“Shut up, Carla,” Dawn says. “Lily isn’t like her mom.”
The look on Carla’s face, after being told to shut up on national TV, spells trouble for Dawn. She might lose her spot in Carla’s clique. “When we got older,” Carla continues, “my parents told me not to be Lily’s friend. Dawn’s did, too, even though she won’t say so. It’s sad, but crazy is genetic, you know?”
Those three words again. Crazy is genetic.
The reporter chats with the news anchor about how worried they both are for Swift Jones, given this new development. Meaning, since they’ve learned I’m not playing with a full deck. A commercial runs, something about mattresses. At some point Otis let go of my hand. “Say it.”
“You should have told me,” Otis says.
There’s distance in his tone, like he’s already moved away from me. I stare at my empty hands. “I didn’t lie.”
“A lie by omission is still a lie.”
I laugh. It’s totally inappropriate but impossible to stifle. “You still would’ve helped me, right? Hey, Otis, I want to steal Swift Jones from your family, stir up a hornet’s nest of heinous PR, drive the calf cross-country and convince an elephant sanctuary to take her in. Oh, and by the way, you should trust me because Violet, my mother, had paranoid schizophrenia with homicidal tendencies. When she went off her meds she papered our loft with Escher drawings, scribbled quotes on the walls and only spoke or answered questions with lines from Peter Pan. And if that isn’t bad enough? When I was seven she took me to the roof, gibbered words that weren’t even her own, then tried to fly with me in tow.”
Otis is staring at me. I know what he’s seeing—a freak; the babbling homeless woman on the sidewalk that people ignore; a girl bound for an institution where endless days are spent wandering aimlessly or pounding my head against the wall. He’s seeing my future, and it’s ugly.
I take a hitching breath because I’m going to finish this. “The cherry on top of Violet’s attempted filicide? My father tried to save her, not me. Here’s even better news! Pretty much every woman in my family ends up with schizophrenia, so I’m freaking doomed. But right now? Right now I’m not nuts.” I pump one fist into the air. “So trust me! I’ve taken my monthly ‘do I have schizophrenia yet’ test, passed with flying colors. It’s all good so let’s go on a road trip!”
“Lily—”
“What?” I’m on my feet. I’m yelling. “I’m so fucking trapped. The worst part is that now no one is going to focus on saving Swifty’s life. This has officially become a ‘save an elephant calf from the crazy girl’ campaign, and I’m an idiot for thinking the focus would stay on Swifty!”
Otis slumps on the plaid couch, only a few feet away, but a million miles from where we were twenty minutes ago. “I need a few minutes to process this.” He heads out the screen door. It slams. Footsteps clomp down the stairs.
“Sure,” I say to the empty trailer. My glasses are on a side table. I leave them there, because I can no longer hold on to the fantasy that they’re some kind of protection from the eyes of the world.
“Psst.”
“Go away.”
“Psst.”
I dig fingers into my temples. “I don’t want to hear you.”
“Psst.”
“It’s not my fault.”
“It ith much harder to judge yourthelf than to judge others. If you thucceed in judging yourthelf, it’s because you are truly a wise man.”
My subconscious is once more speaking like a little girl with a lisp. Again, it’s Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s words.
“... If you thucceed in judging yourthelf...”
She’s right. What has happened is entirely my fault.
39
I wait for Otis to come back. He doesn’t. The truck’s engine hasn’t been started yet, but I’m pretty sure he’s sitting in the driver’s seat. I wrap my arms around bent knees to keep the pieces together. A Breaking News: Save Swifty? banner scrolls across the bottom of CNC. The two men discussing some kind of financial crisis are replaced with Charlie Hamilton. I turn up the volume.
“Breaking news on the story of Swift Jones, the elephant calf kidnapped by eighteen-year-old Pennington Zoo intern T. Lillian Decker,” Hamilton says. “Disturbing facts have arisen about Decker’s mother, Violet Hanover Decker. CNC has learned that eleven years ago, Violet tried to kill her daughter, known as Lily, by throwing her off a rooftop. Violet had previously been diagnosed with schizophrenia. She’d stopped taking her medication. Luckily, the police were able to save both mother and child. Violet was convicted of attempted murder. She committed suicide in prison.”
Hamilton adjusts his glasses. The same school photo as the one Hivox News used is in the bottom corner of the screen. Tight bun. Dorky glasses. I’d think I looked like a wacko, too. “There has been speculation that Decker may also be suffering from mental illness,” Hamilton says. “Calvin Decker, her father, has agreed to an interview on Skype to help shed some light on this situation.”
The screen splits. There’s Calvin. He’s wearing the blue flannel shirt I gave him last Christmas. I’m torn between wanting to reach out, explain, or turn off the TV.
“Mr. Decker, thank you for talking with me,” Hamilton says. “I’m sure you’re worried about your daughter, her safety, and want this situation resolved quickly.”
Calvin nods. There are dark circles beneath his red-rimmed eyes. His blond hair pulled into a ponytail makes him look more like a hippie than a teacher. Maybe that’s what he’d be, if Violet and I hadn’t torpedoed his life.
“Have you heard from your daughter?”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea where she might be or who might be helping her?”
“No, I don’t.” Calvin leans forward, peering into the camera like he might find me inside it. “I agreed to this interview because I hope that my daughter is watching it. Lily, whatever is going on? Whatever you’re going through? I love you. Please call me. The authorities have assured me that they don’t want to see you punished, just helped. Everyone wants the best care for the elephant calf. Trust me on that. So call. Please. Come home.”
“There have been accusations that your daughter has a mental health condition. Can you talk about that with us?”
“To my knowledge, she does not.”
“But?”
“Because of...because of her mother, Lily has a higher risk of mental illness than a normal eighteen-year-old girl. Many things can trigger it. Drugs, alcohol, stress. Especially stress. This situation? It’s beyond anything Lily has ever experienced. I’m very concerned.”
Calvin ends the call. My entire body aches, like he’s run over it with a truck. He didn’t bring up the overwhelming history of mental illness in my mother’s family, but it’s obvious that he thinks I’ve become Violet.
Hamilton fills the screen. “It’s clear we don’t have all the information yet,” he says. “Our hope is that this difficult situation can be resolved quickly for everyone involved and that both Lily Decker and Swift Jones are returned home safely.”
Hamilton takes off his glasses. “I’ve never seen anything quite like this story. Swift Jones, a sick baby elephant, has captivated the world. We’ve received calls of possible calf sightings, emails from worried adults and children. They’re not just coming from the United States. This story has been reported in Europe, China, even Russia. We promise to keep you posted.”
“What a bastard,” Otis says from the doorway.
My stomach lurches. I was so fixated on the TV that I didn’t hear Otis climb the steps. “I thought Hamilton was pretty open-minded, considering.”
“I meant Calvin.”
“He’s spent his entire life afraid that I’ll turn into Violet. Now that he thinks it happened? He’s scared. There’s no parental manual on how to deal with your daughter’s impending insanity.”
A cute brunette reporter stands in front of Wild Walker’s striped tent. “Bee Trenton from Haven News Six reporting. I’m here with Tina and Maximus Walker, owners of Wild Walker’s Circus.”
Otis’s parents are dressed in blue, button-down shirts, pressed jeans, shiny cowboy boots. Howard isn’t there. Maybe he’s already on the road, searching for us. Maybe he’s passed out, drunk. There’s a group of performers behind Tina and Maximus. Esmerelda stares into the camera like an accusation. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Max reads off a sheet of paper. “I’d like to address the kidnapping of our almost five-week-old elephant calf, Swift Jones, who the Walker family legally claimed after she was almost trampled to death by her mother, Raki.”
Otis scowls. “They’re already working with Tess Whitcomb.”
“Who’s she?”
“The best crisis manager in Florida. I had her on retainer.”
I didn’t think it was possible to feel any worse. But it is.
“Our family was shocked to learn that Lily Decker, a young woman we allowed in good faith onto our property in order to help Swift Jones with her transition from zoo to circus, has stolen our calf,” Max says. “We’re devastated that the life of Swift Jones is in the hands of a mentally ill young woman. Our calf has already been through the trauma of her mother’s rejection. She’s fragile. We fear for her life.”
Nausea floods my mouth with saliva. The story is all about me now. Not Swifty. And it’s going to screw up everything.
My Grable yearbook picture appears on the screen. Sawyer insisted that I wear something other than his baggy sweatshirt, so I’m in a cream-colored long-sleeved shirt, my hair still pulled tight, dark glasses a sharp contrast to pale skin that gives me the appearance of a nerdy mole.
Tina looks down at the notecard in her shaking hand. “We are asking for people’s help. If you see Lily Decker, please don’t approach her. We don’t want anyone to get hurt. Call the police. Immediately. Please. We need to get Swift Jones home. We have a veterinarian on call waiting to take care of our calf upon her return.”
“I want to add,” Max says, peering straight into the camera, “that the authorities have assured us that they will prosecute every person involved with this crime. So if you are thinking about aiding and abetting Decker, think twice. Thank you.”
“We will continue to keep our viewers up to date on this bizarre kidnapping story,” the reporter promises. “I’m Bee Trenton reporting for Haven News Six.”
If I were Joe Public, I’d see two devastated circus owners appealing for help in apprehending the unhinged girl who stole their fragile, defenseless calf. The part about prosecuting anyone involved with me was a clear message. They know Otis helped steal Swifty. They’re telling him to get back home before he gets caught. This is over.
I busy myself putting muffins in a plastic bag then hold it out. “For the road.” Otis doesn’t move. What more does he want? “I’m sorry. Really.” He’s silent. “Look, I get that this has become a losing battle. That it’s my fault. I can’t stop you from taking Swifty back, and it’s not like Christine will let me stay once you’re gone.” My nose burns, the precursor to what will be an epic ugly-cry. I dig my nails into my palm to push it off, because I have no right to feel sorry for myself. Otis risked it all only to get screwed, and not in a good way, by me. “Leaving now is the smartest thing to do,” I say, trying to sound strong, certain.
Otis folds his arms over his chest. “I’ve never been that smart. Didn’t even go to college.”
His words are jarring, like the needle of an old-fashioned record player being dragged across a vinyl record. “You graduated high school at fourteen.”
“Yeah. But I didn’t live up to my potential.”
I push away the curls threatening to swallow my face. “Look, I get that you hate me. I’d hate me, too. You should go. Seriously. Please go.”
Otis taps out a cigarette and spins it along his knuckles. “Do you plan on developing schizophrenia in the next week?”
“Psst.”
There’s a buzzing in my ears. I shake my head to clear it.
“Lily. I need to hear you say it.”
“No. But like Calvin said, stress can be a trigger.”
“No worries there,” Otis says.
I wave a hand at the TV. “I think it’s safe to say we’ve lost the PR battle. The public is going to rally against me, not for Swifty.”
“Then we have some damage control to do.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you still willing to help me?”
Otis tosses the unlit cigarette into the trash. “Because Swifty deserves a chance, even if it’s a slim one.”
I get it now. He isn’t doing this for me. I push down a sense of loss. It’s impossible to lose something I never really had. “Tell me what to do,” I say.
“People need to know you.”
“I think they’re pretty sure they already do.”
“Change their minds.”
“How?”
“By telling them the whole truth,” Otis says.
In my head, a tiger chases his tail. “You didn’t get the memo? They know the whole truth. That’s the problem.”
Otis picks up my camera, toys with it. “So make yourself the solution.” He turns the camera on, switches the settings. “We’re going to make a video.”
“Of?”
“You, telling the world who you really are and why you’ve stolen Swifty.”
This is a bad idea. “I don’t think—”
“Our only chance is to try to turn the world’s attention away from you, back to Swifty—to what’s important. Introduce yourself.”
Otis is not going to let this go. I pour myself another cup of coffee, sit cross-legged on the Formica counter, dig for strength, or at least a voice that doesn’t shake. It’s hard to know where to start. Who’s going to watch this? Someone young? People my dad’s age? Girls like Carla? The police? Calvin? The grandparents I’ve never met? Addie? Sawyer? Otis gestures for me to begin.
“My... I’m T. Lillian Decker. The T stands for Tiger. My mother, Violet Hanover Decker, was obsessed with the tigers at the zoo. So she named me after them. I think she hoped I’d be fearless, considering...”
“Go on,” Otis orders.
“Um... By now a lot of people have seen the CNC and Hivox News interviews. There have been allegations that I’m mentally ill.”
“Are you?”
“I’m just doing my best to save Swifty—Swift Jones—because she can’t save herself. But my mother had schizophrenia. She had auditory hallucinations and—”
“Auditory hallucinations?”
“She heard voices. Mostly Peter Pan’s. Sometimes Tinkerbell’s. Maybe the artist Escher’s.”
“Do you hear voices?”
Invisible hands are squeezing my neck, trying to strangle my secrets. But I’m tired of keeping them. “Yes. I hear voices. But they’re quotes from my past, things I’ve read, my subconscious chiming in, or lines from Swift Jones songs, which I used to hate, but I’ve become a fan. Voices, quotes or songs I already know don’t constitute delusions or hallucinations. They just mean I have a kick-ass imagination. It’s a quirk, but is anyone really normal?”
“Psst.”
Not now.
“It ith much harder to judge a girl than to judge otherth. If you thucceed in judging yourthelf, it’s because you are truly a wise woman.”
Shut up, I silently command, but annoyance chews a ragged hole in my focus. The quote is wrong. It’s “judge yourself,” not “judge a girl.” And it’s “a wise man,” not “a wise woman.” Leave it, I tell my brain. But. But I know that quote, and that voice in my head...she’s me
, right? So how could she screw up the quote? I have a kick-ass imagination... Right? “Please,” I whisper.
“Lily? Tell them what happened with your mother.”
I try to smile, because people like people who smile. The effort is probably lopsided.
“Violet went off her meds. One day she took me to the roof of our apartment building because she thought we could fly to Neverland.” I twist my hair into a knot, but there’s no elastic on my wrist. Curls fall around my face and I know...I know my father will see Violet in this video. But I’m hers, too. He can’t erase that, even though he tried.
“What happened next?”
I trace the scar above my brow. “Violet tried to make us both jump. The police saved us. My... Violet was convicted of attempted murder. A few months later she committed suicide.” I dig fingernails into my thigh. “For a long time I thought she was a coward. But I get it now. Violet was psychotic, desperate as hell, but she tried to do the only thing she believed could save me from turning into her. She was brave.”
“What you’re doing now? That’s not brave?”
“I’m just telling the truth.”
“Why should people believe you?”
I stare into the camera’s lens. “They don’t have to. Watch the video of Howard Walker. CNC checked to make sure it wasn’t somehow fabricated before they ran it. All the rest? The stuff about my mother, about me? It’s just a distraction. What’s important is that Swifty is a beautiful, intelligent being that creates lifelong bonds, craves family and is desperate for a mother. She deserves a chance at happiness.”
“What can people do to help?”
“I think Mother Teresa said, ‘I alone cannot change the world, but I can cast a stone across the waters to create many ripples.’ I can’t change the genetics that might eventually take me from me. But I can cast a stone. Create ripples. And if other people who care about Swifty cast a stone, too? Maybe we can save her life. Please sign the Save Swift Jones petition on Facebook. Email Wild Walker’s Circus and CC everyone you know. Write letters to your local officials, newspapers, magazines.”
“What will that do?”
When Elephants Fly Page 25