chocolate and oranges,
he said. He had on a white T-shirt and long camouflage shorts with pockets on the side. I remember the pocketsâhow he pulled two oranges out of them and handed me one.
His hand holding that orange out to me.
And the way the mist sprayed into my face, surrounding me with the smell of orange and rain.
And us sitting down on that stack of tires, sharing the buttered rolls Moses pulled out of those pockets. Those pockets real big in my memory, never empty.
It scared me, thinking you were back in that room, dead,
Moses said.
Kept seeing myself finding you dead. Being the one to have to go to the police.
Moses opened his roll and put a piece of chocolate between the bread. I watched him without saying anything. He took a bite and looked over the yard.
What kind of sandwich is that?
A chocolate sandwich,
he saidâlike he was telling me it was a ham sandwich, something real familiar that I was a fool not having heard about.
He pulled another piece of chocolate out of his pocket, unwrapped it and held it out for me to break off a piece. I put it in my roll and took a bite. It was nice the way the chocolate melted around the bread inside my mouth. I must have smiled, because Moses nodded.
We must have sat there for a long time, because my memory of the day goes from rain to sun. From day to near dark. My memory of it thatâs biggest, though, is how me and Moses sat and talked and talked and talked. And it wasnât till near night that I realized I had gone the whole day without the moon. Gone the whole day with bread and chocolate and oranges, and Moses, like this was how itâd always been. And always would be.
donnersville moon
MOSES WASNâT THERE in the morning, when I grabbed a strangerâs sleeve and begged him for money. Wasnât there when the man looked in my face, and in pity dropped a twenty-dollar bill in my handâthen pushed me hard away from him.
Moses wasnât there when I ran drug sick to the small cabin in Donnersville, where the meth heads went, where the people who werenât me smoked the moon right outside, not caring. He wasnât there when I handed the strange kid hanging from the window the money, stood there hugging myself, my face and hands feeling like a million bugs were crawling all over me. He wasnât there as I stood there scratching till the blood ran down.
Wasnât there to see me crowded next to the meth heads, smoking the moon up until I couldnât breathe, until I couldnât see. Until the world disappeared in a white-hot light of pain and noise and my own voice screaming out,
I canât breathe! I canât breathe. Somebody help me. I canât breathe anymore!
And then . . . nothing at all.
Where are you, Moses?
Iâm looking for you.
Where is your bread? Where is your chocolate?
Iâm looking for you, Laurel. Iâm looking for you.
another second chance
AND WHEN I WOKE UP in the hospital room, Daddy and Kaylee and Jesse Jr. were thereâstanding at my bedside, their eyes red and swollen, their smiles trembling. My head hurt, and my chest felt thick and heavy.
You messed up your heart
,
Laurel,
Jesse Jr. said, coming to the edge of my bed.
But itâs still working.
And when I tried to move, I couldnât. And when I tried to hug him, I couldnât lift my arm.
You have to rest,
my daddy said. He looked old standing there, more gray than I remembered, broken and unsure.
You got another long road ahead of you, baby girl.
And for a moment, we just looked at each other, his eyes pleading,
Please make it this time.
Does your heart still work to love me?
Jesse Jr. asked, his tiny face so close I could smell the applesauce that heâd eaten.
It still works,
I whispered, the words hurting as they came out of me, my throat burning, a new unfamiliar burn.
They had to incubate you,
Jesse Jr. said.
Intubate,
Kaylee said.
Youâve had a tube down your throat for a week.
he said. He had on a white T-shirt and long camouflage shorts with pockets on the side. I remember the pocketsâhow he pulled two oranges out of them and handed me one.
His hand holding that orange out to me.
And the way the mist sprayed into my face, surrounding me with the smell of orange and rain.
And us sitting down on that stack of tires, sharing the buttered rolls Moses pulled out of those pockets. Those pockets real big in my memory, never empty.
It scared me, thinking you were back in that room, dead,
Moses said.
Kept seeing myself finding you dead. Being the one to have to go to the police.
Moses opened his roll and put a piece of chocolate between the bread. I watched him without saying anything. He took a bite and looked over the yard.
What kind of sandwich is that?
A chocolate sandwich,
he saidâlike he was telling me it was a ham sandwich, something real familiar that I was a fool not having heard about.
He pulled another piece of chocolate out of his pocket, unwrapped it and held it out for me to break off a piece. I put it in my roll and took a bite. It was nice the way the chocolate melted around the bread inside my mouth. I must have smiled, because Moses nodded.
We must have sat there for a long time, because my memory of the day goes from rain to sun. From day to near dark. My memory of it thatâs biggest, though, is how me and Moses sat and talked and talked and talked. And it wasnât till near night that I realized I had gone the whole day without the moon. Gone the whole day with bread and chocolate and oranges, and Moses, like this was how itâd always been. And always would be.
donnersville moon
MOSES WASNâT THERE in the morning, when I grabbed a strangerâs sleeve and begged him for money. Wasnât there when the man looked in my face, and in pity dropped a twenty-dollar bill in my handâthen pushed me hard away from him.
Moses wasnât there when I ran drug sick to the small cabin in Donnersville, where the meth heads went, where the people who werenât me smoked the moon right outside, not caring. He wasnât there when I handed the strange kid hanging from the window the money, stood there hugging myself, my face and hands feeling like a million bugs were crawling all over me. He wasnât there as I stood there scratching till the blood ran down.
Wasnât there to see me crowded next to the meth heads, smoking the moon up until I couldnât breathe, until I couldnât see. Until the world disappeared in a white-hot light of pain and noise and my own voice screaming out,
I canât breathe! I canât breathe. Somebody help me. I canât breathe anymore!
And then . . . nothing at all.
Where are you, Moses?
Iâm looking for you.
Where is your bread? Where is your chocolate?
Iâm looking for you, Laurel. Iâm looking for you.
another second chance
AND WHEN I WOKE UP in the hospital room, Daddy and Kaylee and Jesse Jr. were thereâstanding at my bedside, their eyes red and swollen, their smiles trembling. My head hurt, and my chest felt thick and heavy.
You messed up your heart
,
Laurel,
Jesse Jr. said, coming to the edge of my bed.
But itâs still working.
And when I tried to move, I couldnât. And when I tried to hug him, I couldnât lift my arm.
You have to rest,
my daddy said. He looked old standing there, more gray than I remembered, broken and unsure.
You got another long road ahead of you, baby girl.
And for a moment, we just looked at each other, his eyes pleading,
Please make it this time.
Does your heart still work to love me?
Jesse Jr. asked, his tiny face so close I could smell the applesauce that heâd eaten.
It still works,
I whispered, the words hurting as they came out of me, my throat burning, a new unfamiliar burn.
They had to incubate you,
Jesse Jr. said.
Intubate,
Kaylee said.
Youâve had a tube down your throat for a week.
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