Page 47 of To the Moon and Back

“Your mother has a point, though,” Mr. Ericson said. “We’re proud as heck. We just hope you’ve got a plan for what comes after Russia.”

“That would be a year from now, sir,” I said. “Applications for the 2005–2006 academic year haven’t opened yet.”

“ Dad ,” Della said. “What did you do to celebrate, the night before your graduation?”

Under the table she reached for my hand. She ran my fingers under the hem of her dress—almost to remind me she was mine? Or—and this thought worried me—to keep me calm? She really seemed to think I’d fight her father.

When she shifted away from me, just as fast as she’d come, her dress left dark blue glitter on my fingertips.

Mr. Ericson sighed and put down his Sprite. “In ancient times, you mean? Back when I was at the Y?”

“BYU,” Della translated.

My mother nodded, her eyes blank.

Della tried again. “Mormon college. It’s actually a really good school.”

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Ericson said, “did you just say actually ?”

Kayla passed me a note over Felicia’s head. I opened it. whos paying? it said.

“I think the night before graduation would’ve been just a regular night for us,” Mr. Ericson said. “Your mom and I were married by then, keeping up our own apartment and hoping for a baby. We thought you’d be there any minute.”

He reached across the table and touched Della on the cheek. He looked at her with so much tenderness, like all had turned out as it should have. The years of waiting were nothing now. I liked that.

“Oh, the good old days,” said Mrs. Ericson, teasing. She reached for Della and rubbed her arm. Della looked embarrassed by this, maybe, but also more relaxed than usual? She was different with her family. It made me wish she’d invited me to Provo, even once.

I turned over Kayla’s paper and wrote on the back. idk i can cover bill for della + mom + you but just assume everyone for themselves ok?

I’d been saving. Though I’d had to stop Plasma Mondays when I started lifting weights, I was now in the non-Parkinson’s group for a clinical trial. I’d earned almost four hundred dollars over the semester, mostly for not having Parkinson’s.

My mother nodded at Mrs. Ericson. “So you went there, too? The Y?”

I wondered if she was doing the math, which I’d done the moment we’d sat down—everyone at the table had gone to college, except her and her daughter and the baby her daughter had had too soon.

“For a time,” Mrs. Ericson said.

“Whoa, a fellow dropout?” Kayla said. She held out a hand for a high five. I could’ve slapped her. Felicia stopped nursing and swatted her own hand in the air, copying Kayla.

Mrs. Ericson stiffened. Slowly, daintily almost—she touched her hand to Kayla’s. Then to the baby’s.

My mother laughed uncomfortably. The waiter took our plates. Kayla buttoned her shirt and the pianist returned from his break.

“ God I love this song,” my mother said. “You know, education has always been really important in our family. Sacred, even. It’s why this weekend is so moving for us. My great-grandmother and both my grandparents, on my mom’s side—all of them were teachers.”

“Until the US government shut down Cherokee schools,” said Kayla.

I wanted to remind Kayla that there wasn’t a camera here, no mostly white blog subscribers eager for the Indian point-of-view. This dinner was for our family and the Ericsons, who had not controlled Congress in the early 1900s.

Mrs. Ericson cleared her throat. “When I made the personal choice not to finish my degree—” Her tone was careful, practiced. Like she was giving a speech. “I had to prioritize what felt right for me and my family.”

She reached across the table and took Della’s hand. Her face was set with a certain solemnity, like she was sharing a secret of womanhood. “I knew I had someone I could trust to take care of me,” she said. “And he married me. That made all the difference.”

“We… literally can’t get married,” I said. “It’s against the law.”

“Get a grip,” Della said, not even looking at me. She and her mother still held hands, their arms a little barricade between me and the salt and pepper shakers.

The pianist started another song, which my mother loved. “This is such a good song,” she said. “I love it.”

Kayla dropped another note into my lap. srsly can we trust these fuckers to pay for their own meals? Plz help. & omg stop saying awk stuff ur embarrassing ur gf

“It was a different time,” Mr. Ericson said. “Back then at the Y, people—um, heterosexual persons, which was all they had at the Y in those days—they wouldn’t go on dating more than a month or two without that solid commitment to the marriage covenant.

“And now we’ve got you two , doing your thing, without the traditional blueprint for who makes sacrifices for who. I’ve gotta say I’m impressed with how mature you two are, figuring things out together.”

Our thing, I supposed, was homosexuality. Still, he was trying.

“Excuse me,” my mother said, “but what-all are you talking about?”

Mrs. Ericson’s face scrunched in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“That word,” my mother said. “ Sacrifice. It’s a heavy one. Did I miss something? Is everything all right?”

“Everything is great, Hannah,” Della said. “It’s a beautiful evening.” She stared up at the canoe over our table.

“Of course,” my mother said. “You’re right. It’s a beautiful evening. We’re very proud of you both.

“But if we’ve offended you, or your parents? I mean… it just seems like you-all are maybe trying to say something, but—in code?—and I’m not quite smart enough to get it?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Mom,” I said. “And you’re very smart.”

“How do you know nothing is wrong, Steph?” Kayla said. Felicia pointed her chubby little finger at me, like I was being accused in court.

“Della,” Kayla said, “you said you’d tell her.”

“Back off, Kayla.” Della lifted her glass to her mouth, tipped it back, and even pretended to gulp. It had been empty half an hour.

“Of course she told her,” said Mrs. Ericson.

“Well, shit,” my mother said, leaving me the last one out of the loop. She winced at Mr. Ericson. “Sorry.”

Felicia reached for Mrs. Ericson’s napkin. She dropped it onto Kayla’s dirty plate and banged her fist against the table. “Ma!” she said. “Ma! Ma! Ma!”

“Shh,” Kayla said to the baby. She turned to Della. “You have three seconds to tell my sister, or I’ll tell her myself.”

“Why must you always be so dramatic?” I said.

“ One ,” Kayla said.

Mr. Ericson raised his chin. Instantly a waiter appeared.

“How will you be taking care of the check, sir?” the waiter said.

I took out my wallet. Inside was the Parkinson’s money, all of it, in fifties I’d deemed crisp enough to accept from the bank teller.

My mother heaved a giant handbag onto the table. “I’ve got it!” She pulled out bills, tens and twenties, and stacked them by her plate. Felicia clapped.

“Mom, do not ,” Kayla said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mr. Ericson said. He handed his credit card to the waiter.

“Thanks, Simon,” Kayla said. “You too, Josephine.” Kayla stuffed the bills back into our mother’s bag. “Della, that’s two . Aaand—”

“Della, do we need to discuss something in private?” I said. “Maybe after dinner?”

“— three ,” Kayla said.

“If you tell her,” Della said, her gaze steady on my sister, “I’ll hate you forever.”

“Emma!” Mrs. Ericson said. “Kindness.”

A flash of pain on Della’s face.

“She got into grad school,” Kayla said.

“Go to hell,” Della said.

“ Emma! ” Mrs. Ericson touched a hand to her chest like she’d been shot. “Language!”

“What?” I said.

“Don’t even go there, Steph,” Kayla said. “It was obvious and you know it.”

“But Della told me—” I started.

“She got into all the grad schools, you mean,” Mr. Ericson said. “Every place she applied. Honey, you didn’t tell your friend that?”

Della put her elbows on the table, her face in her hands. She began to cry. Was I allowed to touch her? Her shoulders shook, lines of candlelight jumping across the glitter of her dress. I sat still.

Felicia followed suit, not in stillness but in crying, and slammed her face against her mother’s chest. Kayla unbuttoned her shirt to her navel and took out both breasts, the second one completely uncalled for, and Mr. Ericson turned his whole chair to face sideways.

A waiter returned the card and check to him.

“I wanted to contribute,” my mother said. She took the bills from her bag once again and waved them in her hand, like playing cards in Vegas. “It’s graduation . In our family, that means something really spe—”

“Simon, Josephine,” Kayla said, left boob hanging useless, “it was a pleasure.”

Felicia turned to smile at us, fully exposing her mother. Breast milk spilled out of the corner of her open mouth. At the table in front of ours, over the shoulder of his date, a man stared at Kayla. She must have seen him—she was facing him, as I was—but she made no move to clean or cover herself.

I remembered her as a kid in the woods with Daniel, how I’d known from her bikini strings that Daniel had touched her chest. I’d seen her body as a place for people to hurt her. She seemed to see it as a weapon.

“Our treat,” Mr. Ericson said, still looking away. “I’m sure your airfare was pricey.”

Our mother stood. Her chair scraped against the floor, loud.

“Not worth it, Ma,” Kayla said.

“Was my airfare pricier than yours?” our mother said.

“I’m sorry?” Mr. Ericson said.

Poor Della was still crying. It was crazy that no one was comforting her. Sure, I’d suspected she’d maybe gotten into one graduate program, and maybe decided not to tell me. But I’d decided not to push her on it or demand the truth. I’d let myself believe no one wanted her.

But, every school? Who got into every school? I’d been rejected by seven.

“We aren’t poor people,” our mother said. She clutched her terrible, faux-snakeskin bag to her stomach. “We’re a good family.”

A woman in a long, low-cut, velvet dress—the date of the man still ogling my sister—whispered something to our waiter as he passed. He nodded.

“I’m sure you are,” Mrs. Ericson said. “Truly, we only wanted to help.” Her back was to my mother.

She was undoing Della’s braid, her fingers like a comb, tearing the fabric flowers from her hair.

I wanted to get on my knees and collect them from the floor, to put them carefully by our bed where they belonged.

“I want to apologize for all of us Harpers,” our mother said. “Anything rude from my daughters, after you came all the way here and—I mean, apparently— sponsored this beautiful family meal. I know they’re adults now. But, as a mother, you know how it is! They make mistakes.”

“We came here for Emma,” Mrs. Ericson said. “Not for anyone else. We’ve tried our best to be supportive, but—seeing her hitch her wagon like this, to someone who doesn’t care about her?”

“Um, Mrs. Ericson, I love her,” I said. My voice was shaky like a little girl’s, humiliating. Della groaned, apparently annoyed by my big announcement, and continued to cry into her hands.

The waiter approached Kayla. “Ma’am,” he said, “may we assist you and your baby on your way out?”

“You may not,” Kayla said, “but thank you for offering.”

Abruptly, Mr. Ericson left the restaurant.

Slowly, almost seductively, Kayla buttoned her shirt up to the collar. She gave a little wave to the couple at the other table.

“Steph made a mistake,” our mother said. “Della told her something crazy, and Steph apparently decided to believe it. Let’s let the kids work this out on their own?”

“Hannah, please,” Mrs. Ericson said. She gestured at the messy table, the crumpled napkins, Della wet-cheeked and slumped over the table. “This is not the treatment that Emma—that Della —deserves. I won’t just watch while your kid ruins my kid’s life.”

“ Two years and three months ,” my mother said, her voice low. “You let that girl wander around like an orphan.”

Della gave a long, slow breath out. She folded her dirty napkin three times, like she’d found it. She walked, jacketless and glittering, out to the street.

Mrs. Ericson approached the end of the table. Gently, her face expressionless, she took several bills out of my mother’s hand. She didn’t pause to count them. She left the restaurant, money crumpled in each fist like trash.

My mother fell back in her seat. She looked up at the canoes as if dazed, as if finally realizing they didn’t belong.

“Mom,” I said. “Did Della’s parents stop talking to her or something?”

“Jesus Christ, kid.” She was still, warily, looking up. “Do you two even talk?”