Lily's Song

by Susan Gabriel

  They exchange another look. Miss Blackstone’s forehead crinkles like it does whenever she gets worried. I wonder if Mama’s told her that she won’t go anywhere unless I agree.

  “There’s a university in Nashville, too,” she says to me. “You are more than smart enough to attend Vanderbilt. You could major in music there.”

  Just hearing the word music is like hearing the name of someone I used to love who has now died. It would make more sense to wear black and sit in the cemetery. Maybe I will start having an anniversary this time every year, too. I think of Granny and Great Aunt Sadie and all the aunts and uncles and cousins we would leave behind if we moved to Nashville. But after what happened today, where my aunts and Uncle Cecil ganged up on Mama, I’m not so sure I’d miss them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Wildflower

  Six Months Later

  We stand outside a large church in downtown Nashville. Desperate to find a soloist when their usual one got the flu, Lily has been asked to sing. A woman Bee works with lined it up for her, taking Bee’s word for it that Lily was an amazing singer. It is a fancy church. Rumor has it that people in the music industry go here. It is across town from where we’re living, in a rich area. My old truck looks out of place in the parking lot, and I hope they don’t tow it off.

  “Are you nervous?” I ask Lily, feeling my own butterflies bumping against each other in my stomach.

  “More nervous than I’ve ever been in my life,” Lily says. “This isn’t Katy’s Ridge,” she adds with a swallow.

  “No it isn’t,” I say. “But this is good, Lil. This is meant to be.”

  She looks at me like I’m about to throw her into a lion’s den. She hasn’t sung in front of anyone in over six months. Bee and I have worried over this for at least that long. Our hope is that this solo will help Lily remember who she is and what she has to offer the world. It is a huge risk to take, but we fear that the longer she goes without singing, the easier it will be for her to forget.

  We enter the immense foyer. Worshipers straighten themselves and tidy their children before walking into the sanctuary and finding seats. Being Easter, the church is packed with people. Family after family—the men and boys in suits and ties on this hot spring day, and the girls and women in store-bought dresses, hats and gloves—file past us. I look down at my simple dress, no hat or gloves. Although Bee did go out behind our small apartment building this morning and find a wildflower that she pinned to my dress.

  Lily is to enter with the minister and the choir who create a procession down the center aisle. I’ve never been in a church building this big in my entire life. Our church in Katy’s Ridge could practically fit inside this single entryway.

  “What if nothing comes out?” she says, her eyes wide.

  This is our fear, of course. The thing Bee and I have discussed many times. We’ve agreed that if we need to, we’ll simply walk up front to wherever Lily is standing and each take her by the hand and walk out of the church, heads high.

  “You’ll be fine,” I say, reassuring her. “You’ve done this hundreds of times. Just pretend you’re standing on the front porch of Mama’s house, singing to your family.”

  I straighten the small bow on the front of her dress. A dress Amy made special for the occasion, now that we’re finally speaking to each other again. The fabric matches Lily’s rosy cheeks and she looks grown up, a proper young woman. She’s wearing the gold medallion I gave her that she found one afternoon while we were packing. A side pocket on her dress reveals a letter tucked inside.

  “Is that from Crow?” I ask.

  She forgets her nerves and smiles. “He gets military leave again in a few months and he wants to stop in Nashville before going home.” Her pleasure contains hints of sadness.

  All of us have been homesick to one degree or another. I, for one, never dreamed how difficult it might be to leave Katy’s Ridge. For months now I’ve missed everything about it. Not only Mama and Aunt Sadie and my sisters and Daniel, but also the way the mountains burst with spring every year. The light green of new leaves and blossoms walking up the hillside like an old woman sowing seeds. I miss the quietness there, the bustle of squirrels instead of traffic. I miss visiting Daddy’s grave and sitting underneath the old willow tree and telling him about my life. I miss how the wind sounds when it plays in the trees. I even miss old Pumpkin, who Mama told us in her last letter, is of failing health. I don’t know what she’ll do when Pumpkin dies, now that she’s living in that old house alone. Yet Aunt Sadie has been sticking close and they are working on a new quilt.

  Crow’s letters to Lily arrive faithfully once a week, and I’m convinced they’ve helped Lily with the move. Pearl sends letters, too, but infrequent ones. Their friendship has waned, and I wonder if the people we grow up with ever stay best friends for life.

  “Where’s Bee?” Lily asks.

  “She’s saving me a seat near the front,” I say.

  Lily and Bee have become good friends over the last six months. Bee got a job at the high school Lily attends and they ride in together. My job is quite different from the sawmill and has taken some time to get used to. As a secretary in the admissions office at Vanderbilt University, I have to dress up every day. No more boots and overalls. It took weeks to get used to wearing even short heels. But at least it’s close enough that I can walk to work when the weather is good.

  I have not made peace with churches. Even ones as large and beautiful as this. Nor have I made peace with God or God’s people. It has been hard to forget the names I was called when people found out about me and Bee, evidence of their less than Christ-like natures.

  The choir gathers wearing purple choir robes—thirty people at least—along with a choir director and a young organist who proceeds down the side aisle alone so he can play as the choir enters. Lily is singing during the offertory, when the collection plates are passed.

  Why do all churches smell alike? Is it the hymnals? A universal cleaning product only sold to churches, mixed in with old lady perfume dabbed on a little too freely?

  Lily grabs my arm, her fear renewed. “Mama, I can’t do this,” she whispers.

  Her grip makes me wince. I take Lily’s hands in mine and look into her eyes. “Remember that first time you sang in church in Katy’s Ridge when you were nine years old?”

  She nods.

  “Remember how easy it was to sing nearly every Sunday after that?”

  She nods again.

  “Well, you’re on the same path, just a little farther along. Someday, this place will feel small.”

  “Are you trying to scare me more?” she asks.

  “You’re going to be fine,” I tell her.

  She pauses, like she wants to believe me, but isn’t quite sure. “I miss it, you know. I miss Katy’s Ridge. I never thought I would.” Her eyes mist.

  “I miss it, too, honey,” I say. “You can’t live somewhere your whole life and not miss it.”

  “I’m so glad Granny and Great Aunt Sadie are coming for Easter supper,” Lily says. “I wish the others could come, too.”

  “They’ll visit another time,” I say.

  Daniel and Jo are to bring Aunt Sadie and Mama up from Katy’s Ridge this afternoon. They will see our small two-bedroom apartment for the first time. Evidently Meg and Amy weren’t up for the trip, though they were invited. There’s still mending to do with my sisters. Amy made Lily’s dress, but things have been strained for months. Meg has been distant, too, which isn’t like her. She says it is Cecil who is having a hard time with me and Bee and that he doesn’t want Janie exposed to the likes of us. To me, odd Janie could only benefit from knowing that people can be different.

  “I wish they were all coming to hear me sing,” Lily says. “Like they used to at home.” She bites her lip.

  “I wish they were, too,” I say, “but Mama wanted to go to Easter service in Katy’s Ridge, so she could stare down the people who said hateful things to me.”

&nb
sp; Lily smiles. Mama writes as faithfully as Crow and her letters are full of her advice. A small price to pay after she surprised me with her acceptance of Bee and me. Aunt Sadie told me once that Daddy would have never married Mama if he hadn’t seen something special in her. It has taken me years to see that specialness.

  The organist begins playing the introduction to the first hymn and the congregation stands. Lily shoots me a look of sheer terror. My butterflies lurch on her behalf. She looks toward the door and I wonder for a second if she’s going to take off running. But then she looks at me with a determination I haven’t seen from her in a while.

  “I’ll be fine,” she tells me. She stands straighter and clears her throat. She hums a few notes, the first I’ve heard out of her mouth in months.

  “I guess I’d better go to my seat,” I say. “You okay?”

  She nods, and I believe her.

  As the first stanza is sung, I walk down the side aisle looking for Bee’s familiar yellow hat, a bumble bee stitched on the side. I find her on the second row and scoot in next to her, taking my half of the hymnal. She points to the verse, but I have no interest in singing. She leans close to my ear.

  “Lily okay?”

  I give a hopeful shrug.

  It is hot for April and all the windows in the church are open to let in the breeze. Programs are used as paper fans and are already going limp. Strangers surround us. Other women note what we’re wearing. I imagine they think Bee and I are two single friends going to church together, trying to attract the eyes of a man. People see what they want to see.

  After we finish the hymn, there are several scripture readings and then the sermon begins. My mind wanders. The lesson rambles like a stream down a mountain, gravity pulling it toward a certain conclusion. From an open window, I view a squirrel playing in a pruned dogwood tree in the courtyard, along with a male and female cardinal, the red vivid against the white dogwood blossoms. Tennessee is the most beautiful place on earth when the dogwoods bloom in April. I remember the gnarled dogwood—wild, instead of tamed like this one—that marks the beginning of the trail to the old cemetery.

  As the warm breeze scoots through the window next to me, I close my eyes and picture the weeping willow in the graveyard dropping leaves onto Daddy’s grave. I send him greetings—Air Mail—floating on my thoughts. I imagine the church service going on down the hill from his final resting place. So much history is there. My history.

  In my imagination, Mama sits in her usual pew, wearing one of her better old dresses, with the hat she wears on special Sundays. A purple ribbon around the brim in honor of Easter. No matter how many times Amy has offered to make Mama brand new dresses for holidays, she insists on wearing the old ones. I remember the faded dress Melody wore the day she showed up in Katy’s Ridge. She was wearing the same dress the day she died. I imagine her at peace in the old cemetery, talking with her family, maybe even conversing with Daddy from time to time.

  I picture Daniel and Jo sitting next to Mama, Bolt and Nat in the pew behind, along with Lizzy looking grumpy as usual, and Janie blending into the beige wood of the pew. Next to Jo will be Amy, and then Meg and Cecil, and then the rest of the pew will be empty, where Lily and I might normally sit. An ache rises from deep inside my chest. A broken place that hasn’t healed, from having to leave the mountain home I know and love.

  I want to squeeze Bee’s hand and get her support, but we would never risk it in public. In proper society, even friends don’t touch unless there is good reason. I don’t understand this world we live in, or the suffering that goes on in the midst of family, friends and strangers alike, with no one acknowledging the pain. It seems we are beasts of burden with blinders on, urged ahead by an unseen driver. I refuse to believe that God is the one who is driving us. This wouldn’t make any sense.

  During the prayer following the sermon, I take a deep breath and Bee glances at me, her eyes asking if I’m okay. I don’t know how to tell her that at that moment I am so homesick I might burst into tears that flood the sanctuary. Her shoe touches mine, a secret signal that she’s here for me. It is Easter, and I am in need of a resurrection. A coming back to life in this new place. Perhaps God can spare one not only for Jesus but for me, too. For all of us who are tired of having blinders on.

  The sermon has ended and the offering begins, Lily’s time to sing. I am so nervous for her, I have to remind myself to breathe. She rises from her seat next to the choir and steps up to the front. A piano begins to play, and I think of Miss Mildred at the Katy’s Ridge Church, approaching eighty and still playing. Her bad notes have increased over the years and now she is losing her eyesight, so sometimes the congregation can’t even recognize the hymn. But that is not the case in this church. It sounds like an angel is playing, each note perfect.

  Lily wipes her hands on her dress. She will be fifteen this summer. It is hard to believe I have a child this old. Sometimes I still feel fifteen myself, instead of twenty-eight, and sometimes I feel fifty.

  When she was hours old, I held Lily in my arms and fell in love with this helpless creature that had come through me. Now that she is in front of this crowd, without knowing if her voice will betray her or not, I feel like I might faint from fear. The hardest thing any parent does is watch their child step out into life, not knowing if they will experience painful stumbles or great accomplishments. I don’t know how she’ll react if she does poorly. The move from Katy’s Ridge has made her more cautious. Occasionally she asks a question about Johnny, and I realize that she’s still grappling with the knowledge of how she came into this world.

  The intro plays, and I wonder if my heart can take it. Will her voice be there? Will the song insist on being sung? It is a song I haven’t heard her sing before. It is a gospel song. His Eye is on the Sparrow.

  When Lily begins to sing her voice is soft at first and shakes as if announcing her nerves. Why should I be discouraged? the song begins, but she quickly gains control. By the refrain of the first verse, her voice is steady and strong and soars toward the rafters. More than one person gasps.

  Bee and I exchange smiles. Our gamble, of whether or not to let Lily sing, has worked. As the melody builds, Lily’s tone becomes as clear as a mountain stream that flows through the Appalachians. Her nervousness falls away and she looks out over the congregation as if to sing the song to every single person.

  Goosebumps rise on my arms and Bee pulls a handkerchief from her purse and wipes her eyes. We’ve been through a lot together in the last few months. It started last fall with the anniversary of Daddy’s death and the arrival of Melody Monroe. Up until then, I never dreamed I’d leave Katy’s Ridge or that the sawmill would be boarded up and closed once and for all. Easter is about Jesus lying in the tomb, waiting for three days, before being restored to life. In a way, this transition has been about waiting. Waiting to feel at home again.

  All of a sudden, the sun pours through the window, making the walls look gilded. I wonder if the gold Mary has decided to join us. Tears blur the scene. Fourteen years ago she came to me. A gold woman in the trees, surrounded by light, reaching to take my hand, Daddy standing next to her. That day, I thought I was going to die and that she and Daddy had come to take me to where they were. I felt at peace to be going, and then sad when I realized it wasn’t my time.

  As Lily continues to sing, I become aware of how motionless everyone is. Enraptured. They haven’t taken their eyes from her. Even their makeshift fans have stopped beating the breeze. Lily comes to the last verse leading to the final chorus. Whatever nerves she had before, are completely gone. I have never heard her sing better. I imagine Daddy in the graveyard, listening to his granddaughter on this Easter morning.

  The song soars to its conclusion:

  I sing because I’m happy, the song says. I sing because I’m free. His eye is on the sparrow….

  In a moment of what I can only call grace, my heartache releases. I take my first deep breath in years. Maybe ever. A cool breeze makes its way
into the warm church, as though arriving special delivery from Katy’s Ridge. My chest expands, and I clasp Bee’s hand.

  At that moment, I feel free. Free to release Lily into her own life where her music will always be with her. Free from the past that has often kept me prisoner. Free to start over somewhere fresh. A new life delivered on the wings of Lily’s song.

  Final novel in Wildflower trilogy

  I will be writing the third and final novel of the Wildflower trilogy. I'm not sure when it will be published because there’s another novel coming first, which will be published later in 2016.

  If you’d like to be notified when my novels are published, please sign up here. Thanks so much for your interest and support!

  https://www.susangabriel.com/wildflower-sequel/

  Thank you for reading!

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you enjoyed Lily’s Song. As I say in the acknowledgments, I wrote it for all those readers who loved The Secret Sense of Wildflower and asked to hear more of the story.

  Since it had been years since I’d worked on The Secret Sense of Wildflower (fourteen years since I wrote the first draft; four years since it was published), I had to read it again and take notes on characters, dates and details in order to write Lily’s Song. But then once I sat to write it, the story started playing out in my imagination very naturally, as if I’d never left Katy’s Ridge. I felt like I knew Lily personally, even though I’d never imagined her before. She was Wildflower’s daughter, after all, and I had loved Wildflower for years, as well as her family. So it felt, in a way, like a family reunion, where I got to catch up with everybody I hadn’t seen for a while.

  With Lily’s Song, I tried to create the best story I could offer you. I also wanted it to encourage you to sing your own song, in whatever way that might mean. It doesn’t matter where you come from or what’s in your past, we all have something good to give the world.

  As an author, I love to hear from readers. To me, as the story travels from writer to reader and then back again, it is like completing a circle. You are the reason I write. So feel free to tell me what you liked, what you loved, even what you wish I’d done differently.