Susan Pfeffer - This World We Live In

But you can’t get used to losing people. Or if you can, I don’t want to. So many people in the past year, people I’ve loved, have vanished from my life. Some have died; others have moved on. It almost doesn’t matter. Gone is gone.

I was lying on my mattress in the sunroom, thinking about how today was the first anniversary and whether I should mention it to Mom. I know dates because of my diary, but calendars vanished along with everything else during the past year. Somehow I felt the anniversary was like the mound of bodies, the kind of thing you keep to yourself.

But the one thing I’ve gained this past year is a sister-in-law, and over breakfast this morning (a shared can of sweet potatoes, not the breakfast I had a year ago), Syl brought up the subject.

“Today’s the first anniversary,” she said.

“Of what?” Mom asked. “Oh, it’s been a week since you and Matt exchanged your vows. Well, he’ll be back tomorrow and you can celebrate then.”

“No, Mom,” I said. “Today’s the first anniversary of when everything happened. It happened a year ago today.”

“Has it only been a year?” Mom asked. “Time sure passes when you’re having fun.”

“May 18th,” Syl said. “I’ve been keeping track of the days for a while now. I felt I should do something significant on the anniversary day.”

“Significant like what?” I asked. “You got married a week ago. It’s hard to be more significant than that.”

“Something more global,” Syl said. “Maybe an offering to the moon goddess.”

“Not my firstborn,” Mom said. “He’s not available.”

Syl laughed. “I’m not about to sacrifice Matt,” she said. “But there must be something we could give up. Something that matters, that Diana will accept.”

“Diana’s the goddess of the hunt,” Mom said. It always amazes me she knows stuff like that.

“She’s also the goddess of the moon,” Syl said, proving she had every bit as much useless information as Mom did. “Apollo, god of the sun, is her brother.”

“Maybe he’s the one we should make an offering to,” I suggested. “We need sunlight a lot more than we need moonlight.”

Syl shook her head. “It all began with the moon,” she said. “We should start there.”

I looked around the sunroom. Horton was sleeping by the woodstove. He’s gotten thinner the past couple of weeks, but I wasn’t about to offer him to any goddess.

“Maybe Jon’s baseball card collection?” I said. “Diana might like a Mickey Mantle rookie card.”

“No,” Syl said. “The offering has to come from us. We’re Diana’s handmaidens.”

“I know,” I said. “We’ll give Diana some fish.”

“No,” Mom said. “We need that fish. Diana can eat out on her own dime.”

Syl looked at us. “What do you cherish most?” she asked.

“My children,” Mom said. “After them my home. And they’re all off limits to Diana, Apollo, and any other god who might happen by.”

“My diaries,” I said.

“No,” Mom said. “Off limits also.”

I had mixed feelings about that. Mrs. Nesbitt, I remembered, burned all her letters before she died. Not that I’m planning to die in the immediate future, but if I burned my diaries, I wouldn’t have to worry about Syl reading them.

“I don’t mind,” I said.

“I do,” Mom said. “Your diaries are the only record of this family’s existence. They’re our link to the past and the future. I won’t let you destroy them. Not on a whim.”

“I don’t have anything else,” I said, thinking about how pathetic my life was, that I didn’t have a single possession worthy of an offering to a goddess I hadn’t known existed ten minutes before. “Oh, I do have some trophies, from when I skated. Maybe Diana would like those.”

“One trophy,” Mom said. “That third-place one you got. The tacky one.”

I ran upstairs to my bedroom and found the tacky third-place trophy. I clutched it for a moment, thinking about that competition. I’d fallen twice. If I’d only fallen once, I might have come in second, but the girl who won was really good, and there was no way I could have gotten first.

I’d been ten. Mom and Dad were there, and even Dad, who loved to encourage all of us to do better at our sports, could see the difference in quality between me and the girl who won. On the drive home, instead of talking about my practicing more and harder, he said how proud he was of me, the way I’d gotten up after both falls and continued to skate well enough to medal.

I held on to the trophy and thought about what life had been like when Mom and Dad were still married, when I thought the worst thing that could possibly happen was falling during a competition. I’d been so young, so dumb, upset only that falling twice had cost me the silver.

I went back to the sunroom and found Mom and Syl discussing the appropriate ceremony. “I can’t believe you’re agreeing to all this,” I said to Mom.

“I don’t see why not,” she said. “I did sillier things in college. I’ve decided to sacrifice my first book contract. Stay here while I go look for it.”

I put the trophy on the floor and sat on my mattress.

“Your mother is amazing,” Syl said. “I thought she’d be all righteous about this. No pagan practices, if you know what I mean.”

I shrugged. “I don’t think Mom believes in much of anything,” I said. “And it’s not like we really think the moon’s going to zip back into place just because we give it a tacky trophy.”

“It’s a beautiful trophy,” Syl said, walking over and picking it up. “You must have been very proud when you won it.”

“Not really,” I said. “Mom’s book contract is a much bigger offering. First book, firstborn, that kind of thing.”

“I have to give up something as well,” Syl said.

“You didn’t come with a lot of stuff,” I said.

Syl laughed. “I travel light,” she said.

“I’m sure Diana will understand,” I said. “Besides, she’ll be so dazzled by my trophy, she won’t notice anything else.”

“She’d better notice my contract,” Mom said, joining us. “At least she should appreciate how quickly I found it. You may not believe this, Syl, but I used to be a very organized person.”

“I know what I can offer,” Syl said, her eyes lighting up. “My hair.”

“No!” I cried. “You can’t cut your hair. It’s an asset.”

“I don’t need it anymore,” Syl said. “Matt loves me, not my hair. Well, not just my hair. Where are your scissors?”

“Do you really think you should?” Mom asked. “Your hair is so beautiful.”

“So is Miranda’s trophy,” Syl said. “So is your contract. They’re things that matter. Where do you keep the scissors?”

Mom shook her head, but I got the scissors and brought them to Syl. “I won’t be able to cut your braid,” I said. “It’s too thick.”

“Don’t worry,” Syl said. She unbraided her hair and then took the scissors from me and whacked away. By the time she was finished, her hair looked ragged, the same as Mom’s and mine, but her cheekbones looked even better.

Life really is unfair.

“Now what?” Mom said. “We can’t make a burnt offering out of Miranda’s trophy.”

“Let’s bury everything,” Syl said. “I’m sure Diana will understand.”

I wasn’t too sure about that. The last thing I want is for the moon to get any closer because of a simple misunderstanding.

“I have a gift bag somewhere,” Mom said. “Left over from last Christmas. No, Christmas before last. I keep bows in it. Hold on, I’ll get it.”

“I’m going to the bathroom to look in the mirror,” Syl said. “It’s been years since I had short hair.”