Flit

By Abieth Winter

Twelve-year-old Lunar Marrowstern isn’t afraid to die. After she learns she has ovarian cancer, Lunar’s only fear is being the left behind kid at school and having to spend another year at home with her parents.
Mr. and Mrs. Marrowstern also aren’t afraid their only daughter is going die, as far as Lunar can tell. Aside from some dramatic sobbing, they appear more concerned about Monty and Jack, her two older brothers, than how Lunar’s handling both the intense chemotherapy, and the realization she’ll have to go into the seventh-grade bald, skeletal, and friendless.
Friendless, until Barnacle, a flying red cat, and Sprigmont, a horned blue bear, appear in her hospital room to slap the self-pity out of her. The first true companions she’s ever had, the cat and bear help her stomach her food and pull out the last of her withered hair. But they fail to mention they’re hunted in their own world, which is why their appearance changes from healthy to haggard in a few weeks. And in their world, someone finally realizes the value of hunting and capturing Lunar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abieth Winter
• Release date: Dec 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9780615778815

Book preview

Flit

Abieth Winter

Copyright Abieth Winter 2012

Published at Smashwords

Chapter One

Oncology Meteorology

Once upon a late summer afternoon, a twelve-year-old girl with bright hazel eyes noticed a rather large lump in her stomach. One to get to the bottom of things, Lunar Marrowstern immediately poked the lump with a short, strong finger. And poked. Unaware she would be diagnosed with ovarian cancer within three days, Lunar prodded the fleshy fist with more investigative curiosity than utter despair.

As the skin melted into a gummy pink ball, she did get a bit annoyed with it – she had almost glued Helga back together when she noticed the lump peeking from under her shirt.

After twenty-seven minutes of poking, Lunar decided two things. Firstly, she'd name the lump Gessup, and secondly, that it was quite odd to have a lump named Gessup in her stomach. She looked down at the regal St. Bernard's head and sighed. Helga would have to wait, she should probably tell her mother about Gessup.

Lunar tiptoed around the old family photos and testimonials that littered her bedroom floor, softly making her way to the hall. Climbing the basement steps, she hoped her mother wouldn't be too disturbed about Gessup. She stopped. Maybe she should put on her shoes in case her mother demanded immediate medical attention and decided to rush her to the hospital. No, she decided, hopping up two more steps, she could go barefoot in an emergency.

Stepping onto the cameo-swirled tile of the kitchen, Lunar froze when her mother held a plump finger to her, signaling for her to wait. The well-rounded mother with a carefully brushed bowl of chocolate brown hair kept her eyes fixed on the television above the microwave. The weatherman smiled and predicted a twenty-two percent chance of rain for the evening, and possible clouds the following day.

Mrs. Marrowstern gasped. Did you hear that? Rain and clouds!

We need the rain, the grass is wilty, Lunar said, staring at the gentle curve of the cameo woman's nose. It'll be okay.

How do you know? Are you a meteorologist?

No, I just don't think the rain’s going to hurt you.

That's because you've never been struck by lightning. Her mother studied the weather breakdown for the upcoming week.

That's true, Lunar said, poking Gessup to make sure he was still there. But weren't you hit in the head with a golf ball?

It was lightning! I hope you never know the pain. Because then they just keep coming after you! The forecast switched to the mountains, where hail had damaged a lama farm.

Hail! Mrs. Marrowstern squeaked, her glasses sliding down her nose. Oh oh, north, good. She turned, pushing her glasses into place. Now, what's wrong?

Lunar lifted her shirt enough to display Gessup and her newly perfected poking technique. This is Gessup, and I think he’s weird, she said.

Then stop touching it, answered her mother. You're all blotchy. And no one likes a blotchy girl. Okay?

Don’t you think it's kinda strange? Lunar asked, stepping forward. I couldn't have swallowed anything this big.

Mrs. Marrowstern opened the refrigerator and started to remove a parade of vegetables. No, Lunar, it's perfectly normal. You're becoming a woman. Don't you want to be a woman?

Not if it means my entrails are going to turn into potatoes.

Don't say entrails, dear.

Mom, I think something might be wrong with me.

You're twelve. I'm forty. That means I know everything. Now, since you're here, peel the carrots, okay? Mrs. Marrowstern turned back to the weather report.

The more her mother ignored her, however, the more Lunar became convinced something was wrong.

It's pretty big, Mom, I think…

It's nothing, I promise. Women have curves, and we don't feel the need to constantly talk about them. When the weather turned to the southern region, Mrs. Marrowstern blew a rarely seen piece of dust from the TV, opened a cupboard, expertly removed a stack of cameo-swirled bowls with one hand while placing the peeler in front of Lunar with the other.

Lunar tucked her maple blonde hair behind her ears and washed her hands.

When you're done with the carrots, go ahead and peel and cut up the rest of those. Mrs. Marrowstern motioned to the entire contents of the fridge, now piled on the counter.

Somewhere down the block a neighbor turned on a sprinkler. As the sound of water hitting the sidewalk reverberated into the kitchen, Mrs. Marrowstern yelped and ducked behind the trashcan.

It's a sprinkler, Lunar told her, skinning a carrot.

You're not a meteorologist! How many times to I have to tell you!

When Lunar had finished peeling, cubing, dicing, chopping, slicing, hacking, and mincing, her fingers ached, but she was permitted to return to her bedroom until dinner.

Settling back into her place on the floor, Lunar considered what her mother had said about Gessup. Mrs. Marrowstern strongly disliked anything that disrupted her particular way of thinking. Lunar knew this, and knew that she was the least likely to get her attention of the three children. Still, Lunar had expected a small sign of distress over a strange meat bulb in her stomach named Gessup. Apparently it was beyond her mother's comprehension, so she'd have to bring it up to Dr. Wiler herself at her checkup tomorrow. She started seventh grade in a month, and the idea of having Gessup the topic of conversation during gym class horrified her.

If you had a lump the size of a yam, I'd take you to the vet, Lunar told Helga's nearly repaired portrait. With a dab of glue, Lunar gently attached the massive head with the warm brown eyes onto the strong, shaggy body. Holding the head in place as it dried, she surveyed the other towering stacks of family photos and documents. It had taken her three days to organize them in chronological order, but after Jack had torn through her room at midnight the night before, all of the piles were scattered, and several completely innocent relatives were torn.

Satisfied with Helga, she laid the St. Bernard on top of her owner. She should continue working on Moburg Von Helsa Marrow and her husband Neeter. One son, Peter, died at twenty-four when a tree fell on him, the other, Uther, married Ullga Von when he was nineteen. Ten children in ten years produced several of the teetering stacks on Lunar's beige carpet. Monty had Moburg’s nose. She’d never noticed it before. He wouldn’t like to hear that, she thought, looking at Monty’s most recent school picture.

Lunar failed to see what was so special about Monty. A fourteen-year-old intellectual snob who wasn't particularly intellectual, Monty's main purpose in life was to flatter their parents into submission. Like everything Monty attempted, manipulating his parents had been a smashing success. Lunar thought of it more as brainwashing, but had to wash the garage floor when at dinner a year ago she asked her parents what it felt like to live in Monty's brain.

In addition to flattering Mr. and Mrs. Marrowstern until they couldn't see straight, Monty’s other hobbies included scolding Lunar for her unladylike behavior, playing rounds of golf in bright green shorts, and eating bars of cooking chocolate. Had he been in the kitchen with Lunar and Mrs. Marrowstern earlier, he would have told Lunar to show some respect for their mother and not to hassle her with every sniffle, mother was far too busy to have to endure Lunar's childish complaints.

Of course covering Cookiedog with catnip wasn’t childish. When Cookiedog finally keeled over one day at her bowl, Lunar knew the cat had died because her brothers had driven the poor thing insane, though that comment cost her two car washes and ten loads of laundry.

Jack Ofall Marrowstern even idolized Monty, who was two years younger. At sixteen, Jack had plenty of friends because he, as their parents often pointed out to company could be quite entertaining. Lunar thought he was obnoxious, and failed to see the humor in putting sardines in her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, or driving the car around the block backwards for half an hour when she needed him to drive her to her violin lesson.

Despite his popularity, Jack always tripped over himself to gain Monty's respect. Even Lunar could see this would never happen since Monty considered himself king of the siblings.

Lunar! Time to set the table! her mother called from the kitchen.

When she walked into the kitchen, Monty leaned to the left enough for Lunar to get the placemats and plates from the cupboard behind him.

No, Mom, I don’t see why we need any rain. Would you like me to leave my golf umbrella out for you? he asked, picking a piece of lint off his red golf shirt.

That would be wonderful, Monty. Oh, Lunar. Don’t forget to use the water glasses, not the juice glasses. Mrs. Marrowstern sat with her needlepoint at the breakfast bar. It’s ridiculous how many times I have to refill the juice glasses, especially with my bad knee.

Is your knee bothering you again? Monty asked, leaning to the right to let Lunar collect the silverware.

A bit. It can sense the rain, Mrs. Marrowstern answered ominously, staring into the dim light covering the back yard.

Then shouldn’t Lunar serve dinner for you? Monty stared at Lunar. You wouldn’t mind helping out Mother for once, would you?

That’s a splendid idea, Monty, said Mrs. Marrowstern, beaming with pride. You’re so very, very thoughtful.

Yeah, he’s really wonderful, Lunar said, leaving the kitchen with her arms full of cameo-swirled tableware.

Jack sat in his chair with his feet on the table. He smacked his gum and tossed a baseball at the ceiling.

Hey Loon, want some help setting the table? he asked, catching the ball and tossing it again.

Sure, I…

Then you should ask someone who cares. Jack burst into screeching giggles. Lunar merely watched him cackle as though he believed himself to be the first human to discover laughter. His face blushed into red lines until he took a breath. No, no, seriously, sis, do you want some help?

Lunar laid out the placemats. No thanks, Jackal.

Don’t call me that! he shouted.

She stood next to him waiting for him to move his feet. I need to finish this so I can start serving.

Say the magic word, Loon loon.

Jackal.

Mom! Jack sprung to his feet and ran into the kitchen.

Are you causing more trouble, Lunar? asked Mr. Marrowstern as he appeared from his den. With a smooth oval head and slight bend in his back, Lunar had always thought her father looked like an egg timer. He nudged her chin into the air, forcing her to look him in the eye. What’d you do to Jack?

Nothing, I was just trying to set the table, she said, his feet were on the table so I couldn’t…

Oh now, Mr. Marrowstern moaned, taking a deep breath. I’m sure that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Jack would never do that. You shouldn’t exaggerate, sweetie. People will think you’re a fibber.

His feet were on the table, Lunar protested, squeezing the life from the forks in her hand.

He knows better than that. Now hurry up, I’m famished. Mr. Marrowstern gave her a pat on the head before heading back into his den. Call me when it’s ready.

Complaining under her breath, Lunar finished setting the table and headed back into the kitchen, trying not to draw any attention to herself. She slipped the cameo-swirled oven mitt on her hand when she heard her mother sigh.

Lunar, we’ve been through this. Don’t call Jack ‘jackal.’ Mrs. Marrowstern punctuated her statement with a nod. Jack’s eyes were swollen, and Monty shook his head at his sister.

Are you crying? Lunar asked Jack, surprised.

No. He paused, twisting his face in anger. Stupid!

Lunar, are you sorry? Mrs. Marrowstern tapped her foot.

Nope. Lunar didn’t know why she should be sorry when Jack could call her anything he wanted.

Then you'll do dishes. Monty, pull the pan out for her, she’s weak.

Monty hopped up, snatching the mitt off Lunar’s hand. Slamming the oven door open, he dramatically swooped the vegetable lasagna onto the counter as though they were all supposed to applaud him. Mrs. Marrowstern let out a small oohhhh then kissed his cheek as she walked into the dining room.

That was neat, Monty, said Jack, following him to the table.

Yes, I was Mrs. Cooley’s helper in home ec last year, Monty crowed, dropping the mitt on the floor.

Most of the dinner conversation focused on the new golf instructor at Begonia High. Monty felt Mr. Stifflet would be adequate, even though he was divorced and wore blue socks.

I’ll still give him a chance, though, Monty explained, taking a delicate bite of the lasagna. Sadly, this is a little overcooked, Mom. I’ve been trying to figure out what’s wrong with it for some time now, but that’s it. It’s overcooked.

I’m so sorry, Mrs. Marrowstern said, embarrassed. Lunar distracted me.

Lunar, having tuned out most of the conversation up to this point, looked up from her soggy lasagna.

I what? she asked.

You distracted me so the lasagna is overcooked, Mrs. Marrowstern calmly repeated.

Really, Lunar. You know how much I love this dish, scolded her father.

But I was in my room, Lunar argued. You were talking to Monty when I came up, remember?’

You don’t think I should talk to Monty? Mrs. Marrowstern frowned at her.

No, I’m just saying I wasn’t around while it cooked, that’s all.

Sure, Loon. Jack threw a carrot at her. Lunar ducked.

Oh now I have a carrot on the golden birch , Lunar! Mrs. Marrowstern whipped out of her chair, springing to the closet next to the kitchen. She spun the vacuum cleaner out, plugging it in with a swift motion of her hand. Although not an agile woman, Mrs. Marrowstern displayed great athletic prowess in the cleaning arena.

No, Mom, your knee! exclaimed Monty, slamming his hands on the table in concern.

It’ll be okay, Monty, I still have some pain pills left from my strained wrist last month. Mrs. Marrowstern expertly suctioned the offensive carrot into the vacuum bag. There. Now we may eat in peace. Please be more careful, Lunar.

I forgot to tell you, Mrs. Love has taken a leave of absence. That’ll make English easier, Jack said, picking around his squash.

Really? Is it a sabbatical? Didn’t she already take a sabbatical last year? Mr. Marrowstern asked.

No, I don’t know. I don’t think so. She has boob cancer or something. Jack shoved an entire roll into his mouth and chewed it like a cow. Booooo canker, he chuckled.

Lunar shot a look at Gessup. Cancer. She hadn’t thought of that.

Jack, dear, don’t say boob cancer. And it’s not funny. Many women die from it every year. You wouldn’t like to die from breast cancer, would you? Mrs. Marrowstern chided.

Jack laughed. I don’t have boobs.

Jack, don’t be vulgar. Cancer is a very serious medical condition. One that shouldn’t be laughed at. Do you think being grounded is funny? Mr. Marrowstern narrowed his eyes at Jack, who gulped down the rest of the roll.

No, sir. I wouldn’t like to have boob cancer. It’s not funny.

That’s better, now pass the butter. Mr. Marrowstern pointed to the cameo-swirled butter tray.

Mom, do you think it’s cancer? Lunar asked softly.

Not you, too, Lunar. When did I raise such disagreeable children? Mrs. Marrowstern turned to her husband. What have I done to deserve this?

Mom, I mean Gessup. Lunar turned her eyes up to her mother. Could he be cancer?

Who’s Gessup? We told you not to talk to Barkenstale’s dog, he’ll bite your hand clean off, Lunar. Her father pointed his butter knife at her. And I don’t want a daughter with one hand, I don’t care about the good parking.

Gessup’s the lump I showed you, Mom. Do you think it could be cancer?

You named a lump Gessup? Mr. Marrowstern tipped his head to her. Did your teddy bear tell you to?

Lunar ignored her father. He’d always thought she was strange. Mom?

Mrs. Marrowstern turned again to her husband. Where did I go so wrong? She glanced at Lunar. No, it’s not cancer. You’re too young to get cancer, and we have no history of it. You’re just getting fat.

Jack and Monty roared with laughter, giving Mr. Marrowstern the opportunity to turn the subject back to a more respectable topic. Rabies.

Lunar tried to sleep, but could only stare at the ceiling. It just couldn’t be cancer. Cancer would mean surgery. Surgery would mean she would have to start late at school. If she started school late, she might not catch up, and she didn’t want to be the left behind kid. Maybe she was getting fat, maybe Gessup was a big ball of fat. A very large ball of fat in one particular area.

She just couldn’t miss a year. No one liked the left behind kid, and she didn’t want to have to repeat a grade and spend another year at home. She wanted to go to college on schedule and become an explorer. Yes, an explorer. She tried to think of other left behind kids who’d gone on to become explorers, but no one came to mind.

Sometime between thinking about what Gessup would tell her if he could talk, and trying to figure out if she’d be able to climb mountains if she had to repeat the seventh grade, Lunar drifted briefly into sleep. Before she even realized she'd fallen asleep, she felt her mother tug on her arm.

Lunar, hurry up, you appointment’s at 8:30. Didn’t you set your alarm? Mrs. Marrowstern had more makeup on than usual. Her wrinkles looked like crevices. Lunar had set her alarm, Jack must have turned it off again. Makeup, were they going out?

Dr. Wiler! Lunar realized aloud.

You’re a strange girl. Now hurry up. Mrs. Marrowstern gave her daughter a stern look to get her point across, then left.

Lunar threw on the clothes nearest to her bed, then raced upstairs. Mrs. Marrowstern looked up from her bran muffin in surprise.

That was fast, she said, then paused as she examined Lunar’s attire. Brown doesn’t match that reddish-gold thing you’re wearing. Go change.

He doesn’t examine my clothes, let’s go.

And your hair, Mrs. Marrowstern sighed in despair. Can’t you curl it a little?

Lunar thought of telling her mother how girls in her class who curl their hair scared her, and that her shirt was a present from her dead grandmother, but chose not to. It would waste time. Instead Lunar ran down to her room, changed into jean shorts, pulled her shoulder-length hair into an uneven ponytail, then rushed back as Mrs. Marrowstern wiped the remains of her muffin from her chin.

Oh Lunar, what’s that? her mother asked, pointing to Lunar’s hair. Why do I get the lazy daughter?

I’m not lazy. Lunar looked at the clock. 8:15. Come on, let’s go. She snatched the car keys from the table and ran out the door.

Lunar! called Mrs. Marrowstern, scurrying after her. Don’t you dare move my seat, it took me two weeks to get it there!

Dr. Wiler’s office always smelled like milk and tired parents. After signing in, Mrs. Marrowstern took a seat near the window, keeping an eye on the clouds in the distance while flipping through a ripped Parenting for Brats magazine. Lunar sat next to her, tapping her foot and watching the door to the examination rooms. Only one person had signed in before her, so any second now they’ll open the door and tell her she doesn’t have cancer, they’ll…

Don’t get weird today, her mother said, interrupting Lunar’s chain of thought. Dr. Wiler’s on vacation, so you’re going to see someone else.

What? Lunar didn’t particularly like the way Dr. Wiler pulled her ears raw and poked the back of her throat with a tongue depressor like he was trying to gore a bull, but he was the only doctor she’d ever seen. A rather angry doctor who didn’t seem to like children, but Lunar had finally gotten used to him.

Julissa called yesterday for the reminder and said you’d be seeing some Dr. Fern or something. Mrs. Marrowstern flipped the page to an advertisement featuring small children in combat gear. Oh, brat camp! Look! They’re folding clothes!

Dr. Fern? Lunar asked.

Or something like that. That’s my point. He’s new, so don’t get weird. Aren’t those little camouflage helmets adorable?

Lunar turned her attention back to the door. For some reason, strangers liked to tell her about their problems. It had always been that way, to the great embarrassment and frustration of her parents. No matter where she was, patients, children, shop clerks, psychologists, janitors, teachers, waitresses – everyone liked to confide their troubles in Lunar.

She never minded. If her listening to how the family dog ate Mrs. Leverschntzel’s favorite red suede pumps, so Mrs. Leverschnetzel felt she had to rip up the matching dress and blame the cat in order to get an entirely new outfit for the Christmas party made Mrs. Leverschnetzel’s day a little better, that was good enough for Lunar.

Did you hear me? I have a hair appointment in an hour, so no counseling.

Uh-huh, Lunar answered absently. The door opened, announcing the entrance of Nurse Plum. A large woman with blonde hair and long fake nails with pink roses airbrushed on them, Nurse Plum still hadn’t recovered from an unfortunate sky diving incident she participated in solely to impress her ex-boyfriend. In a great attempt to not limp before her co-workers, the nurse only managed to appear as though she hated walking.

Before Nurse Plum could utter the first syllable of her name, however, Lunar ran to her.

Where’s the fire, sweetie? she asked, taking Lunar into the hallway.

I think I have cancer, Lunar answered.

Nurse Plum laughed. You don’t have cancer. Are you a smoker?

Lunar looked at her, confused. No.

Then you’re fine, sweetie.

They stopped before the giraffe scale and weighed Lunar like a bag of grapes at the grocery store. Nurse Plum made a note in the chart.

I think Buddy likes me because I look like his old girlfriend. Maybe I should dye my hair tonight. Here we are. You’re going to see Dr. Redfen today. And he’s a cutie, let me tell you. Nurse Plum opened the exam room door for her. Cancer, you little sweetie. I think someone’s been watching too many scary movies. I think I’ll go find you a lollipop.

I like your hair, Lunar said, taking the assigned seat on the exam table.

You are a sweetie. I think I should stop dating lawyers. Nurse Plum smiled and shut the door.

In an attempt to make children feel more comfortable, Dr. Wiler had personally painted clowns on all of the walls of the exam room. She tried to stare at the floor and avoid the cold glare of the clown that held balloons that looked like knives. Something had clearly gone very wrong in Dr. Wiler’s childhood.

Touching Gessup, she thought of all the things he could be – a baseball, an orange, a couple of hard