Tin Lily

by Joann Swanson

  Nick’s laughs. “Guess that’s a yes.”

  We sit down and I stare out at the water. Except for a few more boats in the harbor today, the scene is exactly the same. I remember my thoughts then—how big the water seemed, how infinite and unending. I wondered about the fishermen, how they didn’t go crazy with just water around them, how they could stand the too-big quality of it.

  Now I know different. Now I know there is no vast out there. It’s like Margie’s metal boxes, some heavy and small, some light and big, everything you think you know turned on its head. The vastness is when Hank came with his bullets and took Mom. The smallness is everything else. Even the ocean’s a puddle.

  Nick is speaking.

  “Sorry, what?” I say.

  “How are things going at your Aunt Margie’s?”

  “Fine.” I’m busy shoving away thoughts about the day I came here with Mom. I’m thinking Fish Throwers and Moby Dick and King book signing. I’m thinking Binka’s whiskers. The bees stay away, but the bench feels like a conduit. It’s sending the memories right through me.

  “Just fine?” Nick’s asking.

  I glance at him and wonder if he sees me remembering. “This isn’t my first time in Seattle.” My words surprise me.

  “Oh yeah?” Nick says. He doesn’t know what else to ask, is probably afraid I’ll start hacking again, coughing because I can’t say the words.

  I watch Nick’s face and think about Mom’s that day. The sunshine didn’t let her makeup cover the bruise on her cheek and the white bandage over her stitches was bright against her creamy skin—reminders of Hank’s year with Grandpa Henry, his growing rage, his hitting Mom a few days before we left for Seattle. I wanted to reach out, touch her cheek, tell her I’m sorry Hank decided to keep installing rain gutters after his year was up, that he thought Grandpa Henry was right after all. I wanted to tell her that I missed Dad too, that I wanted us to be a real family again. But then she said we were leaving for good and everything froze on my lips.

  “Poor Lily, I knew her when she had a future bright with the promise of door management.” Nick-the-joker’s waving his hands at the water like he’s talking to a crowd of people. “Now she’s just another girl, sucked into an un-ambitious world, a world where lethargy is the only skill one needs, a world of...” He shakes his head, clasps his hands to his heart. “Bench warming.” He purses his mouth and squints his eyes up like he’s going to cry. “So much potential… wasted.” He hangs his head dramatically and looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “You awake, Spacey?”

  I give him a little grin. “I’m here.”

  He straightens up and scrutinizes me in that bright, curious way of his. “What’s up?”

  “I sat on this bench with my mom,” I say before I can stuff it back inside, save it for Dr. Pratchett or Binka, who won’t tell my secrets.

  “When?” he asks. His voice is gentle now, all joking gone. That something behind his happiness, his lightness, is front and center now.

  “A long time ago.” A year, a lifetime.

  “What happened? I mean, obviously something happened.”

  I run my fingers along the splintery space between me and Nick. “Here is where she told me we were leaving Hank.”

  “Is Hank your dad?”

  Nod.

  “Your parents are divorced.” He doesn’t ask, just assumes. His eyes say he understands me now, thinks I’m broken because my parents split up.

  “She died,” I say.

  Nick is surprised. He turns his body toward me. “I knew there was something about you.” He smiles a little and takes a deep breath. “My mom died too.”

  The something behind his eyes is right there in his frown now—recognition, familiarity, understanding, sadness. “I’m sorry,” I say. “What happened?”

  “She was sick for a long time. Cancer.”

  “Oh.”

  “What about your mom?”

  Moby Dick.

  “Hank.”

  King book signing.

  “Shot her.”

  Fish throwers.

  Nick takes in a big lungful of air. I’m looking at the daisies in my lap now, how the petals are a dark red and velvety and beautiful. His hand comes on over and covers mine up. Light and dark, mixed right there together. Our hands, the Yin and Yang now. His fingers are long, slender, and when he touches me, I jump a little. The sparks are so unexpected. Still no flutters, though. My skin knows about Nick, but the knot in my chest doesn’t much care.

  “Where is he now?”

  I tilt my chin and gesture with my head because I don’t want to move my hands. “Out there.”

  “He got away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you…?” Nick waits, hoping I might fill in his question I guess. I don’t know my lines or what he wants to ask.

  “What?”

  Nick pulls his hand away and swallows hard when I look at him. “Were you there?”

  “Oh.” Cloudy plastic, an arc of blood that says Mom lived but doesn’t anymore. Little animal sculptures that tell more about Hank, about me, than I thought. Gouged plaster. Glass mosaics. “I was there.”

  There’s a lot of quiet between us. Nick looks at me. I look at Nick. In his eyes I see understanding and fear. Always fear. I think as long as I live people will have that look when I tell them Hank came with his gun. They don’t understand how a person could still talk, still be after that. I don’t know either, but I think it has something to do with the bees and the hollow inside, with Margie and her boxes, Binka and her whiskers.

  I look around for Hank, wondering if talking about him might conjure him up. He’s nowhere. I think maybe it was a not-Hank standing behind the old guy with too much hope after all. Just another not-Hank in a city full of not-Hanks.

  I look back at Nick, see words behind his expression, but none touching his lips. “You don’t know what to say.”

  “Did he, um, hurt you too?”

  I think telling Nick about Hank’s kitchen bullets, his coming for me, isn’t such a good idea. “No,” I say.

  We watch each other for a while and I decide this might be awkward. “I’m sorry about your mom. Is your dad okay?”

  Nick smiles a little. “Actually, it’s my mom who’s not okay.”

  I wait for him to explain.

  “My mom—the one who died—is my bio mom. Her partner—wife—is my other mom.”

  “You have two moms?”

  Nick nods. “And two dads. My dads are married to each other, so were my moms.”

  “That’s a lot of parents,” I say.

  “Yep.” He watches me, gauging my reaction. I don’t know what he’s looking for, what he wants me to say, so I tell him a little story.

  “Mom and me, we lived next door to Mel and Bobby. We loved them. They were our only friends at the dog food house. Sometimes they came over for Mom’s hamburgers or to borrow a cup of whatever, sometimes just to watch the sun go down.”

  Nick looks relieved, like he thought I might not understand about his parents. “They sound nice,” he says.

  “The best.”

  “Do you keep in touch?”

  I shake my head. “I forgot to say good-bye even. I was sort of out of it.”

  “And that’s different from now… how?” Nick’s grinning, all that light and happiness taking over again.

  “Not so different now,” I say.

  “Thanks for understanding about my mom,” he says.

  “You miss her a lot.”

  Nick nods. “I do.”

  “Is it good you have your dads, your other mom, or are they too much sometimes?”

  Nick looks at me twice—a double take. “Sometimes it’s too much. How’d you know?”

  “Even my Aunt Margie’s too much for me sometimes.” I smile like I’m joking because I feel bad, but it’s true. Sometimes just Margie is too much. I think it’s why the quiet place is nice, tempting.

  Nick’s mouth turns down. �
�You know what some of my friends said when Mom died?”

  “No.”

  “They said ‘well, at least you have spares.’”

  “That’s… um… wow.”

  “Yeah. I kinda ditched them because of it, which is why I’m spending a lot time down here this summer.” He waves his arm toward the market.

  “Do you miss them?”

  Nick shakes his head. “That’s the weird thing. I really don’t. None of them understood what I was going through, you know? After a few months they expected me to be over it and back to the way things were. When I wasn’t, they started hounding me.” Nick looks at me, his eyes wide, unbelieving. “My best friend said I was dwelling on it too long. Believe that?”

  I think about Hank in those last few months, how he would say the same thing when one of us got sick. Malingering was the word he used. He said if we weren’t so lazy we’d get better faster. I remember when Mom had the flu so bad she needed to go to the emergency room, how I finally had to get a neighbor to take her because he wouldn’t. Mom withdrew after that, starting to leave for work earlier, coming home later. It was the worst time for yelling and the start of when Hank accused her of awful things.

  “I’m sorry your friends said that.”

  Nick nods. “It’s nice to talk to someone who understands.”

  Bees come along and I think maybe they’re not mine. I like being here with Nick, talking about our moms and I don’t feel like going to the quiet place. I’m hoping there’re one or two buzzing around, looking to fill up on daisy pollen from Nick’s flowers, but there aren’t. Only the ones inside my head. I think it’s because Nick sees me—inside where I’ve gone. Right down into the hollow. I think also it’s because I’ve spoken the words. I’ve told Nick what happened.

  I wonder if now’s a good time to answer the bees, the phone, to find out what it all means. When I think this, though, the bees buzz louder and I feel the quiet place wanting me.

  “I’d better get back now.” Bus. I need to catch my bus.

  “I can take you home.”

  “Maybe another time.” I stand up and gather my things. We head back the way we came in. I walk fast, hoping maybe if I hurry I might not go quiet in front of Nick. He knows about Mom. He knows about Hank. He doesn’t need to know about me too, about the nothingness, about my mind slipping and sliding all over the place.

  Pretty soon we’re at the bus stop and the bus is at the curb. I need Binka. I need my tether. I pull out my cell phone, bring up her picture and stare at my kitten’s face. “Thank you for the flowers,” I say to Nick.

  “Sure. Listen, can I have your number? To make sure you get home okay?”

  I hand my cell phone over. “Can you put yours in here? I’ll call you when I get to Margie’s.”

  While Nick’s programming in his number, the bees invite a few friends. While I’m stepping up the bus stairs, the friends invite friends. While I’m watching Hank weave his way down the long aisle toward me, his eyes looking left, right, then back at me, the hive takes over. Pretty soon I go where it’s quiet. Right there on the bus with Hank coming toward me.

  Sixteen

  My cell phone’s playing a tune. Margie’s changed the song since the last time it rang—something upbeat, something you can tap your feet to. I pull it out of my pocket and open it. “Hello?”

  “Lily?” It’s Aunt Margie.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Where are you?”

  I look around. I’m still on the bus, at the back. There are people in their seats, facing forward. I don’t recognize where we are. The bus doors are just whooshing shut, a bunch of used-to-be passengers standing on the sidewalk outside. Hank’s in the middle of them, still with his black button-down shirt, his khakis instead of jeans, his black mantis eyes that aren’t hurt anymore, just full of rage and decision. I don’t smell whiskey or paint or mint.

  “Lily?”

  “I’m on the bus.”

  “Are you on your way home?”

  “Yes. I fell asleep.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Hold on.”

  I cover the phone’s mouthpiece and tap on the shoulder of a woman sitting in front of me. “Where are we?”

  “Near downtown,” she says.

  “How far from Queen Anne?”

  She thinks for a minute. “Probably twenty minutes or so.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Sure.”

  I get back on the phone with Margie. “I’m about twenty minutes away, Aunt Margie. Are you at home?”

  “Yes. I called a few times and came home when I couldn’t reach you.” Margie’s voice is upset and scared.

  “Sorry. I promise I’ll be home soon.”

  “I’ll watch for you. Twenty minutes.”

  I hang up and tuck my cell phone in my pocket. Dr. Pratchett’s Twice Told Tales bag is on my lap now. I remember leaving it on the seat next to me and putting Nick’s daisies on top of it. The daisies are still there, wilted from no water, velvety petals scattered on the seat and the floor underneath. I put my hand on Dr. Pratchett’s bag, letting my fingers feel through the canvas, trying to understand why it’s on my lap. I only feel the outline of the workbook inside.

  I open it wide all at once, my insides leaping because I think maybe it wasn’t a not-Hank I saw at Pike’s and on the bus and outside the window after all.

  A picture is peeking out from where it’s tucked behind the cover of the workbook that tells about my issues. I reach inside, pull it out slowly, but keep it face down.

  I wait until we get to Queen Anne, wait with my hand shaking over the picture that shouldn’t be inside my workbook. When we’re still a block away, I ding the bell for my stop and turn the picture over at the same time.

  Margie and me in Mom’s meadow. A picture of our backs, of us sitting close together, waiting for a whisper, a good-bye to come along. Hank was there the whole time. In Mom’s meadow where she was supposed to be safe.

  Click. Snap.

  Seventeen

  I get off at my stop and take Nick’s daisies, leaving a trail of petals from the bus down the block to Margie’s apartment—bullet-shaped red petals that say I let them dry out, that I killed them.

  Margie’s waiting for me when I open the door. She’s not mad. She’s scared.

  “Lily, what happened?” There’s guilt too, like it’s her fault I blanked out on the bus.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Aunt Margie.”

  She wraps her arms around me. “Where have you been?” Her voice is chock full of fear.

  “I fell asleep on the bus.”

  “Lily, tell me the truth.”

  I scoop up Binka where she’s sitting on the couch and hold her to my cheek. She puts her head under my chin and pushes hard.

  “I went to Pike’s with Nick—”

  “Nick?”

  “He lives in Dr. Pratchett’s building. I met him on the elevator. He’s nice.” I sit down on the couch, Binka’s head still pushing under my chin.

  “How old is Nick?” Margie asks in a careful voice.

  “My age.”

  Air whooshes through her white lips. “Okay. Why did you go to Pike’s with Nick?’

  “I missed the first bus. He invited me.”

  “And was today the first time you met him?”

  “No—last week.”

  “Why didn’t you mention him then?”

  I look down at Binka where she’s curled herself up in my lap. “I forgot.”

  “Lily,” Margie says. “Did Nick do something to you?”

  “No. Nick’s nice.”

  “It’s been two hours since you finished your session with Dr. Pratchett. Have you been with Nick this whole time?”

  I look up at Margie and see she knows already. “I had a spell on the bus.” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  She shakes her head. “Don’t apologize for something you can’t help.
Just tell me the truth. Are you okay? Did anyone bother you?”

  I think about the picture Hank left that tells me he’s been with us the whole time, about him standing with a bunch of bus riders like he’s a normal person touring the city. If I tell Margie, she’ll send me away. To Mack and Darcy’s. To the loony bin. Away from Binka.

  “No, Aunt Margie, I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “I never should have let you go on the bus. I’m sorry,” she says.

  I hold out my arms and wrap them around her without disturbing Binka. “It’s okay. Nothing happened.”

  Margie puts her hot face against my neck, her whole body shaking. “It’s not me I’m worried about. My god, Lily. My god, if something had happened…”

  “It didn’t. It’s a small thing, the bus. We can forget about it. We can let it go.”

  She sits up and looks hard at me. “You’ll never go on the bus again.”

  “Okay.”

  “Never,” Margie says again. “I’ll take you every time.”

  “Your job, though.”

  “You’re first, Lily.”

  Eighteen

  Margie decides to invite friends over for a dinner party on Saturday. I’m expected to go. She says it’s important I start meeting other people.

  “I met someone, remember? I went to Pike’s with him on Thursday? The flower guy? Nick?”

  “I know and I think that’s great, but I’d like you to meet my friends now. You’re a big part of my life and they are too.”

  Margie’s voice is unbending. I send out a little ribbon of hope that Hank will wait to come for me until after the party. I tell myself I don’t feel afraid about Hank coming with this bullets, his decision, that there’s no room inside for fear. All seats taken. I tell myself this, but when I look over at Binka sleeping on the couch and at Aunt Margie stuffing manicotti shells with a bunch of different cheeses, at all the metal boxes that mean different things, at the apartment that’s starting to feel like home, I’m not so sure anymore.

  “Tell me more about this Nick guy,” Margie says.

  “He lives where Dr. Pratchett has his office.”

  “I know. You mentioned that. What else?”