Tin Lily (11 page)

I’m thinking about looking at more pictures when a door opens behind me. I smell whiskey. It’s not long before there’s mint and paint too. My back’s to Margie’s living room, one big goose bump. I look over at Binka sleeping in the sunshine and wonder if she smells him too.

“What do you want?”

He doesn’t answer.

I slowly put the album back on the shelf and tell the bees to knock it off already. If Hank’s here, even if he’s a not-Hank, I have to stay around. Binka needs me. I reach for her, touch my fingertips to her spaz fur, smile a little when she stretches and purrs.

With my touchstone, the bees are manageable. Even with the smell I stay. When I finally face him, he’s over by the front door. He’s wearing the same flannel, same jeans with dark stains, same work boots and there’s the same flat light in his eyes. Memories I don’t want from that night come back. Memories I don’t want from just before we left come along with them. I keep my fingertips on Binka to make myself not disappear.

“Be over in just a minute, sweetheart… I love you, Beans… We
’
ll all be together now…
Hold real still, honey
… See you soon.”

The room twists around me and I’m back at the house where we lived with Hank.

“Where
’
s Mom?”

Dad looks at me from where he
’
s reclined in his barcalounger. “What business is it of yours where your mother is?”

I back out of the room, careful to keep my eyes on my shoes. “Sorry.”

I go fast, silent to my room, hoping he stays where he is, hoping he forgets all about me. I should
’
ve known better with the half-empty bottle of whiskey shoved between his legs. I hear the squeak and thump of the recliner and heavy, staggering footsteps across the shabby living room, down the shabby hall, outside my chipped and faded bedroom door.

“If this door is locked, you
’
re grounded for a month.” His words slip around each other, a slurred mess too heavy for his tongue.

The knob twists. I watch it move from where I
’
m sitting on my bed. It rotates slowly and then the door swings open. The hinges are squeaky, like the sound they use in horror movies.

“Do you ever do anything on your own?”

I lift the book I
’
m reading. “I read.”

He steps into the room, looking around with one hand on his hip, the other holding the neck of the bottle that lets him be someone else. “Don
’
t be smart with me, Lily. Don
’
t ever talk back to me.” He
’
s had too much whiskey to be Dad anymore, past the point of reason, beyond talking normal to. When I look at Dad with his half-empty bottle of whiskey, I think we
’
ll be here forever. The Dad I knew is dead and buried and never coming back. Even if we leave this place, these moments will always be. I can
’
t get out of them.

“Sorry.” I open my book again and pretend to read, hoping he
’
ll get bored.

“Look at me when I
’
m speaking to you.”

I keep my head down while I roll my eyes to his. Almost the same, our eyes. His, dark with rage. Mine, dark with hurt. Same color, but so different.

“You rely too much on your mother. You know that?”

I stay focused so it will be over faster.

“You need to be more independent. You understand me? There
’
s no room in this family for spoiled brats.” He raises his finger and stabs the air. “Grow up, Lily.”

He lifts the bottle and takes a swig, pulling his lips back in a grimace. I wonder for the millionth time why he drinks something that obviously tastes so bad.

For a second, between the whiskey burning his throat and burning his belly, Dad is Dad again. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes smooth out, his lips tremble. I can see him fighting to stay, fighting the war against Grandpa Henry
’
s voice. The person I love, my father, is trying to hold onto himself. But the Hank inside him, his father
’
s son, is too strong. Hatred. Venom fed from the bottles he clutches like life-preservers. I want to tell him he
’
s more than nothing, that there is life, love, hope in him, but the second passes and his eyes are flat again with no light. These moments of seeing my father are almost done.

He turns to go. “God, you
’
re pathetic.” His words are soft like his mouth, like his thinning brown hair. The softness is what makes it true. If he screamed it, if he got in my face and yelled, it would be easy to shut out his meaning.

Binka pounces to my shoulder and twitches her tail across my cheek. I ignore the headache coming on and remind myself she’s kept me here, kept the bees away. When I don’t see the not-Hank anymore, I think maybe she’s made him go too. I reach up and scratch her neck. “Binka the magic kitten,” I whisper.

She sticks her nose in my ear.

I’m trying to remember where Margie keeps her aspirin when the doorbell rings. Everything inside me bubbles at once because I know who’s on the other side of that front door. It doesn’t matter if he’s Hank or a not-Hank. What matters is the three or four bees buzzing their peace song. I want to go, can’t go. I want to fight him, can’t fight. I want to find a thread, can’t focus. The chain on the door bounces and rattles when he knocks. My smart feet are ready to walk on over. They know a not-Hank wouldn’t knock, that he doesn’t need a key to get in, that whoever’s out there is someone different.

Binka’s already trotted over, is sitting in front of the door, peering up at the peephole like she knows that’s where you look to see who’s knocking. I half expect her to walk right up the door and twist the knob.

The bell ding-dongs again. “Delivery for Lilliana Berkenshire!” someone shouts through the door.

The bubble pops and I feel my whole body breathe. Not Hank. My legs shake underneath me when I stand and walk toward the door.

Binka’s got her head twisted around. She’s looking at me with her whiskers bunched up.
You
’
re taking too long
, her expression says.
There are new people on the other side of that door to worship me and say I
’
m pretty. Hurry up, strange human.

I look through the peephole. It’s a Fed Ex delivery guy. I’ve been waiting and not waiting for Mom’s letter, trying not to think about it.

I open the door.

“Good afternoon,” he says. “I was beginning to think no one was home.” He gives me a big smile when Binka scales me and sits on my shoulder.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Oh, no worries.” He nods at Binka. “Cute kitten.”

“Thanks.” I’m looking at the flat orange and white cardboard in the guy’s hand. I’m watching it like it’s going to disappear if I don’t keep total focus.

“Are you Lilliana Berkenshire?” he asks after he takes a peek at his electronic clipboard.

I nod because I can’t take my eyes off the bright parcel, can’t get a word out. Mom’s last letter is in there. Mom’s letter to me.

I’m reaching for the clipboard and signing my name. The letters don’t look like letters, but he seems satisfied, pushes a few buttons and turns to go.

“Have a nice day,” he says.

I grunt something, close the door, lock up, latch the chain.

I reach up to steady Binka as we head back to our sun chair. She hops off my shoulder when I sit down, then runs sideways with her tail arched and electrified. She disappears into our bedroom while I sit by myself and commence staring at the thin cardboard in my hands. I stare so hard at the part that says “pull here,” complete with arrows just in case you don’t know which way to go with the pulling, that my eyes start to burn a little. I flip the cardboard over and stare at my name in Officer Archie’s all-caps handwriting. Binka scratching in her litter box and meowing quietly to herself wakes me up a little. I need to blink and when I do there are tears.

I “pull here” and the package opens. I’m left with a curled strip of cardboard I set aside for Binka. She’ll go full spaz when she sees it, probably hide it behind a bookcase like she does her kibble.

There are two envelopes inside. One says “For Lily, from Archie.” The other simply says “Lilybeans.” The one with Lilybeans is in my mom’s calligraphic handwriting.

I stare at the letters for a long time. The bees start up with their humming—a full hive, no messing around with just one or two. Before I go I notice a pattern in the buzzing. There are the bees and then quiet and then the bees again. The pattern repeats once before I’m pulled in.

*   *   *

When I come back, I’ve still got the letters in my hands and my cell phone’s playing a tune. Binka’s curled up in my lap again, asleep. A whole hour’s gone by according to the clock on the wall.

I shake my head and reach for the phone on the table next to me. Binka’s cardboard strip is gone. I missed her full spaz.

“Hello?”

“Lily? Where have you been?” Margie is panicked.

“Hi. Sorry, I didn’t hear the phone. I was napping.” The lie is easy when I think about Margie’s fear.

She’s quiet for a minute. “Really napping or the other?”

“Napping. Honest, Aunt Margie. Mom’s letter came.” I know this will distract her.

“Have you read it?”

“No, not yet. Should I wait until you come home?”

“What do you think? It’s up to you. I could read it with you or we could take it to Dr. Pratchett’s.”

“Okay. I’ll think about it.”

“I love you.”

“Okay.”

Before I put the phone away, I snap a few pictures of Binka’s sleeping face and make her my phone’s wallpaper so I can see her whenever I want. My always-tether, Binka.
Click. Snap.

I open Officer Archie’s letter first. Between the tear-prisms and the scratchy handwriting, I can barely read the note. Luckily it’s just a single sentence.

Lily,

I hope this letter finds you well. Please call if you have any questions at all.

A Utah number is scribbled under his name at the bottom. I set the note on the table next to me. Like it’s inspired her to get clean, Binka stretches on her tiptoes, hops on the table, sits on Officer Archie’s phone number and starts bathing her face.

I hold Mom’s letter for a long time, then flip it over. It’s not sealed, but it’s been carefully opened, not ragged like I expect. I slip a couple fingers inside and pull the letter out. It’s not your typical notebook paper. Not for Mom. She loved stationary and she used her fanciest for my letter. It’s one page long. Four short paragraphs. The date is two days before Hank came. There’s a “Love, Mom” at the bottom, a “Dear Lily” at the top and a lifetime of words in between.

Dear Lily,

If you
’
re reading this, it is for one of two reasons: either you
’
ve gone snooping, which you rarely do, or something happened and I
’
ve had to leave you. No matter how old you are, it
’
s too soon. I
’
m sorry and I love you.

My sweet Lilybeans, it
’
s important you listen to me now. Read this letter out loud and listen to my words. Pretend I
’
m with you. Hear my voice. It
’
s that important. Are you reading out loud? Good girl.

Your father said things to you that were not true. He said things about me and about you, and he lied. I have regrets, Lilybeans. I let us stay too long and I let him harass you after we left. He said things to make me believe we could go back to the way we once were. I was na
ï
ve, too hopeful. I
’
m sorry. I
’
m not brave like you are, my darling.

I pause for a minute and let Mom’s words sink in. She thought I was brave. I thought she was. We each believed we were the weak one.

You are brilliant. You are beautiful. You are the best person I
’
ve ever known. Your heart is bigger than the world. I look into your eyes and I see the woman you will become. Your gentle ways, your spirit, your ability to see the good in others, these things will attract people to you when you
’
re older, sweet girl. I know friends are scarce right now, but it
’
s a matter of time before someone glimpses that soul of yours and when they do, they
’
ll never let you go. I wish so much I could hold a mirror up and show you what I see. All I can do is hope you will read this and believe me. I never lied to you. Not once. Your father had it wrong and I will always feel pity that he chose the path he did and pushed us away. And I will always feel lucky that we had our time together, that you are my daughter, my girl, my Lilybeans. I
’
ll be waiting for you up ahead. Take your time and have a beautiful life. And remember, life is beautiful. I took so many pictures of you because I wanted to remember that. With all my heart, I love you.

Love,

Mom

I hold the letter for a long time and feel myself rip inside. It’s a tiny hole, a puncture. Inside the rip is peace and quiet. I feel it there, waiting. I can go, it says. I can stay if I want to. I don’t have to keep stuffing. I can just let go and be gone.