Moon Shadow: The Totally True Love Adventure Series (Volume 1) (29 page)

I’m swept under by a wave of anguish. I give Mrs. Hartford a pained look. Her face suddenly seems monstrous, yet at the same time absolutely composed.

“I am prepared,” she continues, “to help you financially, particularly since the insurance claims will be denied due to circumstances beyond your control. I want to help you get on your feet, Dan. I have a check here for $25,000, but you’ll have to end permanently all contact with Sarah, and you’ll have to leave California. My thinking is that the money will help pay for a college education out of state.”

I curse under my breath, and then humph elaborately to express my displeasure. “You’ll have your answer in a minute,” I say, grinning uneasily, as a sort of horrible, silent laughter wells up inside me.

There comes to pass a serious, quietly thoughtful moment. I feel grossly unforewarned, in need of something I cannot identify, and I glance quickly out the window. I’ve begun to understand why Mrs. Hartford got on so well with my father. Partners with the devil, I am thinking, as I recall what my mother used to say.

Defeated, for now, I decide to play along, withdraw peacefully, like a war protestor. Sometimes withdrawal from action is the protest itself and not its mask.

Breaking the silence, I reply, “That amount would hardly cover the expense of a four-year degree. What if I should choose to attend graduate school? It’s a paltry sum in exchange for expecting me to give up the love of my life, my lifelong happiness.” I pause, and then add, “I might, however, accept your offer for twice that amount. I have a close friend at the University of Washington, near British Columbia. Perhaps I could get accepted there.” I hate liars, particularly when I’m the liar, but under the circumstances, my duplicity in dealing with Mrs. Hartford is of little consequence to me.

Mrs. Hartford runs her tongue across her upper lip, interrupting whatever it was she had been poised to say. Another derisive monotone perhaps. She gives me a questioning look, but I don’t respond. Then she shakes a long finger at me and says, threateningly, “Dan, if you in any way renege on our agreement, I’ll cause you so much trouble you’ll wish—”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Mrs. Hartford, but I’ll be cashing the check
today
,” I interject, glaring at her with an artless hatred.

She seems flustered, thwarted at her own game, and this amuses me. “Yes, I’ll call the bank and let them know. It’s the branch on Orange Avenue. Wait here, please.”

I look at the television screen. There’s film of the war in Afghanistan, the phantasmagorical play of soldiers firing their rifles and Afghan civilians scurrying for cover. At such times, while I was in Afghanistan, I might have been sitting in the barracks, cleaning my M-16. This dream of a better world, I muse, is a blasphemy on the souls of those murdered in the Holocaust, just like Mrs. Hartford’s irreverence towards my love of Sarah, and Sarah’s love of me.

Mrs. Hartford returns to the room. She stands in front of me and hands me the check. I inspect it carefully, and then I take a folded sheet of notebook paper from my shirt pocket. I raise my eyes and look at Mrs. Hartford without raising my head. “Will you send this letter to Sarah?” I ask, amicably.

“Of course, Dan.”

Outside, I trudge along on the sidewalk, head lowered, in the direction of my car, which I had parked on a side street a couple of blocks away, out of view of Mrs. Hartford’s house.

This morning I bought a 1991 tan Toyota Camry, at a small car dealership on El Cajon Boulevard, with $1,900 of the $42,000 my grandma had sent last week, in the form of a cashier’s check, care of Mr. Bingham.

Liz had picked me up when I was let out of detention, and she’d taken me to see Mr. Bingham, and then on to the bank, where she’d left me and I’d wished her well. Mr. Christie, my guardian until I turn eighteen, had signed over the pink slip to my Mazda and given it to Liz. Then I’d gone about the business of cashing my grandma’s check and walking to a car dealership to purchase the Toyota, in cash, using my doctored driver’s license. I trust Liz, but I figure it’s best she know nothing of my plans. I’ve followed the same line of reasoning with Mr. Christie.

I’m aware of the risk involved with carrying so much cash, stored in the trunk of my car. But I have no choice because I don’t want to leave a trail.

I was let out of detention last week long enough to attend Mike’s funeral. They wouldn’t let me out to attend Julie’s funeral. Mike was buried in an open plot near my mother. Sarah, Mrs. Hartford, Mr. Christie, Liz, Devon and David were all there, along with Julie’s mother and some of Mike’s Air Force buddies. My grandma was unable to attend because the trip would have been too much for her, although she’s preparing to relocate to South Carolina. Her health isn’t that bad, but she’s seventy-nine and the winters in Boston are brutal. She’s moving south with a good friend who has family in Charleston.

I chose not to attend Frank’s funeral. I’ve lost my desire to let the world know the truth about Frank, but I just couldn’t witness his remains being laid to rest in the reserved plot right next to my mother. Flags were flown at half-mast in various places around the country, like Washington D.C., on the day of Frank’s funeral. I don’t know if that would have been the case if the full circumstances of his death had been made public before his funeral. At the end of his first news conference on the Moon’s orbital shift, the President mentioned Frank’s death, offering condolences to friends and family of the congressman.

I know Mrs. Hartford will not give my note to Sarah; the note states simply that I love Sarah and wish to spend the rest of my life with her. On the back of the note I’d written Mr. Christie’s address and phone number. Mrs. Hartford will no doubt read the note immediately, and perhaps begin to question my commitment to our agreement, but I believe she’ll go ahead with allowing me to cash the check. I intend to use the money to find Sarah. I can imagine what Mrs. Hartford might tell Sarah about me. Of course, Mrs. Hartford won’t mention the bribe, for that would only serve to cast a dim light on herself.

I’m confronted with the same blank, desolate world I’d known before meeting Sarah, a limitless expanse, like the Pacific Ocean. I recall my thoughts a couple of weeks ago, just after the incident with Sarah at the cemetery. I’d told myself then that my time with Sarah would come, and I knew it with certainty. The skies would clear, and I’d sally forth into the world with the girl of my dreams. A comment Mr. Christie made this morning turns over and over in my mind: “Love happens once in a lifetime. That is, if one is fortunate enough to find his soul mate, his one true love.” If Sarah were lost to me for ten years, perhaps I could bear it. It’s the thought of her being gone forever that destroys me.

If I’d been fortunate enough to find Sarah at home, I would have asked her to come to Mexico with me. I’ve been planning to get in touch with Carlos, through Norma or Josie (give them the bad news about Mike) and then pay Carlos to switch out my Toyota for another car and prepare documents to affect an extended stay for Sarah and I in Mexico, with new identities. Without Sarah, my plan is fruitless.

I ache for her smallness, for the days that belong to the moon. I’m being consumed by a familiar emotion, the worst feeling of loneliness I’ve ever experienced, a yearning that will never be satisfied until I hold Sarah in my arms again and our destinies converge.

When I reach my Toyota, I decide to call Mr. Christie, after cashing Mrs. Hartford’s check, of course (I’ll make a copy of the check at the bank) and then I’ll head for Shell Beach, to chill out, hopefully. After that, I’m not sure. Take a motel room, perhaps, and just think. I haven’t any idea about how to proceed with finding Sarah. I know only that my life is effectively over until we are together again.

“M
artin residence. Sarah speaking.”

“Hello, dear. Where’s grandma?”

“She’s taking her nap, Mom.”

“You sound like such a sad sack. Dan came by.”

“Oh wow! When can I see him? What’s going on? What did he say?”

“Try to control yourself, Sarah, for goodness sake. We’ve had enough excitement to last a lifetime.” My mother pauses, and then says, “He wanted to tell you he’s leaving immediately, to live with his grandmother in Massachusetts. He was here to say goodbye.”

There’s a moment of silence, while I try to absorb the shock. “He can’t go without me,” I finally manage to say, in a weepy voice. “I told him I’d follow him to the ends of the earth. You must have heard him wrong, Mom, or you’re lying to me.”

“I’m just telling you what he said, dear. Remember too, that Dan is your half-brother. He said you shouldn’t try to follow him, for your sake. That sometimes people form a bond after sharing a horrific experience, but a life with him would only be unstable.”

“Will he write? Did he say he loves me? I can’t believe how much this hurts, Mom.”

“He said that he doesn’t want you to ruin your life for him, that you must forget him. There’s no such thing as simple truth, dear.”

I hang up the phone and write a note to my grandma explaining that I’m going to the beach and then I’ll be walking into town to window-shop and get something to eat. I add that I’ll be returning in a few hours. I’m really tired of my grandma following me around all the time, talking non-stop about herself. I grab a light jacket, a towel, my purse (my new diary is inside) and the iPod with earphones my grandma bought for me, and I head out the door.

The sun is low on the horizon. As I walk down to La Jolla Cove, towards Shell Beach, which is only a couple of blocks from my grandma’s house, I listen to a Taylor Swift song, “The Story of Us,” which I downloaded yesterday using my new laptop computer. I’m still crying. No sooner do I wipe one salty tear from my cheek than another follows. My heart aches.

I don’t believe everything my mother has told me about Daniel, but I have no idea what to do about it, no clue about how to get in touch with him. I’m living with Grandma Martin now, because my Mom doesn’t want Daniel to know where I am, and because I’m the gossip of the entire Island. I want to let Daniel know where I am and tell him I’ll be attending La Jolla Country Day next week instead of Coronado High. I don’t want to wait for him to find me, I want to save up some money and run away to find him. My grandma has already given me twenty dollars.

I saw Daniel last, at the cemetery, on the day I almost shot myself in the head. My mother had called 911 and the police came to arrest him. I was really angry with my mother over it. One of the detectives told us later that Daniel would go to Juvenile Hall for a few days, and then most likely be sent to the boy’s work camp in Descanso, south of the Valley, while his case was being processed.

Now I negotiate my way down the steep footpath leading to Shell Beach. I love this beach because it’s so tiny and isolated, especially the south side, which is completely hidden and private. I’ve stopped crying. Almost never have I seen anyone on the beach when I’ve come here. Today is no exception. I am alone with the ocean, the sand, and the tall cliffs.

I’m wearing my pale blue sundress. I take off my sneakers and carry them. The tide is low, so I walk in the wet sand around to the other side of the sandstone outcropping, until I’ve reached the south side, with its pristine strip of beach. Near water’s edge, I sink my toes into the soft, fine sand. The waves surge onto shore, hissing and foaming, receding again as they always have.

High above the ocean a few shrieking seagulls are flying, which reminds me sadly of Manny, but at least now the nightmares about losing my bird (we never did get any calls about Manny), and about Frank’s death, only visit me on occasion. The dreams about Frank always call attention to the fact that I’ve taken a human life (my father’s?). Then I’ll wake to discover they are true.

I stare at the reddish-orange layer of clouds that have formed across the horizon, and at the endless expanse of ocean that seems to go all the way out until it touches the setting sun. I figure that’s about as close to forever as I can imagine, which is how long I’ll love Daniel.

Because it hurts so much, I can hardly bear to think about Daniel, but I’ve forced myself to talk to him in my heart, and I’ll continue to speak to him until he comes back for me or I find him. I’ve been writing in my diary a lot, too, noting all my thoughts and feelings and everything I can think of and remember, about Daniel. I know by heart the words I’d written, in my old diary, after Daniel had taken me home the night we first met:

Dear Daniel,

It’s been seven minutes since I was in heaven with you, and only the certain knowledge of our future together helps me through this lonely vigil.

Love, Sarah

That night I’d begun to keep the diary under my pillow.

There’s a part of Daniel I’ll probably never get to know. But from the beginning, when I’ve been able to, I’ve taken a small piece of Daniel’s sorrow and stored it for him in my heart.

As my favorite classical piece, “Musetta’s Waltz,” which I downloaded from the Internet for ninety-nine cents, plays on my iPod, I remember how I danced wistfully in Daniel’s arms at The Gables. I look out at the ocean, and for a moment I take in the view like a picture, watching the waves roll in, and listening, in a half-dream, to the melancholy music of the song.