in his basement and kind of kissed, he wouldn’t even look at me.

Not that tight! Mom shouted, laughing.

I never knew how close to get. Mom wasn’t a hand squeezer like Dad.

We took off down the hill, unimaginably fast, the cold soft snow blowing raw against my face, my heart pumping, the bare oak trees a blur of brown soldiers standing at attention against the morning sky. Mom leaned to the right and I leaned with her, Mom twisted to the left and I did the same, in sync, my stocking hat flapping like a flag in the wind. Faster and faster.

Right before the finish we hit a sharp bump. I flew into the sky, Mom tumbling beneath me, my heavy boots hitting her in the stomach. Ow, she yelped. What the Sputnik!

Sorry, Charlie, I cried.

I wiped the snow off my glasses, saw Mom with snow covering her hair and eyeglasses. Our cat-eye frames almost matched. Mom’s giggle started slow, then grew to one of her unstoppable laughs, and it was as if she loved me not only as much as the other kids but maybe a little more. Trudging back up the hill, Mom took hold of my hand to help me climb, as our boots mashed into the deep snow. Our prints would be evidence that we’d been here together, large prints and small. When Mom and I had watched Neil Armstrong walk on the moon, the news guy had said that with no wind or water his footprint would be there forever.

Me in front, I called, already starting up the hill. When I reached the peak, I saw she was chatting with Mr. Geiger.

Come on, I yelled, as I stretched up, trying to locate the roof of our house.

Michelle, Claire’s best friend bumped my back. Where’s your bitch sister?

Where do you think, I said. Sleeping.

Well, tell her to get her ass over… Mom appeared giving one of those ‘I heard that’ looks—a raised eyebrow and corresponding right-sided crooked smile. How did she do that?

Sorry, Mrs. Moran, Michelle mumbled. I snorted.

Mom said, "Well, someone might be getting their tush spanked." Michelle had been at our house enough times to know she was kidding. Mostly.

The kids at the front of the line made way for Mom. She gave a little bow, and stepped to the front.

"Mom, I mumbled. Don’t cut."

Age before beauty, she said. I rolled my eyes, trying to hide my pleasure at jumping the line.

And I’m not getting any younger, she said as she positioned herself on the sled.

As we set off, Mom pointed ahead, warning, Keep an eye out for those little kids. Her arms encircled my body, feeling like a warm hug. I wasn’t afraid.

Laurie, the youngest Geiger, was just ahead of us on a flying saucer. I waited, then pushed us off.

A perfect moment. Trouble was, our sled was faster than Laurie’s. As we caught up, she spun out of control and fell off right in front of us.

Mom shouted, Turn. Turn! Your left foot. Harder. I steered to the left, barely avoiding Laurie, all of us shouting. A near miss.

We careened over the last part