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Kirsten McDougall

Lunar Conversations

They were out there under that dead sun when he saw her. Philip saw her standing where the sun used to be and he said, 'Holy mother of Christ.'

'Mind your tongue,' she said.

No one took any notice. The kids had their little foil-covered shoeboxes pressed hard against their faces and they were making out the stuff that the adults miss on account of their eyesight being so bad. 'Mum,' he said.

Philip's good friend, James, was huddled over his own tin box, not even looking up but fiddling with one of the reels that kept getting stuck. His earphones were clamped tight so maybe he couldn't hear Philip.

'You've been indulging,' his mother said.

It was hard to make out—the change of light had made him a bit blind—but Philip thought she had on her blue suit. The one with the permanent press that she saved for funerals.

'Have a piece of tan square.' She stretched out her arm, if that's what you could call it. Out of habit he reached forward. A cool slap knocked his hand down.

'Not that piece, that's for Robyn,' she said.

'Is Robyn?' Philip coughed. He never said his sister's name anymore. 'Are you, um, in heaven?'

'No. I'm right here,' she said.

At this point he had to look away, as if the rust of the sun was infecting his eyes. She was changed. She was someone like his mother. Or she was a shadow without a form to cast it. He blinked and looked again.

'You look like your father,' she said.

'That's what he says.'

'You're a bit softer though. He was like a bull at your age. Just couldn't wait.'

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Philip was unsure what to make of this.

'Where's Robyn?' she said. 'She's going to be late.'

'I'm getting something,' said James. He called Philip over. 'Listen.' James handed him the headphones. He'd shown Philip diagrams, explained how the moment of eclipse had a pitch not discernable to human ears. The area of frequency transduction was not new, but improvements were being made all the time James said. The pictures James drew made no sense to Philip. His mother's voice crackled through the headphones.

'I can't see too far ahead of myself.' She sniffed. 'It smells like hay.'

He turned and knocked the aerial off the box.

'Watch it,' she said. 'That stuff looks expensive.'

'Give me the headphones,' said James.

'Do those small people belong to you?' she said.

'They're my sons, George and Charlie.' It felt good to say their names.

'That one's got my cheekbones.'

'You want to meet them?'

'Don't be stupid, they can't see me. They don't even know you're talking to me, dear.'

A slit of light appeared at her side as if a door to a bright room had been left ajar. There was a sound like waves rolling back off a pebbled shore and Philip was somehow taken up into it. He found himself suspended in light as though he might be halfway to joining that strange celestial theatre. The moon and sun were constantly moving, even if they didn't seem to. Even Philip, in his blindness, was turning.

'I don't know where your sister could have got to.' His mother's voice came from under water.

There was something Philip had to tell her, but what, he couldn't quite remember. She was being erased by light, her shadow turning to vapour. Philip was bathing in a warm and silky void. He was falling asleep into the sun and it felt wonderful. He was falling.

'No!' said Philip and found himself kneeled over on the damp grass. Above him the sun was out and the moon was fading away. James was packing up his tapes and the kids had wandered out of sight. Their silver viewing boxes were abandoned on the grass; small pieces of junk metal for which there was no further use.