Looking for Lily

by Africa Fine

  She rolled her eyes as if I didn’t know what I was talking about. Jack could see me getting angry.

  “Let’s just leave things where they are for now. We’ll lock up and hire someone to check on the place,” he suggested, looking from me to my aunt. She smiled at him and glared at me.

  I shook my head at the memory as we sat on the airplane. Jack left Cleveland a day before we did, and now Aunt Gillian and I were on our way to Florida. She busied herself by straightening the skirt of the dark blue dress she had insisted on wearing on the flight from Cleveland to West Palm Beach. The dress had a long skirt and an elastic waist that Aunt Gillian had pulled up high beneath her girdled breasts. The Peter Pan collar was made of lace and looked itchy. I’d told her she should dress in comfortable clothes, since it was a two-hour flight. I suggested that she might want to take a nap later, so perhaps a pair of slacks might be more appropriate. She’d frowned at me.

  “I don’t take naps.” She then rang the flight attendant button and demanded a drink of water.

  During the plane ride, I hoped she would sleep in spite of her protests, but she sat at attention the entire time.

  As the wheels of the airplane touched the ground, Aunt Gillian looked at me.

  “Am I going to have my own room?”

  We had been over this, several times. From what I’d seen over the past ten days, she seemed to have a selective grasp on both reality and her short-term memory. For example, the entire time she was in the hospital and while we packed her belongings, she kept demanding to know if I’d found any of her “personal” things, and if I had, I should hand them over. I assumed she meant the various items I’d found hidden around the house, and I denied having seen anything personal at all. But she couldn’t remember that I’d described the living arrangements at my house at least four different times.

  “Of course you’ll have your own room. I have a nice house, big enough for the both of us. You’ll be comfortable there.”

  She harrumphed and began to make her way off the plane without waiting for me. I sighed and followed, wondering for neither the first nor last time whether this was all a big mistake.

  Beyond criticizing my driving, she didn’t say much in the car.

  “You drive like you’re in that NASCAR they show on the television,” she grumbled loudly. That was another thing about Aunt Gillian: She was not quiet, although she had spent much of my youth shushing me. Sometimes I attributed this to her refusal to wear both her hearing aids; she believed she only needed one. But in darker moments, I suspected she spoke loudly just to startle me.

  The essential problem wasn’t that she complained; she had always done that, in one way or another. The problem was, now as always, that I couldn’t just let it go. And she knew it.

  “I’m going the speed limit, Aunt Gillian.” I made my voice singsongy and bright, but I didn’t turn to look at her, lest I be accused of not having my eyes on the road at all times.

  “The speed limit? You drive like Dale Earnhardt.” She clutched her purse tight to her abdomen, as if it could serve as some kind of makeshift airbag when the inevitable crash happened due to my excessive speed.

  “How do you know who Dale Earnhardt is?” I knew I shouldn’t even bother to ask, but I couldn’t help it. In my peripheral vision, I could see a smug smile spread across Aunt Gillian’s face.

  “You never change. You think I don’t know what’s going on. But I do. I may be old, but I know what’s going on.” She was quiet then, satisfied with getting one over on me. It took every ounce of my self-control not to tell her that Dale Earnhardt was dead.

  I rolled down my windows as I drove toward home, relieved that my aunt had dozed off in the passenger seat. Palm Beach International Airport wasn’t far from my home, but I was in no rush to get there and face the reality of bringing my crotchety aunt into my life. As I drove along Federal and then over to Flagler, the air smelled pleasant and ripe, and it struck me how much greener everything was here than in Cleveland. It was one of the things I loved about Florida. Even when the weather was warm in other places, no place was as tropical and lush as Florida was year-round. The palm trees lined even the most run-down streets, and there were vast expanses of grass everywhere, thanks to county development policies that demanded green space in return for strip malls and superstores.

  There was no shortage of squat, uninspired buildings along Federal, housing everything from electronics repair shops to hair salons. The architecture was unremarkable, but the buildings were painted pink and peach, and coupled with the relentless sun shining in a cloudless sky, there was an undeniable cheer in the air. I began to feel optimistic about the future.

  As we neared my neighborhood, conditions improved. This was the section of West Palm Beach that had long been gentrified, with smaller tract homes giving way to Mediterranean-style houses with a sense of majesty that was perhaps undeserved in neighborhoods located not far from streets where poor migrant workers scratched out a living. Flagler Avenue ran alongside the Intracoastal, the thin strip of water that separated the mainland from Palm Beach and other islands up and down the east coast of Florida. The closer to the water a home was, the more expensive and well maintained it was, and as I turned left off Flagler toward our house, I noticed that several of my neighbors were renovating, no doubt raising the values of their homes and maximizing their views of Palm Beach and passing boaters.

  Although I had reservations about being the only black person living on the block, I had none about my beautiful house. Built in 1926, it was a Spanish-style two-story, with a coral-colored barrel tile roof set against the muted cream walls of the house. Separated from neighbors on both sides by old Royal palms, the house had a series of arched windows and doorways. Landscapers had nurtured tropical landscaping in the front and back yards. The house was separated from the street by a wide expanse of trimmed lawn. My favorite part of the house had always been the majestic front entrance, two heavy wooden doors inlaid with carved floral designs. Every time I walked up those steps, I felt I was entering a special place, the special place I had earned through hard work and long days.

  The house was too big for just me, of course; I didn’t need four bedrooms and three baths. But my realtor had insisted that it made good economic sense to buy a bigger house, and back when I was looking at houses, I was still fat and alone but hopeful that I might someday fill the rooms with my own family.

  Aunt Gillian jolted awake as I pulled into the driveway.

  “Where are we?”

  “Home.” I smiled, wanting her to feel welcome and at ease.

  “I don’t live here.” She frowned, still clutching her purse and peering out the windshield.

  I stifled a sigh.

  “Remember, you’re going to live here now, Aunt Gillian? With me.”

  “With I.”

  My smile faded. “No, actually. It’s me.”

  She snorted. “I thought you went to college. You’re an English teacher, and even I know grammar better than you.”

  With that, she opened her door and hopped out, spry for a sixty-nine-year-old woman who couldn’t remember where she lived. She was slow but regal as she walked up to the front doors, having gotten over her suspicions about the house. She was prepared to take over.

  This time I let out a long sigh before I locked the car and followed her up the path to the door.

  It was a Tuesday afternoon in late May, and since I wasn’t teaching summer classes, I had nothing else to do but help Aunt Gillian get settled. I’d tried to convince Jack to come over to help, but he had a class and couldn’t make it. Also, Jack had a thing about old people. He would never admit it, but I had seen him shy away from Aunt Gillian’s touch, as if her oldness was catching. He had the same problem with hospitals. In the five years we had known each other, Jack twice refused to get stitches after sports-related injuries. Instead, he bandaged himself and ignored the pain, as well as the possibility of permanent damage. His argument was that in the old d
ays people didn’t get stitches and they seemed to heal fine. I pointed out that people also lived to the age of forty, rode in horse-driven carriages, and communicated via pony express. He ignored me.

  Two years ago, I’d had some work done on my teeth and needed a ride home from the dentist. I was to meet him out front, but the procedure took longer than expected. He finally gave up waiting and came in to find me. He was polite to the dental office staff, even charming, but I noticed that the right side of his upper lip was curled, and he managed not to touch anything the entire time he was there.

  Still, I had to give Jack credit. Once he had returned from helping me in Cleveland, he had gotten right to work, moving furniture and painting the walls. I couldn’t ask for more.

  It had been a rush, but we had gone to a lot of trouble to convert the downstairs den into a room for my aunt, complete with a large, adjustable bed, a fluffy down comforter, and fresh flowers in a vase on the windowsill—Jack’s idea. I knew that she would need a lot of medical care, but I didn’t want Aunt Gillian to feel as if she was living in a hospital.

  Before I made any changes to Aunt Gillian’s room, I asked her what she liked. I suppose I could have used her old house in East Cleveland as my example, but her dark furniture and classic Midwestern style didn’t translate well to my old Florida home. I didn’t want to try to recreate her life on a smaller scale; I wanted to do better than that for her. It wasn’t in my nature to think too far into the future, but in my more honest moments I had to admit to myself that, with failing health and increasing dementia, Aunt Gillian might not have many years left. I wanted her to spend her last time on earth in a pleasant environment with someone who loved her. And as difficult as she could be, I did love her. There were many times when I didn’t like her. But I loved her.

  Aunt Gillian had marched right up to the front door, but she seemed to falter a bit as we crossed the threshold. She looked around the front parlor, taking in the maple floors and the dark red walls I’d painted myself, and she sighed. I braced myself for more criticism, but after expelling a breath, she remained silent. I looked into her eyes and saw a tired little old woman. I took her arm in mine, and led her through the parlor, down the hallway and into her room.

  She made little comment about her bedroom, an unexpected blessing, and she didn’t make a peep as I helped her out of her shoes and the stockings she had insisted on wearing. I worried a little about her dress wrinkling, but it seemed like more trouble than it was worth to change her into something else, and she didn’t mention it at all. I placed her purse on top of the dresser where she would be sure to see it when she needed it.

  “We’ll unpack later. Maybe you’d like to rest.” I patted the bed, and it must have looked inviting, because she nodded.

  “That would be nice.”

  I helped her into bed and pulled the covers up over her legs. As I passed by the windows, I drew the curtains to keep out the afternoon light, and just as I reached the door, I turned back to say that dinner would be ready around six. But Aunt Gillian was already asleep.

  I was peering into the Joy of Cooking, keeping one eye on the frying pan and listening for the oven timer, when Jack stuck his head inside. He came over to the stove and sniffed at the pots. Glancing at the cookbook, he asked, “What are you making?”

  “Steak, mashed potatoes, green beans, cornbread, and banana pudding for dessert.” I ticked off the menu on my fingers. “I had to look it up because I’ve never made banana pudding.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me and laughed. “Since when do you eat banana pudding? Or any of the rest of that stuff, for that matter?”

  “Aunt Gillian used to cook this way all the time when I was a kid. At least she did until I started to gain weight. It’s no wonder I ended up so fat.” I smiled, but Jack frowned.

  “I hate when you talk like that, putting yourself down.”

  I threw a pot holder at him. “You must need glasses.” He threw the pot holder back at me and began to lecture me about body image and being hard on myself, but I made a face at him and turned back to the stove.

  “Never mind. Just make yourself useful and get the milk out of the refrigerator for me. Banana pudding is Aunt Gillian’s favorite.”

  After helping me put the finishing touches on dinner, Jack went into the living room to watch television. Soon after, I heard Aunt Gillian stirring. Jack, ever the engineer, had set up a monitoring and call system so I could help Aunt Gillian when she needed me but give her enough space so that she could retain some of her old independence. Jack had installed a small transmitter in Aunt Gillian’s bookcase so I could hear her calling when I was in another part of the house. I carried a beeper-sized receiver clipped to my waist.

  I went down the hall to Aunt Gillian’s room and knocked. It was important that she not feel as if she were a patient; only in hospitals did people walk in and out of your room without knocking or asking.

  “Who is it?” she demanded. I wondered who else she thought it could be.

  “It’s Tina.”

  She grunted, which I took as an invitation to come in. To my surprise, she was sitting on the bed, shoes on, purse in hand.

  “I’m ready to go home,” she snarled.

  Her tone was aggressive, but sadness lay beneath her meanness. She was scared and confused, and I didn’t know how best to deal with it. She kept forgetting that she now lived with me. I figured my best bet was a less direct approach.

  “Okay, but don’t you want to stay for dinner? I made all your favorites.” As I described everything I’d cooked, she softened a bit.

  “You know how to cook?”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “Sure. You taught me.”

  I expected more questions, but she just nodded and stood up, a little shaky, but on her own. “I always was a good cook.”

  Dinner went well. My aunt didn’t say much, but she cleaned her plate and asked for more of everything. Jack also tore into his dinner with gusto, although I’d never seen him eat anything fried and fatty. Maybe he wasn’t as removed from his St. Louis roots as he liked to believe. These days, with low-carb diets and gym memberships being shoved down our throats, it was tough not to at least think twice before eating mashed potatoes whipped with loads of butter and cream, but when I was growing up, this kind of food was my comfort, my friend. No matter how much weight I lost, I didn’t believe those feelings would ever change.

  When Aunt Gillian did look up from her plate, it was to watch Jack, who regaled us with funny stories about the employees at his private engineering firm and his students. I’d never heard these stories, and I smiled into my plate, as I suspected he was making up a great many of them. But Aunt Gillian was his true audience, and she rewarded him with an involuntary cackle during dessert.

  After dinner, we went into the living room and Jack sat next to Aunt Gillian on the sofa. I sat in a plump leather chair across the room, pretending to look at a magazine and hoping that every night would be as easy as this one. Then Jack began asking Aunt Gillian about her days as a young woman in Cleveland. I looked up from my magazine, worried that I had jinxed us by thinking about how well everything was going. Aunt Gillian hated to talk about her past; whenever I’d asked her about her life before I was born, she either snapped at me or gave me the silent treatment until I gave up. I feared that Jack would face the same treatment.

  “So how did a woman like you end up in Cleveland, of all places?”

  Perhaps because of his difficult childhood, Jack viewed the entire middle section of the country with suspicion. My eyes bore into the side of his head, trying to signal him to back off, but he never glanced in my direction. I braced myself for the inevitable tirade.

  Instead, Aunt Gillian laughed. A genuine laugh. Almost girlish. “Oh, it wasn’t my first choice, believe me. But when I met my ex-husband Jeremiah at Howard, we fell in love and I moved back to his hometown. Now that was a mistake.”

  My jaw hung open, but no one else noticed. Jack sat riveted wh
ile Aunt Gillian told him about Howard, about how her father had been a barber in Baltimore, about how she had married the first young man who caught her eye. I knew some of this, but it was strange hearing the revelations from Aunt Gillian’s lips. She’d made it her life’s mission to look forward, not backward, and she wasn’t one to dwell on what was already done and gone. And then she shocked me with something she had never mentioned before.

  “I wanted to be a singer, you know. Jazz. But my father said no daughter of his was going to end up like Billie Holiday. So I went to college instead, and I was going to be a nurse in D.C. until I met Jeremiah.” She sighed, looking off at the wall as if watching a film of her young self play against the paint.

  I didn’t know what to think of this new Aunt Gillian, one who had, without warning, decided to reveal herself to my best friend.

  Shaking my head in wonder, I slipped out of the room, and neither of them even looked up. As I scraped and rinsed the dinner dishes, I thought this was a good sign. Maybe it wouldn’t be as hard as I thought to ask my aunt about Lily, the daughter she never mentioned.

  Chapter 9

  “I forgot I was fat”

  I fell in love for the first time when I was sixteen years old. He wasn’t the most handsome boy in the junior class at St. Gabriel’s School. He was tall but didn’t play basketball. He was too gangly and uncoordinated to even consider football. He wasn’t the smartest guy I knew, either. He never appeared in any of my honors classes, but he maintained a consistent C+ average, of which he was proud.

  He was pleasant-looking, neat and clean. He wore the Catholic school uniform of khaki pants and a blue (or white) oxford shirt that all the boys wore, but he gave the impression that he would have chosen those clothes even without the influence of the St. Gabriel’s administration. He had a round head with close-cropped hair that sported none of the fancy parts or shaved designs that were the style at the time. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and had a small, neat mustache. And he had a wide smile that showed most of his bright white teeth. That smile transformed his face. Although we seldom spoke to each other during our first two years of high school, I knew he was kind because he gave me that transformative smile whenever we passed each other in the halls. At a time when all but the cruelest of my classmates ignored me, his smile was often the best part of my day.