Moon And Stars

You could have heard the slap all over the campground.

Not a girly, just-enough-to-wake-you-up kind of slap, but a heavy handed, full on slap that resounded and echoed.

I thought about that slap for years after I saw it happen. Mostly I wondered why she chose to slap him instead of punch him and break his nose, which was what he deserved.

It wasn’t until years later when I was an adult and dealing with that kind myself that I realized she slapped him because he wasn’t good enough for a punch.

I was nine years old when my mom slapped my father on our camping trip.

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My mom loved camping, always had. She said she grew up with it and it reminded her of a more peaceful time, and that the woods gave her hope.

My nine year old self didn’t really understand this, but I liked to pretend that I did.

“We’re going to Hope, Hope, Hoooope!” my younger sister and I used to chant while we helped my mom pack up the car with our camping essentials, pretending we didn’t notice my father passed out on the couch, a beer can still in his hand.

I always knew my father loved me, I was sure of it. When he actually came home after work instead of going to a bar, he used to tickle my sister and I on the floor of our living room, my sister and I shrieking with delight, telling him to stop even though we never wanted him to. He would grab us both up, one in each arm, and shower us with kisses, telling us over and over that he loved us.

He had this phrase he liked to tell us: “You are my stars and your mother is my moon.”

He was good to us, my sister and I. So I learned to just think of him as not my father when he drank.

I don’t think my mom ever learned that trick.

Instead, she would plaster on a smile when he packed up several cases of beer in the back of the car for our camping trips and grasp the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white.

My father seemed to rally a little when we got to the campground, even unloaded the car and helped my mother set up our tent. That first night as we sat around a campfire that he actually built for us, he only had four beers.

We could easily handle him with only four beers.

The second day, however.

My mom normally did her research before we went on camping trips, making sure there were no concerts or events nearby where he could get more alcohol than what he brought with him. I guess she just forgot this time.

I watched my mother’s face go white when we first heard the sounds of distant music. Not even ten minutes later, my father stood up from his chair and kissed my mom’s forehead.

“Going for a walk, be back soon,” he said, patting my sister and I on the head as he walked by.

I watched him walk away, knowing that he wasn’t going to return as my father.

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My sister and I were wading in the creek together when the rain started. We didn’t mind, we were already wet, so what was the harm?

I think we both screamed when the first roar of thunder resounded.

It wasn’t that I was afraid of storms. We had our fair share of thunderstorms where we lived, and I almost liked the rain.

But this thunder was foreign. It sounded like it was right next to me, like it had snuck up behind me and yelled right in my ear.

“Emily Katherine! Emily Katherine, get your sister now!”

I grabbed Cesi’s hand and ran towards my mom as fast as my legs would go. I couldn’t remember the last time she had called me by my full name.

“Come on,” she said, a forced smile making her face look strange. “We’re going to sit in the tent and play Uno.”

There was no sign of my father; he had only been gone for three hours.

I didn’t start to wonder if he was coming back to our campsite until six hours had past, and the rain wasn’t letting up, and it was well past my regular bedtime.

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“Mommy, the tent is wrong,” Cesi said, trying to hold back tears. I don’t think my mother or I had noticed that water had begun to find its way into the tent until Cesi pointed it out.

My mother didn’t respond for a moment; she just stared out at the rain pouring down.

“Okay,” she finally said. “We’re packing up the car now.”

We put Cesi in the car and my mother and I quickly began packing everything away. The rain had been coming down so hard for so long that we were both covered in mud by the time we got the tent halfway down, having slipped too many times to count.

I had just slipped again and had lifted my face up to the sky to get the mud off when I heard him yell.

“Let me help!”

I thought it was strange that my father’s voice had gotten so much deeper. And as I was helped to my feet, I found my father’s arms around me foreign and unknown.

When he had stood me up and looked me over to make sure I wasn’t hurt, I realized he wasn’t my father. I tried to fight the instinct to cower, unsure what to do with a stranger holding onto my arm.

“I’m Ben,” he hollered over the rain. “I’m campin’ with my family over yonder, and saw you’ns havin’ a struggle and reckoned I could help.”

“Okay,” I yelled back, not even quite sure what he had just said. I had only read about accents like his, never heard one up close and in person.

He ran over to my mother and said something to her I couldn’t quite make out, both because of the storm and his accent. Whatever he said, my mother cracked, and smiled the first genuine smile I had seen all weekend.

We had the tent down and everything packed in the car in less than 30 minutes thanks to Ben. I jumped into the car with my sister and stripped, throwing my soaking clothes in the back and changing into mostly dry ones.

I watched as my mother and Ben stood by the car and talked; I tried to guess what they were saying just from watching my mother’s face and Ben’s expressive use of his hands.

After a few moments, my mother shook his hand, then climbed into the car herself.

“Here, momma,” I said, handing her dry clothes.

“What would I do without my Em,” my mother smiled, squeezing my hand.

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I woke up to the sound of the car door being slammed. I wasn’t sure how long I had slept, but it was long enough for the rain to die down to a soft sprinkle. Slightly dazed from sleep, I opened my own car door to see where my mother had gone.

That’s when I heard the slap.

It sounded like a gunshot from where I stood. I closed my eyes and tried to get my bearings, my heart beating fast.

When I opened my eyes, I saw my father standing a few hundred feet away, his body slightly slumped, his hand pressed against his cheek. And my mother, standing next to him.

At least I thought it was my mother. She looked so unlike her, her eyes more calm than I had ever seen them before, her back straight. I don’t think I ever knew how tall she was until I saw her standing straight next to my father.

It took me a moment before I realized the sound was a slap, and the slap had come from my mother’s hand.

“Get in the car,” I heard her say, and began to back towards the car before I realized she wasn’t talking to me. She was talking to my father.

He didn’t say a word, but quickly walked towards me, seeming to not even see me as he opened my car door and got inside next to my sister.

I slid into the passenger’s seat and waited on my mother. After a moment, she walked to the car, got in, and pulled out of the campsite, reaching over to take my hand in hers as she drove us home.

“You are my stars,” she whispered to me, keeping her eyes on the road. “And I’m still your father’s moon.”