Today she returns, I’d thought, and everything will go back to normal.
I was wrong.
I’m shorter than the adults, even standing on the sofa. While all I can see from my outpost is her head, I notice the first difference immediately. Her hair – it’s lighter, streaky. The original brown on some strands has drained, has bled into her skin.
She sounds really happy – happier than I can remember – so happy she cries while she hugs everyone. I wonder how she will react to me. It’s been two years and I’ve grown six inches. I got a haircut yesterday and I’m afraid she won’t know me without my “mop-head.”
I don’t notice her approach until she tackles me from behind with an oppressive hug. Before I could track the clip-clop of her heels. Now she wears boots and walks with the quiet of gentle rain on pavement.
“Hello, my darling boy,” she kisses my head.
“Hi, mom,” I wheeze. That’s not what I wanted to say – I have a million questions – but it’s what’s appropriate. I will hold back for a little longer. I don’t want the others to see me cry.
Her arms loosen enough for me to spin around and hug her back. She picks me up, twirls me around, puts me down – playing rocket-ship like before, though it’s not the same. The ride is much too long. She’s too strong.
Mom’s clothes are funny, the colors of mud and leaves splotched together, and so baggy. She looks like some kind of spacewoman. That’s what she’s been doing – fighting on the moon. She sailed across the sun to get there – I saw her plane ticket, and I’ve seen pictures of her standing amongst the rocks and the dust that’s there, wearing a strange mask. For the air, they said, there isn’t any. The moon sounds like a dangerous place.
She uses her personal gravity to keep me close as we orbit around the room, while her arms gather more people. Mom’s not the same person. Or maybe she is, inside. But it’s like she’s got armor on to protect old mom.
***
I save my questions until the house is empty. That takes awhile. People came in and out all evening to ask about her space adventures, congratulating her on a successful reentry.
We chat a little before then, but about school and NASCAR, not space, and when we talk, it is really only me talking. She listens, thirsty, drinks every word in. It is all news to her. Mail didn’t always make it to the moon. And all the while she says these bright, chirpy things, like, “How nice!” and “That was really clever of you!” and “I love you!”
At bedtime, I finally let the important questions spill off my tongue.
“Mom, how far did you go? Did you make it to the Milky Way?”
“No, sweetie. That was too far for me. I had to come back to see my little boy. But I would have gone farther if it meant it’d keep him safe.” She pats my knee awkwardly.
“But you still went to the moon. That’s far.” About two-year’s-worth of distance.
“Did you pass through heaven to get there?”
She gives me a funny look, as if I just said something impossible. Like “dad called.”
“No, kiddo,” she chooses her words carefully, pursing her lips like I remember. “I didn’t.”
“But it’s supposed to be up there!”
She dodges the question. “I’m kind of glad I didn’t get to go to heaven. It’s a bit overrated, don’t you think, compared to my coming home.”
I don’t know what overrated means, but I’m glad she didn’t die, either. So, I agree.
Before mom leaves I ask my biggest question: “Did you miss me while you were out there?”
“All the time.”
***
We don’t eat fast food anymore, but there sure is a lot of chocolate in the house. Mom says it was hard to come by on the moon. That and fresh fruit. We have oodles of clementines, which I like – and then there is the heap of broccoli in the fridge.
“You hate broccoli, mom!”
“Hate is a strong word, honey,” she chides.
“Why did you buy it if you…don’t prefer it, then?”
“I had to. I missed not liking it.”
I didn’t have to worry about choking any of it down. Mom ate it all, slowly.
***
“Does the moon have the same stars?”
“Yes,” she shivers. “There were lots of stars. Shooting stars, too.”
“Were they pretty?”
“Dangerously so.”
“Did you fall for one? That’s why you came back, they said. You fell in love with a star and it messed with your head.”
“Yes and no, son. I fell for a star, but only because it attacked me. I fought the stars, remember? I fought them and I won.”
“Oh.” I am confused. I do not remember this. I didn’t know stars were bad guys. Mom must be a good fighter, though, because she doesn’t have any visible scars.
She turns off my lamp, kisses my head.
“Goodnight, my son.”
“Goodnight, mom. Mom!”
“Yes?”
“Did you miss me out there?”
“Constantly.”
***
Mom listens to lots of classical music – pieces she hated before. You’d think it would be to calm herself, except she turns it up so loud it’s like she wants to drown out the racket in her head.
And she’s really active. Already been on an eight mile run this afternoon, and this morning, when I came down for breakfast, she was doing push-ups.
I’m not sure who new mom is, but I think she’s okay. She seems to love me as much as old mom did.
I just wish I knew where old mom went, and why she didn’t come back, why she sent new mom instead.
I worry that new mom will leave, and next time no mom will return.
***
“What was the moon like?”
“You’ve seen pictures, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but pictures aren’t enough. I want to know what you lived.”
Mom stares off into the distance.
“Sometimes there was a blast—a strong gust of wind that would knock you off your feet.”
“I thought the moon didn’t have air. That’s why you wore a mask.”
“Smart kid you are.” She thinks for a bit. “The moon does have air, um, sometimes. Wind comes when stars attack its surface.”
“Bet that blew your mind.”
She smiles grimly. “Sure did.” She sounds tired, and as she walks out the door, I just have to ask once more.
“Did you miss me?”
“Absolutely.”
She walks out, flicks the switch, and my room is dark and empty. Like space. I wait a few seconds.
“Mom!”
“What?”
She pokes her head back in the doorway. I think she was waiting outside. She’s been doing that since she returned, guarding me in case the aliens followed her home.
“Will you go back?”
“I don’t know.”