Chapter 2: The Whole of the Moon

"I was dumbfounded by truth

You cut through lies

I saw the rain dirty valley

You saw Brigadoon

I saw the crescent

You saw the whole of the moon"

December 25th, 1985

POV: Winter Reid

Bryan Adams croons a Christmas ballad through the radio in our kitchen. I stand in my blue apron, clutching the rolling pin.

My mom is rushing around our small space, searching for her car keys.

"Winter, would you please help me find them?" She pleads.

I don't move.

"I thought we were going to have dinner together..." I mutter sadly and press my palm into the dough. I lift my hand away and watch the dented dough slowly rise, covering the imprints my fingers left behind.

My mom turns in circles in the center of the room. Her frizzy hair is held back in a tortoise shell barrette. She ended the phone call with her boss and quickly changed out of her blue nightshirt into a green turtleneck tucked into a long gray skirt and black wool tights.

She picks up a stack of mail, looks under it, and then throws it back down. I watch as the envelopes slide, once in a neat pile, but now they are spread across the counter.

"I'm sorry, babydoll," she says and shrugs weakly. "I think the boss will give me a bonus, though, for working on a holiday. I can't let him down." She begins pulling up the couch cushions in search for her bundle of keys.

She works at one of the offices in city hall for a local lawyer. Technically she's just a receptionist, but really she does all of the work of a law clerk, secretary, office manager, coffee maker, etc. She's been doing a lot more work for the same small pay for a year now. There is one other employee who is supposed to help file papers, but she's ancient and always puts things back upside down and in the wrong folders. Her boss, Mr. Parsons, always has some incredibly urgent job that simply can't wait until Monday, or he needs her to stay late, "just this one last time".

He hired my mom despite her resume being blotchy at best after my dad passed away. I suppose she feels grateful and beholden to him now, but I don't like him. I've never liked him.

Last Saturday, Mr. Parsons called my mom into the office. She was still in bed, wrapped tightly in knit blankets to protect against the cold. I was sitting in the kitchen, scrubbing my new cheer shoes with a toothbrush. I had bought them from a thrift store the day prior. They sat in my room looking dingy and preloved. I couldn't stand them staring at me anymore so I scooped them up and set them atop a newspaper on the table.

I didn't want anyone to know that they hadn't come from Brown's Shoe Company on Main Street in a shiny new box and wrapped in tissue paper. I continued to scrub and I was so focused that I didn't hear the shrill ringing of the phone. The racket caused my mom to stumble out of her bedroom. She rubbed her tired eyes with the back of her hand and picked up the phone. I stopped moving the toothbrush across the heel of one shoe and sat in anticipation. She hung up the receiver, and moved back to her bedroom.

She emerged again, dressed in a pale pink sweater and black slacks. She diligently pulled on her boots and winter coat. I knew immediately that her boss had summoned her into work... at 7:00 am on a Saturday.

Selfish bastard, I thought silently to myself.

When she still wasn't home by 3:00 pm, I grew concerned. Mr. Parsons had assured her it wouldn't be more than "a few extra hours of work". I asked Eddie to drive me into town and I climbed up the stairs in City Hall to the office. I walked in and said hello to Agatha, who was smoking and overwatering the large plastic plant that sits by the front door.

I found him sitting on the corner of her desk, just watching her. She was transcribing her shorthand notes from a client meeting and he was complimenting the way she elegantly wrote her b's and q's. I cleared my throat and they both looked up, my mom's eyes were rounded like a doe's and Mr. Parson's eyes looked small and black, like a shark. I set down a thermos full of soup and a piece of homemade bread wrapped in a napkin next to her. I was sure she hadn't been given a lunch break.

I could feel his eyes watching me.

"My, my Ginny..." Mr. Parsons leaned forward and I swallowed hard at the nickname he had created for my mom. "Your daughter is resembling you more and more everyday. In fact, I'd say she's blossoming."

My mom stood up and affectionately ran her hand under my hair, causing it to lift and fall against my shoulder. She loves when people compliment me while referencing her contributions to my DNA.

"Well... we're certainly lucky now that she's finally got those braces off," she said. "The orthodontist told me they would have to be on for a full three years but, turns out he's a liar!" She smiled and lightly brushed two fingers across my chin.

She turned toward the food and I watched as her hands unwrapped the bread. I avoided eye contact with her boss who still sat wolfishly perched on her desk.

"Well is that so?" Mr. Parsons said. "Let me see. C'mon, don't be shy. Give me a smile." I looked over at him quickly then back to my mom. I leaned over and pecked her on the cheek.

"Don't be home too late," I said to her, but it was meant mostly for her boss.

She looked up with a steaming cup of soup in one hand and smiled appreciatively. I turned and marched out of the office. Agatha waved goodbye halfheartedly with her cigarette, the smoke swirled in the air.

"Thanks for the grub, babydoll!" I heard my mom call as the door slowly swung shut behind me.

I climbed into Eddie's van, visibly disturbed, still feeling like Mr. Parsons' eyes were watching me. I was resembling my mother more and more everyday. She was beautiful, and with that much beauty came stares. When she was young, men would leer at her in the grocery store aisles or stare at her side profile from their pews in church. Their wives would smack their arms and glare at my mother, as if she was responsible for the grown men who couldn't keep their eyes off of a teenager. That sort of attention had never followed me before, but I was changing.

My teeth were now straight and square. My skin was dewy and clear. My hair had finally grown out from the awkward chop Rebecca Martin, the hairstylist of our trailer park, had given me during the summer. People were starting to notice me and there didn't seem much I could do to avoid it.

All of my life, I have been hiding in the shadows. Lately, though, the darkness was being driven out by fast-moving sunlight. Things had changed rapidly in my life this past year, and now golden beams flashed around me, trying to bathe me in luminescence.

Maybe it was time for me to finally step out into the sun.

Eddie's driver's side window was rolled down and he blew a puff of smoke out of it.

"You, okay, kid?" He asked me. I shook away from my thoughts and gave him a small smile.

"I'm fine!" I said. I looked over at him and gave him a reassuring nod.

He hesitated, then tossed his cigarette out of the window and started the engine. AC/DC blared through the speakers.

In the present, I look out of the small kitchen window; it's pitch black outside. It's almost 5:00pm and the roads will be icy and dark.

"Can't you call him back and say you're sick? Or the car won't start? It's dangerous out there!" I plead anxiously from the kitchen.

My mom finally finds the car keys. They were inside her purse. I knew they had been there all along because I rescued them from under the coffee table earlier and put them in her bag. She turns to me and zips up her winter coat to her chin. She gives me an apathetic shrug and slaps her hands against her thighs. I know she feels she doesn't have a choice.

"I- I'm sorry. I know it's Christmas, but I shouldn't be gone more than a couple of hours..." she stutters.

I suck in a deep breath. I look up slowly and flash her my best everything-is-fine smile.

"Go... go. But please drive safely. Under the speed limit. Two hands on the wheel. No radio." I look more like the mother in this situation, standing in the kitchen in an apron, telling my teenage daughter to not drive too fast.

She smiles back appreciatively and blows me a kiss. She opens the door and steps out into the frigid Indiana air.

When the door shuts tight behind her, I look down at the dough I had been rolling out. Suddenly, one fist slams forcefully down in the middle of the pastry. I pause, shocked by what came over me. Then, my other fist slams down as well. I begin pummeling the dough, gripping and squishing it through the cracks between my fingers. The Pillsbury doughboy stares at this bludgeoning from the front of the can which still sits on the small kitchen island. I gather up a large mound, hoist it above the table, and slap it down with a force.

I don't even like Christmas.

My hands slide away and I look at the dough, once rolled neat and even, now left in dismembered bits and clumps, separated and tacky. I don't feel better after releasing my frustration, just sad that an entire can of dough was wasted. Sighing, I slowly push the pieces together again in one pile and carry it gently to the trash can. I set the burst can with Pillsbury doughboy on top of the pile with his fallen comrades.

I hear a ding from the red timer sitting on the stove. A pleasant smell wafts out of the oven as I bend over to peer inside. I slide yellow over-mitts over my hands and pull out a small casserole. It bubbles with cheese, bacon, and green onions. Setting it on the counter, I lean forward with my forearms pressed against the table and my chin sitting atop my folded hands. I'm eye level with the glass dish and watching as the steam rises and curls into the air.

Well, there won't be a Christmas feast with my mom tonight, but I can think of one person who will appreciate my cooking.

I walk towards the front door to pull on my oversized denim jacket. It's a hand-me-down from my mom, a relic from 1970. It's faded with missing buttons, but it's my favorite. Each little tear has a story behind it. The cuffs are stained with drops of pink paint, the same shade as my baby crib. The collar is brown corduroy and poked through the lapel is a small silver sunburst pin with a pearl, something my grandma always wore pinned to her thick cable knit sweaters. Above my heart sits a small circular patch that reads, "First Lunar Landing of Mankind 1969".

When my mom was a kid, she was fascinated with outer space. Her dad set a telescope in their backyard and they sat in metal lawn chairs, taking turns passing the scope, and looking for shooting stars and falling asteroids.

One day, my mom came up behind me while I was studying at the kitchen table and hung the jacket softly on my shoulders. She sat down across from me and told me the story of it. Then she tapped this patch, the man on the moon. She said it was the last thing she added to the jacket, and now, if I wanted, I should add my own personality to it.

The patch had been given to her by her favorite teacher, Mr. Rogers, who taught science at Hawkins High, on the day my mom quit high school.

At that point, she was about 6 months pregnant.

Her belly had just started to show. It protruded from underneath her striped turtleneck sweater and faded bell bottoms. She sat in her seat in science class; the final bell had already rang and all of the other students had disappeared. She stayed there and stared at the solar system chart, soaking up her last few moments of her childhood. She had officially pulled out of school that morning, signing the withdrawal slip in the office with her curling autograph. The secretary had tutted at her, looked disapprovingly down to her stomach, and then shooed her toward the door.

Mr. Rogers walked over to her desk and silently slid the patch across the table to her. She gazed at the astronaut waving a flag on a gray, cratered surface.

"You know, plenty of people didn't believe anyone would ever step foot on the moon. They thought it was fruitless. Impossible. A waste of time and money." Mr. Rogers cleared his throat and tapped the patch. "But there's always more to be discovered. Things don't have to remain the same just because we're used to the status quo."

He looked at her more pointedly then. Her hand absentmindedly stroked her stomach.

"There will always be new frontiers and new horizons," he said. "And it will always be terrifying, but just because you haven't done something yet doesn't mean you can't. Things can be scary and beautiful. And sometimes..." He leaned forward to whisper this last part to her. "You don't know how to walk on the moon until you take the first step."

She took the patch from him, overcome with emotion. She remembered the girl in the backyard, twirling under an endless sea of stars. The girl was now sitting at her desk, getting closer to being a mother everyday.

When I was little and couldn't sleep, I would tap my mom on the shoulder and she would follow me back to my bed. She curled under the covers next to me, stroked my hair, and sang Moon River. I would watch her eyes dot with tears as they stared off into the distance.

I often sit and think about what she might've been feeling during that time in her life. She was so young and so alone. She'll tell me stories from her youth, pouring them out of her without any warning, and then not touch the subject again for a year.

I look down at my chest and tap the moon man holding the American flag affectionately with my finger.

I have added a few small touches of my own to the jacket. I stuck band pins from my favorite artists around the patch; Blondie, Fleetwood Mac, Siouxsie and the Banshees, and Patti Smith are all represented.

But, I don't want to alter the jacket too much. I like feeling as if it's not quite mine, but that it still belongs to my mom at 17. I myself will be hitting that milestone in March. I stand here now, in my mom's old jacket, just on the edge of 17, teetering over and looking down into the abyss.

With a heavy sigh, I turn back to the kitchen and wrap a dish towel around the casserole so it doesn't burn my hands. I stuff a small wrapped present into my jacket pocket and slam the door shut behind me.

Author's Note:

In case it's unclear, we're following Winter on Christmas in 1985. Her poor mom was called into work at the request of a greedy capitalist... but hey we're going to get Eddie Santa... so fair trade off? The story will move forward from the present when Winter attends the Friday night basketball game, her very first after she joined the squad before Christmas break... we'll meet more characters at the game and I can't wait for you to read it :)

also, shoutout to Mr. Rogers, everyone's favorite Leviathan (pls somebody know which meme I'm talking about).

also, here's an 80s quote that I couldn't put anywhere but has been playing in my head on a loop:

Pinchers of Peril! Hey guys, I'm saved by my Pinchers of Peril!

links for this chapter:

Moon River – Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961) Clip watch?v=uirBWk-qd9A

The Whole of the Moon – The Waterboys watch?v=sBW8Vnp8BzU