Chasing the Milky Way by Erin E. Moulton Page B

can see through her nightie,” Izzy says, squeezing my hand.
    â€œLet’s keep an eye on the lights,” I say. “We’ll go home soon.”
    I lead Izzy over to the grass, out of the sightline of the road. If someone does come by, maybe we can sneak into the woods, just over there.
    Along the tender breeze, I hear Mama’s voice, calling us to join her.
    â€œCome on, girls, come and swim.” She splashes and then starts going over that Robert Frost poem again. “‘One luminary clock against the sky’—come on, girls, isn’t it the most perfect thing you’ve ever heard? It’s the moon of course.”
    Shut up,
I want to scream. Shut up with your stupid poem. But instead I take a deep breath and cross my legs and make sure I’m a good distance out of the sightline of the road.
    Izzy climbs into my lap, her big eyes still facing the sky. And I tell myself to look up, too. Don’t watch Mama, don’t listen. Just watch the stars. Still, I hear her happiness float up from the water to the sky and for a second I wish I were a part of it. I wish I could get even close to that kind of happy. Here on my birthday night, I search the constellations, from Orion, to the Big Dipper, to his little brother, straight down to the Milky Way. Wondering if I might find it, also.
    â€œI’m getting tired,” Izzy says, as she buries her face in my shirt.
    â€œMe too,” I say. “Me too.”

Eight
    A S WE HEAD BACK DOWN THE dip, Mama starts to get quiet. And by the time we’re back to the house she rushes inside and straight into her room. Closing the door without so much as a hug good night. I open the linen closet and pull the last towel off of the shelf.
    â€œMama,” I say, knocking gently on the door. “You probably should dry off.”
    I hear a noise from the other side of the door, shuffling, moving, but no answers.
    â€œLucy, I’m going to bed. I’m really tired,” Izzy says through a yawn.
    â€œOkay,” I say. “Go ahead.” Izzy ducks into our room. I turn and knock on Mama’s door. “Mama, you’re soaked through.” I tilt my head and listen. No response. I turn the knob and step into her dark room. I scan her bed, barely lit by the light spilling in from outside. She isn’t there. Just piles of clothes. I go over to the closet. Not there. I turn to the right. She’s in the nook. The little spot in the corner between her bed and the wall. A chair closes it off into a little square. She’s lying there with her pillow under her head.
    â€œMama, you okay?” I ask, looking over the chair.
    â€œI’m fine. We’ll be fine. All fine,” she says, softly. “Just be quiet please. I don’t feel well.”
    I glance over at her nightstand. The clock reads 3:00 a.m. “Maybe we should call—”
    Mama flips over real fast. “I said I’m fine. Promise me you won’t. I’ll feel better once I sleep.”
    I hold out the towel.
    â€œWhat’s this?” she says.
    â€œA towel,” duh, “for you to dry off with. You’re soaked.”
    She takes it. “Right, right. I know.” She wipes her chin and wraps it around her head.
    â€œWill you pass me another pillow?” Mama says. I reach across the bed and grab her second pillow. She takes it and places it underneath her head along with the first. She closes her eyes and I see her tremble.
    â€œYou need a blanket,” I say, pulling one off her bed. All of the clothes on top of it fall to the floor. I bring the blanket over and cover her with it. She keeps her eyes going left to right and left to right. And her mouth dips down, getting sad, sad, sad. Her spaceship is crashing.
    â€œSleep tight,” I say.
    â€œRight,” Mama says, flipping back to the wall.
    I go toward the door, stepping over piles of clothes and shoes, out into the hallway. I slide the door shut