Page 6 of Fool Moon First Aid

“Ma’am, I’m sending an ambulance. Stay on the line with me until they arrive, okay?” The dispatcher’s voice carries a note of urgency, but I don’t respond immediately. “Okay?”

With a grumble, I acknowledge her and shift my focus to the water stains on the ceiling. Lying here, immobilized, I can’t help but reflect on the series of unfortunate decisions that led to this moment.

The number one offender? She’s currently taking a nap, curled around my neck.

Even worse? At that moment, my memory flashes back to five years ago.

Ava

5 Years Ago

Something feels off, like a strange current in the air that’s hard to nail down. It’s similar to that electric tension before a storm, when the air bristles with potential and lightning is just a heartbeat away. This sensation is elusive but unmistakably there, impossible to shake off. No matter how hard I try to dismiss it, it just creeps closer, sinking beneath my skin and burrowing in like a determined tick on a muggy summer day.

I don’t ignore this nagging feeling. Instead, I let it guide me down the hall. With only a few days of summer break left, I will soon head back to college and my dorm room, which I share with Mia and Eloise. My totes, lined up like soldiers by the front door, wait to be packed into Mia’s car. Mia, the morning person, contrasts harshly with Eloise and me, the late risers who would happily snooze until noon.

I stealthily step down the stairs of our cozy, two-story house, deliberately hitting the creaky plank that always gives away my presence. The living room, bathed in the evening’s soft light, is empty. My mom’s chair stands vacant, though her imprint lingers in the fabric, a testament to countless evenings spent there.

“Ava?” Mama’s voice, warm and inviting, drifts from the kitchen moments before her smiling face greets me as she moves around the corner.

Relief washes over me when I see her. She’s forty-five but doesn’t look a day over thirty, always attributing it to good genes. I think it’s her love for the kitchen, her haven, that keeps her youthful. She never eats out, and she’s been busy cooking enough meals for me to take back to college and cram into our dorm’s mini fridge.

“Mama,” I greet, feeling the kitchen’s cool tiles beneath my feet as I cross the room to kiss her cheek. “What are you up to?” I glance past her and into the kitchen, already aware of the answer. She’s in her element, cooking up a storm for us.

“Well, I can’t let you head back to college without some homemade food,” she replies, picking imaginary lint off my shirt—a gesture full of love and reminiscent of her heritage, something she missed deeply after leaving her home to marry Daddy.

Speaking of Daddy… “Where’s Daddy?” It isn’t quite dinnertime, and I just woke from a nap.

“Oh, you know your father,” she replies with a lighthearted roll of her eyes, drying her hands on her apron before returning to the oven. “Off with the boys.” Her tone dips slightly on the last word, her expression conveying a multitude of unsaid thoughts.

One thing is louder than the rest—she disapproves.

“Ah,” I reply, understanding her unspoken words, as I slide onto a chair at our quaint dining table. Our house, small but bursting with character, is a cozy haven filled with memories and little touches of both my mother and father. “Poker night.”

“He blows through his budget way too quickly,” Mama vents, her voice a mix of exasperation and concern as she wipes down the already spotless kitchen counter. “I’ve already turned my phone off and cut off his access to the accounts.” Her hands move with a swift efficiency born from years in the kitchen. “He’d squander all of our savings if I let him, and none of those so-called friends of his have the spine to tell him he’s awful at poker.”

And yet he still somehow finds the funds to gamble.

Laughter bubbles up from deep within me as I lean back against the cool tiled wall, resting my chin in my hands. “He really does have the worst poker face,” I agree.

Mama glances at me over her shoulder, a knowing smile creasing her face. “Looks like you’re on your own for dinner tonight,” she says hurriedly, then turns back to the stove, her movements a little too forced.

That odd feeling twists in my stomach again, and I swear the air in our cozy, sunlit kitchen feels heavy with unspoken words. She’s hiding something. I can tell from the subtle shift in the atmosphere, the way her shoulders tense up, and how she avoids my gaze, focusing intently on cleaning the already immaculate counter.

“Where are you heading?” I ask, a playful edge to my tone as I push off from the wall and move closer. “Finally decide to join the wives at their little gathering while the menfolk play cards?” I tease, knowing full well Mama has an ambivalent relationship with the church wives and their husbands.

I catch her muttering something about them being “racist witches” under her breath, though she uses a harsher term. That’s the heart of it—Mama has a deep-seated belief in God, just one, unlike the diverse pantheon revered by the spiritkins. Finding a church she likes, however, is more challenging than finding one Daddy prefers. Daddy adores the church. He’s all about the community and their teachings. He also insists that Mama and I attend, though thankfully, college spares me. I almost feel guilty about leaving Mama to socialize with people she can barely tolerate.

I didn’t always know she disliked them. Initially, she really tried, but then everything changed when spiritkins stepped out of the proverbial closet at the turn of the century. Mama, then a young girl in love in a new city, found her world turned upside down.

Living in an all-human community and attending an all-human congregation, I thought Mama’s views were less lenient than those of her peers, but the opposite is true. Mama often speaks out for their rights, making her an outcast—another reason she despises attending these gatherings. The way the others openly despise spiritkins isn’t just harsh, it’s extreme. They stand on the edges of their villages and towns, condemning spiritkins as unnatural.

Mama never attends these events, but Daddy does.

They think I don’t hear them argue about it, but I do, and it shatters my heart every time.

“Well,” Mama says, drying her hands on a worn kitchen towel and turning to face me with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her deep, sad brown eyes, “I have to make an appearance tonight.” She tosses the towel onto the counter, each movement radiating quiet irritation.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” I remind her gently, my words floating through the warm kitchen air, but even as I speak, she dismisses them. Her long, dark hair, peppered with strands of gray, frames her face as she waves away my words.

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