The Moonlight Child Read online

  One of these days she’d have to figure out how to do that streaming. It sounded darn convenient, being able to choose movies and TV shows and see them right that very minute. Like having a jukebox in her house, but instead of music she could pick what she wanted to watch.

  She could have listed a hundred things like that—miraculous technologies and devices that didn’t exist when she was young and now were such a part of the landscape that no one made much of them at all.

  Life changed so quickly nowadays. It was hard to keep up sometimes.

  Later, when she was in bed, she thought again about the little girl. There had to be a good reason, or at least a plausible reason, why a child was standing at the Flemings’ kitchen sink at eleven o’clock at night washing dishes. Had to be. Puzzling over it was just a waste of time. Clearly, Sharon had been watching too many crime shows and reading too many thrillers. Still, her mind wouldn’t let it go. She sighed and then made herself a promise, a compromise to put her worries at ease. If she could come up with one reasonable scenario, she’d allow herself the option of forgetting the whole thing. Her mind ran over multiple ideas until it settled on one. Perhaps, she thought, the girl was a relative visiting from out of town. And maybe, just maybe, the girl had gotten up out of bed to get a drink of water, then lingered to play in the water. Mrs. Fleming had appeared irritated because she was chiding the child for messing around in the sink when she should have been sleeping.

  Put that way, it made perfect sense. Clearly, something like that was at play here. Feeling better, Sharon drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter Three

  Sharon planned to talk to her daughter about the little girl in the window during their next conversation. The best approach would be to send the image through her phone so that Amy would have it for reference. She knew she wouldn’t be able to do it, though, until Amy walked her through the process of texting an image, and that would be starting something. Sharon dreaded asking for help. Amy was apt to be impatient at having to explain it again, something that made Sharon feel like an idiot. “It’s not that hard,” she’d say, and Sharon had to admit she was right. It wasn’t that hard. So why didn’t it stick in her brain?

  She was pretty sure the icon used for sharing photos was the little V with the circles on each end, the one that reminded her of Star Trek for some reason, but she was afraid to try it without double-checking first. “Why can’t they just put the word share there?” she’d wondered aloud the first time they’d discussed it. “That would be so much easier.”

  “No, this is easier, and better,” Amy had firmly stated, proceeding to make her case. “Because this way anyone can tell at a glance. The same way you instinctively know which symbol is the on button for all your devices.” Sharon didn’t have the heart to tell her that for the longest time the only way she could remember which one was the on button was by reminding herself that it looked like the outline of a teeny breast.

  Amy was a real go-getter, an attorney who worked in corporate law. Her new job on the East Coast involved something with contracts for the shipping industry. It all sounded very dry and uninteresting to Sharon, but Amy thrived on the art of negotiation and studying the fine print. She was good at it, judging by her very large salary. Sharon was proud of her, even if she didn’t always understand her.

  Before Sharon retired, she’d envisioned her golden years as a chance for her and her daughter to spend more time together, but after Amy moved, Sharon had revised the dream and thought it would be an opportunity for her to take classes and do volunteer work. In theory it was a good idea, but soon after leaving the world of employment, she had discovered the joy of having a wide-open schedule, and she’d never looked back. Sweet freedom was doing what she wanted, when she wanted, and not having to account to anyone. Sharon liked her life, even if it was a little lonely at times.

  She wasn’t looking for trouble with the neighbors, but the little girl she’d glimpsed the previous night was on her mind first thing when she woke. Amy’s insight into the matter could only help.

  But when Amy unexpectedly called later that morning, the topic of the mystery child flew out of her head. Sharon was eating breakfast at the time, but she set her spoon aside to answer.

  After exchanging greetings, Amy got straight to the point. “Mom, I hate to ask this of you, but I need a favor.”

  Sharon sucked in a breath. Amy never asked for anything. Even as a small child she’d shaken off Sharon’s efforts to help, determined to figure everything out on her own. If she was asking her mother for a favor, it was only because she hadn’t figured out any other way around it. “Sure, baby girl. What do you need?”

  She could hear Amy’s relief coming through the line. “I knew I could count on you,” she said.

  “Of course. Anything for you.”

  “Well, it’s not for me, exactly,” Amy said. “It’s Nikita.”

  Nikita? Sharon had a sinking feeling. Nikita Ramos was a foster child Amy had been connected with in her volunteer work as a CASA—court-appointed special advocate. At the time, Amy hadn’t said too much about Nikita—only that she’d been in foster care since she was twelve and that life was a constant struggle for her.

  Sharon had only met Nikita once, and that had been before Amy moved to Boston, when Sharon had accidentally run into Amy and the girl shopping at the mall. Amy introduced them, and Sharon noticed how Nikita sized her up with one long look. Of course, Sharon did the same thing right back. Nikita struck her as one of those tough girls, both in body language and appearance. Her long hair was dyed raven black with one purple strip, and her T-shirt was black as well, with a large skull on the front, a snake dripping out of one eye socket. It was like she wanted to be stereotyped as someone not to be messed with. She seemed antsy, too, like she was overdue for a cigarette or something worse. Nikita had said hello and that it was nice to meet her, but the girl had never met her gaze, something that had struck Sharon as being suspicious.

  “What about Nikita?” Sharon asked now.

  “She needs a place to stay, and I thought, well, you’re all alone there with the empty bedroom upstairs.” Amy had a habit of making a statement and just letting it sit there, waiting for the other person to react. It wasn’t from reticence, Sharon knew. Her daughter could be shockingly bold when it was necessary. This pause was a strategy, an opportunity for Sharon to come around to Amy’s way of thinking.

  “So you want her to live here?” Sharon said. Objections flooded her brain. She hadn’t been upstairs in ages and had no idea what condition the room was in. And having a teenager come and live with her? She’d barely known how to raise her own daughter, and Amy had been so easy. A model child, by most people’s standards. What did teenagers even eat nowadays? And who knew what kind of emotional baggage a former foster child would have. What if Nikita did damage to the house or was violent? What if she hurt the cat? Sharon shuddered at the thought. There were so many reasons to say no, but she knew Amy wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. And she certainly wouldn’t deliberately put her own mother in danger.

  Amy said, “Just for a little while. She called and sounded desperate, said she couldn’t stay there another night. She was frantic, ready to leave right that minute, but I talked her into staying until I could figure something out. Honestly, I don’t know what the hell’s going on. She wouldn’t tell me, but I know she needs to get out of there right away.”

  “Wait a minute,” Sharon said. “Back up. I thought she aged out of foster care.” She was certain of this, remembering how Amy had taken a role in helping Nikita find housing after her high school graduation. By that point Amy had moved to Boston, but she’d flown back to Wisconsin to make the arrangements. Amy had a good heart.

  “Yeah, she did, and she’s lived in several places since then. I know what you’re thinking, Mom. You’re thinking that all this moving around makes her sound like she’s a problem.”

  That was exactly what Sharon had been thinking, embarrassingly en
ough.

  “That’s not true. Nikita’s gone through hell. All she needs is a room and a little support. Just someone to be in her corner, to let her know she matters.” Amy’s voice was firm. “I have friends I could have called, but I thought of you right away. I think you two would be good together.”

  “How long would she be staying with me?”

  “Thank you, Mom, thank you! You’re the best. I knew you would come through for me.” Amy’s gratitude burst through the phone in a rush, the words coming out so rapidly that Sharon’s question got lost in the whirlwind. “I’ll text you the address and Nikita’s number. How quickly can you get there to pick her up?”

  “Anytime, really,” Sharon said, looking at her half-eaten bowl of oatmeal. She could finish it in a minute. As for the rest of her plans, well, the dishes could wait, as could the load of towels she needed to fold. This was the advantage of being retired and living alone. Her time was hers and hers alone. At least it had been, up until now.

  “I’ll call and let her know you’re on your way. Thanks again, Mom. You’re awesome!” In that moment Amy sounded more fourteen than her actual age of forty, making Sharon smile.

  After they said their goodbyes, Sharon hung up the phone and hoped she wasn’t making a big mistake.

  Chapter Four

  The GPS directed Sharon to a run-down neighborhood, an area she knew to have a high crime rate. The houses were a mix—some were maintained well, as evidenced by their tidy yards and neatly shoveled driveways, while others looked neglected, their facades showing peeling paint, their property littered with junk. Sharon shook her head. How did people come to have a refrigerator on the front porch or a car on cinder blocks in the driveway? People lived such different lives.

  When she got to the correct address, she turned off the engine and got out of the car, then made her way up the snowy walkway to the front door. She pressed the doorbell and heard voices inside, first a woman angrily yelling something she couldn’t make out, followed by a man responding just as loudly. She stamped the snow off her boots and waited until finally, a minute or so later, the door was pulled open.

  A woman with a pinched face stood in the narrow opening. “Yes?”

  “I’m here to pick up Nikita?” The woman gave Sharon a blank stare. Darn it, I shouldn’t have phrased it as a question. Clearing her throat first, she tried again, this time more definitively. “I’m here for Nikita.” No response, making her wonder if she was at the wrong house. “Is she here?”

  “She’s here,” the woman said in disgust, then motioned Sharon inside. The woman turned angrily and walked away, the door still ajar.

  Sharon let herself in and watched as the woman disappeared down a hallway. To her left, a staircase went to the second floor. On her right, in the living room, a bald man in his late thirties sat in a worn recliner, looking at something on a tablet. He had earbuds in and didn’t seem aware of Sharon’s presence.

  “Nikita?” Sharon called out. “It’s Sharon Lemke, Amy’s mom. I’m here to pick you up!”

  “Just a minute!” The voice came from upstairs, and a minute later, Nikita came into view pulling a large suitcase alongside her, a backpack slung over one shoulder. She was wearing ripped jeans and an oversize sweatshirt. The suitcase must have been heavy, based on the way it clunked on each step. Nikita looked different than she had that day at the mall, wearier and with dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was missing the purple stripe as well.

  The woman came charging back down the hall, an angry expression on her face. She stopped just short of running into Sharon. For a second, she thought the woman might hit her, but instead she directed her fury at Nikita. “So that’s it, then? You’re just headin’ out of here without even a day’s notice?” She crossed her arms in front of her.

  Nikita didn’t answer; she only looked at Sharon. “Let’s go.” She tilted her head toward the door.

  “What about your job? You aren’t gonna be able to keep working there anymore if you’re moving out of the neighborhood. How you gonna get there without a car? Bet you didn’t think of that.”

  Nikita shrugged. “It wasn’t that great of a job anyway.” She toted the suitcase toward the door. “I’ll get another one.”

  Sharon held the door open, and Nikita lifted the suitcase over the threshold.

  Behind them the woman said, “You’re just gonna walk out of here? We give you a room, treat you like family. Without your rent money, I’m gonna be short this month. What am I supposed to do about that? You don’t even care, do you? You’re just trash, that’s what you are.”

  “Wait a minute!” Sharon said, but no one took note of her.

  Nikita didn’t look back. “I can’t stay.”

  The woman let forth a string of profanities, which carried across the yard as they approached the car. Wordlessly, Sharon popped the trunk, and Nikita put her suitcase inside. Just as silently, they got into the car. As Sharon started the engine, she glanced back at the house, noticing the man staring at them through the front window.

  They’d gone a few blocks before Sharon spoke. “Well, she was a real treat.”

  “Yeah.” Nikita tucked her hair behind her ear and sighed.

  “Are you hungry? We could stop somewhere and get some food.”

  Nikita shook her head. “No, thanks.”

  When they got closer to home, Sharon filled the silence. “We’re almost there. I live right down this next block.”

  “Nice neighborhood.” Nikita put her hand to the glass and peered out like a child.

  The houses were deceptively modest in size, considering that most of the occupants lived privileged lives. Vacations in Hawaii. Tutors for their children. Summer homes on northern lakes. Financially, Sharon was an outlier by comparison. Not that she minded. She said, “Don’t be too impressed. My house is one of the smaller ones. In fact, it’s the smallest. By a lot.” The real estate agent had told her that the house had originally been the guest cottage of a neighboring house, a notion that amused her.

  Sharon remembered her daughter’s reaction upon seeing the house for the first time. They’d been able to afford the house only because Sharon had gotten a lump-sum settlement from a car accident in which she’d been badly injured. Even after the bones had healed, her leg and hip had never been the same, but the $60,000 had helped with physical therapy and had even given her enough left over for a down payment on a house. Amy was a freshman in high school at the time, and Sharon was thrilled to find a house she could afford, right in Amy’s school district. She excitedly showed Amy through the house right after the sellers accepted her offer, making a point to stress that her daughter wouldn’t have to switch schools and would also have, for the first time ever, her own bathroom. She knew the house was tiny, worn, and shabby, but she hadn’t expected Amy’s lack of enthusiasm. Trying to put a positive spin on things, Sharon added, “You know what they say: the worst house on the block is the best investment!”

  To which Amy had responded, “Yeah, but did you have to get the worst house in the whole state?” Sharon had burst out laughing then.

  Thinking about it even now made her smile. The house had been a disaster, but it had served them well, and she wasn’t planning on moving anytime soon, especially given all the improvements she’d made over the years: remodeling both bathrooms and the kitchen, switching out light fixtures, painting every wall, and replacing flooring in every room. Looking at old photos, it was hard to believe it was the same house.

  Pulling into the driveway, Sharon pushed the button for the garage door opener, then paused as the door lifted. “Nikita, I want—”

  “Niki.”

  “What?”

  “Please call me Niki. Amy is the only one who gets to call me Nikita.”

  “Okay.” A simple request, easy to do. She could certainly call her Niki if that’s what she preferred, but it would have been nice of Amy to fill her in on this particular detail. She pulled into the garage and shut off the engine. “As I
was saying, Niki, I want you to feel welcome here. I’ve lived alone a long time, so if you need something, please ask. I’m not used to having someone else around.”

  “I won’t be here long, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.” But Niki was already opening the car door now, so Sharon followed suit, getting out of the car and releasing the trunk latch. “That’s the opposite of what I meant, in fact.”

  Niki pulled out her suitcase. “Okay.”

  Sharon led the way into the house, chattering nervously as she went. She found this girl unnerving, hard to read. Why would Amy have ever thought they’d be good together? She narrated as they went through the house. “In the back hall here there are hooks to hang up your coat and a boot mat, if your feet are wet.” She slipped off her own boots and hung up her coat, but Niki just nodded and didn’t make a move to take off her sweatshirt or her shoes. Moving on, Sharon said, “As you can see, this is the kitchen. The laundry room is behind that door. Feel free to use the washer and dryer. If you need help with them, let me know. They’re fairly new and very high tech. They took me the longest time to figure out,” she admitted. “I had to go on YouTube and watch a tutorial three times before I got it down pat.”

  Through all this, Niki pulled her suitcase along and kept her backpack looped over her arm. She looked around as if scoping out the exits, seemingly ready to bolt at any minute.

  After walking through the living room, Sharon gestured to her ginger cat, who lay stretched out along the top edge of the couch. “That’s Sarge. He’s very lazy and probably won’t bother you.” Niki leaned over to pet Sarge’s head, and the cat appreciatively bumped his head into the palm of her hand.