Echoes of the Moon - Book 1 in the Moonlight series

Chapter 3: The Aftermath

The weeks following that fateful Friday at Nana’s house felt like stepping into a strange, unfamiliar world. Everything had changed, though no one would admit it outright. I was no longer allowed to stay near the house during my mother’s treatments. At first, my father and Nana tried to explain it away as a way to protect me.

“Scarlett, this isn’t something a little girl should see,” my father said gruffly one evening, his tone leaving no room for argument. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw clenched like he was holding back more than just words.

“But I don’t understand,” I protested, my small hands balled into fists at my sides. “Why do you have to hurt her? Why can’t I help?”

“It’s not what it looks like,” Nana interjected, her voice softer as she knelt in front of me, taking my hands in hers. Her palms were warm, but they trembled slightly, betraying her calm facade. “Your mommy is very sick, and we’re doing everything we can to make her better. But some things… some things you don’t need to see.”

I frowned, my small brows knitting together as I looked into her tired eyes. “But why can’t she go to a hospital?” I asked, my voice trembling with a mix of confusion and frustration. “Isn’t that where sick people are supposed to go? They help people there.”

Nana’s face tightened, the corners of her mouth pulling into a strained smile. She took a deep breath, brushing a stray curl away from my face as if stalling for time. “Sweetheart,” she began, her voice gentler now, “your mommy’s sickness… it’s not like most sicknesses. The doctors at a hospital wouldn’t know how to help her. What we’re doing here is special, just for her.”

Her words only confused me more. “But why not?” I pressed. “Hospitals fix people all the time! They can fix her too.”

Nana hesitated, the weight of her answer visible in the way her shoulders sagged. “I know it’s hard to understand, Scarlett,” she said softly. “But trust me, we’re doing what’s best for her. You just have to trust us.”

I didn’t respond. How could I trust them when everything they did seemed to hurt her more? Her words left me with more questions than answers, the ache in my chest growing heavier as I stared at the lines of worry etched into her face.

Her words were meant to soothe me, but they didn’t. All I saw was them hurting my mother, and now they wanted to hide it from me. How could I trust them when the memory of her screams still echoed in my ears?

The first time they made me leave the house during her treatment, my grandfather took me to the park. “Let’s get some fresh air, eh? You can feed the ducks,” he said, handing me a bag of breadcrumbs as he led me toward the pond. The sunlight sparkled on the water, and the ducks quacked eagerly as they paddled closer. I threw the breadcrumbs into the water, watching the ripples spread outward, but my thoughts were far from the idyllic scene. Was she screaming again? Was Nana still using that awful needle? The acrid smell of the syringe fluid haunted me, and I couldn’t shake the image of my father straining to hold her down.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Granddad asked, crouching beside me. His voice was kind, but his eyes carried the same weight as everyone else’s—a burden I didn’t understand but felt pressed against me all the same.

“Yeah,” I muttered, but my voice lacked conviction. He didn’t push me to talk, just stayed close as I threw the rest of the breadcrumbs into the pond.

After that, the outings became routine. Every second Friday, my father or grandfather would whisk me away, distracting me with new adventures. They tried to make it fun trips to the ice cream parlour, the arcade, even the movies, where I got to pick my favourite animated films.

At first, I let myself be swept up in the fun. I laughed, played, and devoured scoops of mint chocolate chip ice cream, the cold sweetness melting on my tongue. In the arcade, I raced digital cars and shot hoops, my giggles mixing with the clatter of tokens and the buzz of neon lights. For a moment, I felt like a normal kid again. But beneath it all, the unease never left me.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that these outings were a cover, a bright and shiny distraction hiding something far darker. When I looked at my grandfather or father during these outings, I sometimes caught them staring off into the distance, their brows furrowed as if they were miles away. They’d snap back when I noticed, plastering on smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes.

By the time we returned to Nana’s house, I would stare at the front door, half-expecting to hear the faint echo of her cries. My heart clenched as we walked inside, the house’s creaks and whispers louder than ever. The cheerful facade they created for me during the day made the return to reality feel even heavier. I wanted to ask if she was okay, if she was still in pain, but I was too afraid of the answers.

I tried to make sense of it all, but the pieces didn’t fit. Why did my mother need these treatments? Why did they look so much like punishment? And why, even with all the distractions, did it feel like something was slipping further and further out of my reach?

One Friday, as we walked back to the car after an afternoon at the arcade, I heard my father’s voice echoing across the empty parking lot. He had stepped away, his phone pressed tightly to his ear, pacing near the car. I clutched the stuffed animal I’d won from the claw machine, its soft fur comforting against my fingers, and slowed my steps to listen.

“No, it’s getting worse,” he said, his voice low but sharp with frustration. “She’s not responding the way she used to… Yes, I know the risks, but we don’t have a choice.”

I stopped in my tracks. The world around me seemed to blur, the neon arcade lights still blinking in the distance now muted and out of focus. My stomach churned, and my heart began to race. What risks? What wasn’t she responding to?

The stuffed animal slipped slightly from my grasp as my palms grew clammy. I wanted to ask him what he meant, to demand answers, but the words stuck in my throat. My mind raced through all the possibilities—none of them good. Images of my mother screaming, thrashing, and begging flashed in my mind, and the uneasy feeling that had been with me for weeks swelled into full-blown dread.

My father turned then, catching me standing frozen on the pavement. His expression changed in an instant, the worry and tension melting away as he forced a smile onto his face. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“There you are,” he said lightly, pocketing his phone as he walked toward me. “Come on, Scarlett. Let’s get you home.” His voice was calm, too calm, like he was trying to convince me that nothing was wrong.

I hesitated, gripping the stuffed animal tighter. “What were you talking about?” I asked quietly, my voice trembling.

“Just work stuff,” he said quickly, ruffling my hair like he always did when he wanted to distract me. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

I didn’t believe him, but I nodded anyway, my legs moving automatically as he guided me toward the car. The warm leather of the car seat pressed against my legs as I climbed in, but it didn’t bring any comfort. The stuffed animal sat on my lap, its black button eyes staring blankly up at me as I turned my face to the window.

The ride home was quiet, but my mind was loud with questions. I glanced at my father’s reflection in the rearview mirror, catching the tightness in his jaw and the furrow in his brow. He wasn’t as calm as he pretended to be. The questions swirled in my head like a storm: What risks was he talking about? Why wasn’t she responding? And why wouldn’t anyone tell me the truth?