Man in the Moon
Claire Mossbruger
When I think of my brother now, I think of the moon. I think of the summer I spent being 10 and wide-eyed. I think of the sound of corn husks crunching under our feet as we snake through the fields in the near dark, the silvery moonlight barely illuminating our faces. I think of the damp, earthy smell as we finally reach the pond, and the creak of the dock underneath our feet. I think of my giggles, and him shushing me loudly. Whether or not our parents ever knew about our late-night swims that summer, I’ll never know.
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I’d follow him down the hallway, copying his steps to avoid the noisy floorboards, down the stairs, and out the screen door. We'd race through the musky night, him always 3 paces ahead, me always at least 4 behind. He’d turn around and laugh every so often, teasing me for being slow. I’d grit my teeth and run harder, even more desperate to show him I was worthy of our adventure. I’d make it to the dock out of breath, just in time to see him leap off it. I’d follow him, the water always nearly as warm as the air.
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The first night he brought me with him, I’d been hesitant to get in. The duckweed and cattails and what-have-you growing from the edges of the pond had made me squeamish, but he looked at me with his lopsided Jacob grin and I didn’t need any other convincing.
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At that time, he was 17, and I was surprised he wanted anything to do with me at all. He had become more withdrawn and was almost never home. I thought we were closer than most siblings, but suddenly I went from endearing to annoying, and he didn’t have much interest in hanging out with his little sister anymore.
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He wasn’t like that on the nights we swam, as if the lukewarm water was smoothing his roughness like a stone in a creek bed. I’d missed that Jacob. I’d missed seeing his crooked smile, one that always suggested an air of mischief, one that gave you the impression that he always knew more than what he was letting on. When that smile was directed at you, it was like you were on top of the world, you were in on the joke, you two got each other in a way other people didn’t.
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I’d asked him when he started doing this and why he chose to bring me with him now. He never answered, just shrugged and smiled at me. I didn’t press, and I went to bed that night thinking I finally had my brother back.
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Another night, after getting in, I turned over on my back, letting my limbs spread out and my hair curl around my face like seaweed. I stayed still for a minute, letting the water gently hold me, staring into the sky. The moon was full and bright, its craters in clear view.
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“You know, you’re supposed to be able to see a face,” Jacob said, snapping me out of my trance.
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“Huh? Where?”
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He floated closer to me, and reached up, trying to trace it out in front of me. “I think those are the eyes? And the mouth’s kind of squished to the side?”
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I cocked my head and squinted one eye, trying to make it out. “I still don’t see anything.”
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“Y’know, like the man in the moon.”
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“It just looks like blobs to me.”
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“Some people see a rabbit, too, but I haven’t been able to figure that one out.”
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“Where’d you hear all this from?”
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He didn’t answer, and when I looked at him, there was an expression on his face that I didn’t understand. After another minute, when I was about to drop it, he said, quietly, “Gavin showed me.”
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“Did you guys get into a fight or something? I never see him around here anymore.” I added under my breath, “You’re never around here anymore.”
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If he heard the last part, he ignored it. “We just aren’t friends anymore. I finally realized what a stick in the mud he is.”
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Something about the tone of his voice was making me feel sick, and I was desperate to change the subject.
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“I think I see it now. Right there, right?” I said, gesturing vaguely into the sky.
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"Yeah,” he said, perking up a bit. “But we gotta get back. C’mon.”
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The next morning, however, he was nowhere to be found. I sulked around the house that day, feeling rejected, and refused to speak to him when he showed up for dinner. Dinner was awkward now, strained conversation mixed with the sounds of forks hitting plates. Our mom asked him where he’d been, he told her he was fishing with Gavin. Usually he’d be telling the truth, the Stevens’ pond was much bigger than ours and they’d spend almost every day out there in the summer. I stared at him after he said that, though, and he stared back, wordlessly, unwavering. Then he went back to pushing the food around his plate.
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I should have been worried for the rest of the summer, the way he’d swing back and forth from cold and distant to the old him when we’d go to the pond. But I was just happy to have my brother back, even if it was just for a little.
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Then summer ended, and he was gone again.
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***
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The school year was bad. He was never home, and if he was, he was fighting with our parents. Now, he’d usually stroll in after dinner (which was even more awkward now because I never knew if I should acknowledge his absence or not), when I was in my room doing schoolwork or reading or playing. I’d hear the screen door slam behind him, hear the inquisitive but careful tone my parents took with him. Walking on eggshells, something we all seemed to be doing more and more often around him.
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I could never make out exactly what they were saying until they started yelling. When they inevitably did start yelling, I’d creep over to the stair railing to hear what they were saying. I don’t know why I did, it was always the same, asking where he was, why he had been acting like this, he was throwing away his future, on and on and on. It would usually turn into a lecture about his grades, his refusal to fill out college applications, his countless detentions. At some point, he’d yell something to the effect of, “It’s my life!” and I’d hear him stomp his way to the stairs. I’d scurry back into my room and his bedroom door would shut hard enough to shake the books on my shelves.
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I’d usually go to sleep with a stomachache.
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One night, after I did manage to fall asleep, I was woken up again by a hurried rustling noise in my room. I peeked one eye open, a little scared, to see a figure going through the things on my dresser and in the drawers frantically.
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“Jacob?” I asked quietly.
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He whipped his head toward me, and in the little moonlight that came through my window, I almost thought he looked ashamed.
​“What are you doing?” His mouth opened in response, but nothing came out, and he stared at me for a second before finally responding.
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“I, um, I need some money,” he said weakly.
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“Why?”
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“I can’t tell you.”
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“Just tell me.”
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“I can’t.”
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“Tell me.”
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He gave a resigned sigh. “I just owe some people some money, okay? Just kinda in a bad spot.”
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I opened my mouth to ask more, but decided against it, knowing his stubbornness wouldn’t allow him to reveal anything else. Then I sat up and slid out of bed. I made my way over to my closet, and on struggling tippy-toes, reached for the jewelry box I knew was stashed on the top shelf. The jewelry box he’d given me for my eighth birthday. I finally found it, and when I opened it, the little ballerina began twirling and a few bars of a tinny version of Swan Lake played. For whatever reason, it made the sinking feeling in my stomach worse. I looked down at the wad of bills, money I had saved from birthdays and Christmas, allowance I never spent. I held the box out to him at arm's length, waiting for him to take what he needed. He stared at it blankly for a moment, then took it and counted out some money silently before handing it back to me.
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He turned to leave, but before he could, I asked, “Jacob- you’re doing anything bad, right?”
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Once again, he stared at me for a moment. “Thanks for the money,” he said, and disappeared out of my room and into the dark hallway.
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***
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That March, he turned 18, and once again didn’t show up for dinner. Our mom had spent a few hours making a cake from scratch for him, and it sat sadly on the table as we ate silently. It was hard to eat with the lump in my throat that was growing more and more with each passing minute. I looked up from my plate a few times to see my mom blinking away tears, and to see my dad’s jaw clenched and his eyes angry.
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When we finished eating, we continued to sit there, silent. I glanced between them, waiting for someone to say something, holding my breath. Then my mother stood up, gently took the cake off the table, balancing it on her dominant hand, and brought it over to the fridge, as if to save it. She hesitated, though, reaching for the door handle, and then in one deliberate motion, pivoted and let it fall out of her hand, into the trash. She returned to the table, starting to pick up the dirty plates.
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I stood up to help her, picked up the clean plate, clean silverware, and clean glass from the seat next to me and put them in the cabinets, not the sink. My father went to the living room, and I could hear Wheel of Fortune playing on the TV. I did the dishes while she packed up the leftovers and no one said a word. When I went to bed, he was still in the living room, the light from the screen emphasizing the lines in his face and making him look older than he really was.
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I tossed and turned for what seemed like hours until I heard the door slam, and I knew he was home. I sat up and glanced at my alarm clock, 2:07 glowing in red. As I groggily rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I could hear the murmurs of two male voices. Dad must’ve stayed up to wait for him, to demand where he was, to let him know how sad he made Mom, I thought. And I was right, evidenced by the growing noise of the voices, turning from strained and trying to stay quiet to full-blown yelling.
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I went to the railing, as usual, needing to know what was going on. I never knew what was going on anymore, just that I wasn’t supposed to talk about it or ask about it or acknowledge it.
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I listened to our father call him selfish, irresponsible, disappointing, everything I knew he wanted to say during those silent dinners but didn’t. I winced as every word came out of his mouth, imagining the look on Jacob’s face as they came from the person he used to look up to the most.
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“Look at me.” I heard him demand. “Are you...” His voice quieted and I couldn’t make out the last part of what he said.
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“What? What are you even talking about?”
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“Answer me.”
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Jacob scoffed. “No! Jesus Christ, I was with my friends, okay? We lost track of time, that’s it.”
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“Your mother spent a long time on a meal and on a cake for you that went to waste. Do you understand how upset she was?” He was getting louder again, the anger seeping back into his words.
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“Oh, who fucking cares, it’s just a fucking ca-”
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His words were cut off by a sharp smack, and the silence that followed roared in my ears.
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Jacob had never cursed at my parents before, or even around them. He was never an angel, but he always knew where the line was. At least he used to. But what was even more surprising was my father raising a hand to him. He always swore he would never touch us, that he would never be like his own father.
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The silence continued, and I could imagine them both frozen, staring at each other in disbelief. Then, I heard Jacob’s footsteps slowly heading towards the stairs, and I disappeared back into my room.
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When I left my room the next morning, his door was still shut, which wasn’t unusual for a Saturday. I went downstairs and carefully peered around the doorway into the kitchen. My parents sat at the table, whispering to each other in a concerned tone. When my mother noticed me standing there, she sat up straight, a painted smile on her face.
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“Morning, sweetheart. You’re up earlier than usual. Want anything for breakfast?” She stood up, seeming eager to distract me from what I had just observed.
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“Uh, sure. Whatever’s fine.”
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She hummed to herself as she cooked, and my dad seemed almost content as he read the newspaper next to me. The tension in the room was almost melting away, slowly. Almost.
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Jacob then rounded the corner, and we all turned to look at him, waiting for him to say something. He didn’t, though, and instead headed towards the door.
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“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” Our dad called after him.
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Jacob didn’t answer, just kept heading for the door.
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He got up and followed him, yelling his name, and the door slammed behind them. I looked to my mother, but she had turned away from the door, staring down at the eggs in the pan in front of her. I couldn’t see her face to make out her expression, but I knew from her stillness that it wasn’t good. After a few minutes, I heard the muffled slam of a car door, and my father came back in, alone. He and my mother stared at each other for a beat.
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“He’s gone.”
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With that, Mom left the room, and he sighed and walked over to the stove. He brought the eggs over to my plate, and then followed her.
I ate alone that morning.
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***
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Sunday morning, Jacob still hadn’t come home, and by Sunday night my father had gone out to look for him. They still weren’t home when I was sent to bed, and every time I’d see a car’s headlights outside my window, I’d hope it was them.
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In the morning, my mother woke me up before school like she normally did, but she sat down on the edge of my bed instead of leaving. I sat up warily, the grogginess not helping my confusion.
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“Did Dad find Jacob?”
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Her brows furrowed. “He did, yes. But he didn’t come home with him.”
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“Why?”
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“He found him at the park with some people. And, um, Jacob’s gotten caught up in some things he shouldn’t have, and he needs help.”
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“I don’t understand.” I tried to comprehend what she was trying to say, but my head was still foggy and it seemed none of her words were sticking in my brain.
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“When your dad found him, he told him he could either come home and agree to get help, or he wasn’t welcome home at all.” Her voice broke and she started to tear up. “He decided he didn’t want to come home, and since he’s 18, there was nothing we could do about it.”
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“So, where is he now?”
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She was fully crying now, and I could feel the tears start to sting my eyes. “We don’t know.”
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And we didn’t know for a while after that.
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***
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June came again, and so did graduation. Usually there was a parade for the new graduates, and Jacob would’ve been in it that year. Should’ve been in it. None of us had seen Jacob since that night in March, and he hadn’t tried to make any contact with us either, at least to my knowledge. I knew the weight of what should’ve been was weighing on my parents, and dinner that night was especially silent. My mother kept glancing at the door, like she was waiting for Jacob to walk through and sit down like none of this ever happened. But he didn’t.
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Eventually, we all went upstairs to go to bed. The cool, humid night air came in through my windows, and the first full moon of the month washed my room in its white light. I walked over to my bedroom door and opened it slowly, peeking down the hall to see if the light in my parents’ room was still on. When I saw it wasn’t, I crept over the creaky floorboards and down the stairs, avoiding the ones I knew to make the most noise.
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I carefully opened and closed the screen door, and set off across the yard and through the cornfields. There was no giggling or shushing this time, no running and chasing through the mud. But when I made it to the pond, it was exactly like it was last summer. The dock creaked under my feet as it always did, and the cattails and duckweed grew just as abundantly. I tested the water with my foot first, as opposed to jumping in with reckless abandon like we used to. The water was warm and clear, and I slipped in without splashing.
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As I turned to float on my back, the water cradled me in the same way it always did. The moon, big and bright and full, smiled down at me. And in its craters, I could see a face.
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I could see my brother’s.
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