“I guess that wouldn’t be so bad,” I say.
He laughs. “Lily Berkenshire, Door Manager. It has a ring.”
I glance at this boy, this smiling, happy boy, and see something I didn’t notice before. Something familiar. “I’ve been called worse.”
Nick laughs because he thinks it’s a joke. “Why’d you smell your sweater when Tiffany looked at you?”
“I used to live next to a dog food factory.”
Nick’s face is one big question.
“The smell got into my clothes, into everything.”
“Where was that?”
“Salt Lake City.”
“You live in Utah?”
“No. Not anymore.”
“Then why would you still smell like dog food?”
I shrug. “She gave me a funny look. I thought she might have smelled it.”
“Oh.” He grins. “You want to know why she made that face? And why she ignored you?”
“Okay.” We’ve walked over to the big fountains out in front of the building, so Nick has to talk a little louder because the water’s shooting up, splashing back down. It’s reflected in the windows, all that glass alive with dancing water. Not splintered glass, not glass hoping for wholeness. Whole on its own.
“It bothers Tiffany when she meets someone prettier than her.”
I look at Nick and feel my head tip to the side. I try to see if he’s making fun of me, but there’s only his smile. And now his easy laugh.
“You don’t believe me?”
I see my pasty face distorted in the elevator doors again. I don’t believe him, but I don’t say so. Nick Anders, happiness on his face for the world to see—he’s a good tether. Like Cheetah. I decide I don’t want to say he’s wrong in case he makes up his mind to go away.
Nick watches me for a little while. I watch him for a little while. “So you live in the city now?” he says.
“With my aunt. Queen Anne?”
“Your Aunt’s Queen Anne?” He bows and his hair spills onto his forehead. When he stands he combs through it, making it stand on end again. “I had no idea I was in the presence of royalty.”
I don’t get Nick’s joke at first, but then I do and give him a look that lets him know it was pretty lame.
He just laughs again. “Queen Anne’s a nice area,” he says, then gives me the once over. “You don’t dress like most people up there.”
“My mom made me this sweater,” I say because I’m not sure what he means.
“It’s a nice sweater. Where’s your mom?”
I start coughing, double over, try not to choke to death in front of the dancing water. My breath is all caught up in my lungs. My focus is too big. I narrow it, narrow it. Finish The Stand. I’ll be left an empty husk, a breathless nothing if I can’t narrow it. I pluck a loose thread from my sweater. Threads are narrow enough. My thread: finish The Stand.
“You okay?” Nick asks. He’s worried and busy patting the air above my back as I bend away from him.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I need to get to my aunt’s.”
I focus on walking to the curb. First, I make my feet move three steps. Then I make them move three more. Nick interrupts.
“Are you okay, Lily?” he asks again, like I lied the first time.
I did.
“I am not okay,” I say because I’m not. “I am not okay and I don’t want to talk about my mom.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.” Nick watches me closely. He’s like Margie when she’s deciding if she should push. Finally he puffs a big breath out and lets the words he wants to say go with it. “What are you doing now?”
“Walking.”
He laughs a little through the concern, through the guilt that he’s why I almost choked to death in front of the dancing fountains. “I mean, are you headed home?”
Nod. “To Aunt Margie’s.”
“Would you like to go to Pike’s Place with me?”
I stop walking. “Why?”
“Well, I’m headed down there and it’s a nice day and I thought you might want to come with.” He waves one arm around like he’s a tour guide. “I could show you our fair emerald city, starting with Pike’s where you can, you know, buy a fish or whatever.”
“Do I seem like I need a fish?”
“Everyone should totally have a fish of their own.”
I think about walking around with Nick-the-stranger, all the people, the bees coming along anytime they feel like it, making me head on into the quiet like there aren’t better places to be. “Thank you,” I say. “I’d rather not today.”
Nick looks surprised, like no one’s ever refused his company before. “Do you think I could have your number?” He shuffles his feet and waves one hand around. “Just in case I want to send you a fish or something.”
“I don’t know it.” Margie thinks I’ve memorized her home number and my new cell number. I tried, but there’s no room inside for numbers.
“Will you be back next week?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Can I meet you right here at say—” He looks at his watch. “Two o’clock?”
“I’ll have to see what kind of day it is. I can’t say for sure.”
“What kind of day?”
“Yes.” I spy Margie driving down the road and take three more steps. “Nice meeting you,” I mumble because I don’t know what else to say.
Margie pulls up and I climb in. Nick is still standing there and he’s got a big grin on his face. I wonder if he’s like the boys in my old school who laughed at me.
It used to matter, the laughing.
It doesn’t anymore.
Seven
Days go by like they’re minutes, like they’re seconds. I read and I only think about the very next thing I have to do. Get out of bed. Take a shower. Eat breakfast. Watch for Hank. Listen for the bees. Answer the phone.
I feel a tug at the first ring, but don’t disappear. It’s not like our old phone—loud and shrill. Margie’s phone is quiet, newer. Fancy.
“Hello?”
“Is this Lily Berkenshire?” The voice is familiar, but I can’t place it.
“Yes it is.”
“Lily, this is Officer Archie. Do you remember me?”
I see hair that won’t shine in the sun, soft eyes, a nice smile. “Yes, I remember.”
“I’m calling to see how you are.”
“I’m doing okay. How are you?”
He pauses, then laughs a little. “Well, I’m fine, thank you.”
There’s a long silence that’s probably awkward. I wonder if he’s going to tell me they’ve found Hank, found him in Seattle with white and orange cat hairs on his black shirt.
“In our investigation we found something. A letter.”
The knot in my chest pounds like it hasn’t in awhile. “A letter?”
“Yes, from your mother.”
My hands shake so bad the phone knocks me in the head. Whack. “To who?” Whack. Whack.
“To you, kiddo.”
I wait for him to say more. He doesn’t. “Did you open it?”
“We had to. I’m sorry. We thought it might be from your father, that it might offer a clue as to where he is.”
“Hank,” I say. Not my father anymore.
Officer Archie breathes into the phone. “Hank. Yes,” he says. His voice understands.
“What–?” I clear my throat, count to five. Whack. Whack. “What does it say?”
“I thought I might send it to you. And then you can read it privately?”
I think about this for a long, silent moment. I’m not sure I can wait the two or three days it will take.
“I’ll overnight it. It’ll be there tomorrow, late morning?” Officer Archie says like he’s read my mind.
“Yes, please, that would be great. I have some money—”
“No, that’s okay. It’s just a few bucks. I’m glad to do it.”
“Okay, thank you.”
Officer Arc
hie waits a minute. “Lily, I wish I had better news for you. We still have no idea where Hank’s gone.”
My voice doesn’t want to work. “Okay,” I croak out anyway.
“I’m sure we’ll catch him soon.” Officer Archie thinks I’m scared, afraid Hank won’t pay for what he did.
“Okay, Officer Archie. Thank you for calling.”
“Okay, kiddo. Bye now.”
I decide not to think about the letter. It’s a big thread, the letter. It’s bigger than I can do without disappearing. I don’t want Margie to come home and find me gone. I look outside and see it’s a beautiful day, decide to venture onto Margie’s patio. It’s private, quiet. I can’t see the street. The street can’t see me.
Margie’s got some nice furniture out here. I lay down in a cushy chaise lounge and look up at the sky. Whoever said it rained all the time in Seattle never visited during the summer. Margie’s got a nice patio, made for grilling and entertaining. I lay my head back, let the heat and sun make me forget.
They make me remember instead.
Mom’s prepping dinner in the kitchen—her famous burgers. She flattens them out so they’re big patties and soaks them in some kind of booze, brandy or scotch or something. The smell reminds me of Dad, but not for long. She washes what’s left down the drain and then it’s time for the grill. We head out to the patio.
“Here’s a good tip, Lilybeans. You might as well cook on the stove if you’re gonna use propane. You want good flavor, you soften up your cedar chips in water first, then sprinkle them over your hot coals. You won’t get better tasting burgers anywhere.”
I nod, agreeing with her because I want a hamburger like a dying-of-thirst desert walker wants a drink of water.
The burgers are on, sending smoke up into the air to drive out the dog food smell for a little while. We’re sitting in our cheap plastic chaise lounges, the kind that want to come along with you when you stand up, that leave red stripes across your skin. We love them.
It’s a month since we moved into the house next to the dog food factory, six weeks since we left Dad.
“What do you think, Lilybeans? Should we grill up that pineapple in the fridge too?”
“Definitely.”
I swing my legs out and get up from the chaise. It totters back and forth, threatening to collapse.
Mom jumps up from her own plastic contraption with less drama. She’s what you might call graceful—one trait I didn’t inherit.
We’re in the kitchen and Mom’s pulling a cutting board out of an almost bare cupboard. I’m grabbing the pineapple. She sets us up and cuts the pineapple in half. We work side-by-side to get the rough scales off the outside. Smoke is puffing out of the barbecue and the whole kitchen smells like smoldering cedar.
“I always feel a little bad cutting up a pineapple,” she says.
“Oh yeah? That’s pretty weird.”
She bumps me with her hip. “You’re weird.”
“Maybe, but I’m your kid, so that actually says a lot more about you.”
She laughs again—chimes tossed by the wind, tinkling and clear. “Got me there, kiddo.”
I look at Mom, really look at her. She’s happier than I’ve seen her in ages. Not the fake happy-for-me happy. Happy because we’re free, I think. I reach out and touch her floating curls with my fingertips.
“You’ll get me sticky.”
“Your hair’s like cotton balls.”
“White and fluffy? You saying I’m old?”
“Soft and floaty. And, yeah, you’re old.”
She bumps me again and we go back to cutting up the pineapple.
I point at the strips of bright yellow fruit. “Why does it bother you, cutting it up?”
She frowns a little. “It’s like we’re taking its life, its essence. The blade slips in—” She slides the knife, point first, behind a row of scales, runs it down the length and strips them off. “And, just like that, you’ve sliced off its armor. You’ve left it defenseless.”
She picks up a piece of pineapple and pops it in her mouth. “The inside, the fruit, might be delicious, it might be the best thing you’ve ever tasted, but you’ve changed it. You’ve taken away everything that protects it.”
Her eyes have gone sad and far away.
“Is that what Dad did to you?”
She looks at me sideways, gauging me. She nods a little and makes her decision. “Yes. It’s also what Grandpa Henry did to Dad, what I let him do to both of us and I’m sorry. It’s what I hope you’ll never let another person do to you. If you can keep the best of you for you and not compromise what you know to be right and true, you might find it’s a little better, a little easier to stay happy.”
Easy quiet settles between us until we’re finished and throwing away the pineapple scales. I’m glad we have quiet moments now. I’m glad we can barbecue pineapple on our own grill and have friends again if we want. I’m glad we can go for walks in the evenings and hikes on the weekends.
The phone rings and my fingers tighten on the pineapple slice I’m holding, squeezing it until juice plops to the cutting board. Squeezing what’s left of its life.
“Tell him we’re getting ready to eat and that you’ll call him back later. He’ll pass out and won’t remember.”
I nod, forget to wash my hands and head toward the phone. This is the way it was when we left. There was peace and there was life until the phone rang.
I wake up in the chaise just before Margie walks through the door. I’ve been in the sun too long and I haven’t eaten. I feel sick from no food, from too much summer heat, from the memories.
Eight
Margie pulls me over to the couch after she puts her bag away.
“How was today?” she asks, like she does every night.
“Today was fine,” I say, like I do every night.
She nods and I see her eyes are extra shiny at the corners where a little mascara’s gathered. “I picked up a message from Officer Archie. He called my cell, but I had that all-day meeting.”
“Yeah, he called me too.”
She looks surprised. “He did?”
“Told me about the letter. Says he’ll overnight it.”
Margie looks like she can’t decide if she’s mad or relieved.
“It’s okay he called me,” I say. “It’s a letter from Mom. To me.”
“I know. I just wasn’t sure you were ready.”
I shrug. “Is anyone ever?”
“Good point, kiddo. Far too wise for your tender years, methinks.”
“He said they haven’t found Hank.” I don’t mean to speak the words, but they come out anyway.
“I wish they would.”
“Me too.”
Margie watches me and strokes my cheek with her fingertips. “I love you, Lily. I’m sorry for what Hank did.”
I nod against her hand. “It’s not your fault.” These are the words I can think without thinking the other, speak without speaking the other.
“I think maybe it was.” She folds her hands in her lap and looks down at them. “Partly, anyway.”
“How could it be your fault?”
She plucks a box off a nearby shelf and runs a finger along its rough edges. The box is shiny silver and has copper streaks that look like rainwater dripping down. I wonder if Margie got inspired for this box by looking through a window on a stormy day. The bottom has green stones for feet, one at each corner. Margie lifts the lid and runs one finger inside the empty space. The box’s interior is all smooth copper, no raindrops, like when Margie made it, she decided the inside and the outside had different personalities. One stormy, one calm. Finally, she answers. “Because I left him alone with our father.”
“You went to school.”
“Yes.” Margie’s still not looking at me. “I knew how he was, though. God, of course I did. I grew up in that house.” She finally looks up—anger and shame and terror, all mixed up in Margie’s gold flecks. “Things got very bad for your dad after I left
. How much do you know?”
“I know Grandpa Henry was poison. I never met him until after Hank went to work for him.”
Margie’s flashing eyes drop the anger, the shame. Now there’s only terror. “You met him? My father?”
“Hank took me once. He never told Mom.”
“Did Grandpa Henry say anything to you?”
I shake my head. “He was sick by then. In bed. He never looked at me. Not once. Like I wasn’t there.”
“That’s for the best, believe me.”
“Hank said he could never do anything right.”
Margie nods. “After Mom died, it was worse. She loved us at least.”
“When did Grandma Josephine die?”
“Just before I left for school. Your mom mentioned Hank told her about Grandpa Henry finding his paintings. My mother had been storing them in the attic for years. My father went crazy, destroyed all the paintings and then told Hank if he wanted to be a woman—” Margie shakes her head. “He equated Hank’s wanting to be an artist with being less than a man. Anyway, he punished Hank by making him take over where my mother left off. Fetching his evening twelve-pack, cleaning the house, cooking, shopping. He became my father’s maid—slave, really—and if things weren’t just so, Hank never heard the end of it.” Margie puts the silver and copper box with its green stone feet back on its shelf. “Hank wasn’t just an artist, you know? He had an artist’s soul—temperamental, sure, but sensitive too. He was crushed by my father’s rejection. It took him two more years to get away.” Margie shakes her head. “Two years alone with that man would make anyone go crazy.”
“But then he met Mom.”
Margie smiles. “Yes. She was perfect for him. He was still very angry when they met and, at first, it didn’t look like they were going to make it, but she saw something in him. She loved him.”
This is enough, I decide. It’s getting too close, that night. It’s creeping up and the bees are starting to hum and I can’t think of Hank this way, of my mom this way. Not when she’s a dried up potato bug. Not when she’s not here to tell me why. “I forgot to eat today.”
Margie stares at me. Push, don’t push. “You haven’t had anything?”
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