The Moon Sisters by Therese Walsh

high English class. It was about black claws and the bleeding guts of crow men. I liked writing it and thought the poem had a good flow. My teacher gave me a D and said I should talk to the guidance counselor if I felt troubled. That was the last poem I can recall writing down.
    Olivia became my mother’s muse. I became the cook.
    My headache bloomed as I stood talking with Jim—a tall, skinny man with oil-smeared gray coveralls and less oily gray hair. He needed to see the bus before he could diagnose the problem, he said several times as I quizzed him on what could be wrong, stressedhow important it was that my bus be all right and that he make it so as soon as possible.
    “It’ll take a bit, no matter what it is,” he said.
    “Do ‘bits’ run into hours or days?” I asked, and he surprised me with a full-fledged guffaw.
    “Well, this here’s no fast-lube joint, but it’ll get done. You have the key?”
    I appraised him, tried to guess what sort of mechanic he might be by the lines around his eyes, the creases on his forehead. Back at home, we’d used the same guy for as long as I’d been alive.
    Then again, what choice did I have?
    He and my key disappeared inside an orange tow truck that seemed not to have a speck of rust anywhere on it, which was at least some sign of a strong work ethic. I waited until it disappeared beyond my sight, my heart turning over like a failed engine. The bus had to be all right, otherwise what would happen with my job?
    Inside the shop’s bathroom, under the watchful eyes of a blue-and-green graffiti cat, I tossed cool water over my face. A small relief until I accidentally inhaled some of it. In the midst of my coughing fit, I made the mistake of looking into the mirror. Dark half-moons lay on their backs under my eyes, water dripped off my nose and chin, and my hair looked as ill-kempt as Olivia’s. For a second I wondered if my mother’s spirit would come crashing out of the glass, rake me over the coals for worrying more about my responsibilities to Emilia Bryce than to my own sister. My head pounded with a newfound intensity when I realized I hadn’t packed any pain relievers.
    I developed the only migraine I’ve ever had the year Olivia’s homeschooling began, on Christmas Eve. My eyes had been funny, my vision not quite right during our traditional holiday dinner at Babka’s.
    It is not velija, but it will have to do , my grandmother said, referring to the five courses spread over her table, gracing her best white china plates, instead of the traditional twelve courses for the holiday.I could barely eat a bite. The candle she lit wavered until the white fish swam on my plate along with the holubky .
    I shouldn’t have said anything to Olivia.
    Sounds like synesthesia was her reply.
    I took another kolači for my plate, and ignored her attempt to find common ground between us.
    I was fifteen, and Olivia was eleven. Our mother had made the decision to homeschool her just three months before, so life at home wasn’t much fun. Books lay all over the place. Every spare dime seemed to go into buying them, too. That meant there wouldn’t be a lot under the tree for us, and we knew it going into the holiday.
    When the headache came, my mother worried it was because of all that. No big presents. Olivia at home. Jazz wasn’t feeling love, or something like it. I told her she was wrong—it’s not like I would’ve held out any hope for an iPod—but she still sat with me most of the night. Gave me medicine. Brewed tea for me, and watched to be sure I drank it. Offered her pillow when the ice bottle leaked water all over mine.
    Good daughter, good mother , I thought, remembering something I never should’ve read, my teeth ground together.
    I tried to ignore her, turned the other way, but I could still feel her there—a warm, worried, and resented presence. Don’t be here. Go away. I don’t need you, don’t want you looking at me, examining me, trying so hard to care .