A Lily in the Light(14)
“Sorry,” she mumbled, stepping aside to let her pass. Cold air hit Esme’s face hard as she pushed through the lobby. Her fingers throbbed when she pressed the elevator button for the fourth floor. As the light dinged from one floor to the next, the first wet tear splashed the marble floor, small enough that she could rub it away with her toe.
“What happened?” Cerise lifted Esme like a baby. Esme’s hands and feet dangled, thoroughly exhausted. Later, she’d have to explain—if her mother didn’t figure it out first. Later, she’d be punished. She’d have to apologize to stupid Denny, but for now she cried on her mother’s shoulder, who made soothing sounds, and pretended there wasn’t a Birdman or a kid with a bloody nose and that her chest didn’t hurt so much.
That night, Esme stuffed her shirt into a ball and shoved it to the bottom of the hamper, pushing away the peppermint smell and those circling thumbs. But the hamper wasn’t far enough away. She carried the shirt to the bathroom and locked the door, letting it fall on the white tile like a hot-pink stain. It was her favorite. Madeline had bought it for her at the church basement Christmas sale. Bugs Bunny, Foghorn Leghorn, and Wile E. Coyote leaned over the pocket as Tweety tumbled toward the hem. She loved it, loved how Speedy was tucked inside the pocket, only visible if she peeked inside. There had been so many Saturdays with bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch watching Looney Tunes with Nick and Madeline before they thought it was boring. The tears she’d stuffed back plopped onto the hem as she made the first cut through dried blood. It was hard to see against the hot-pink fabric, but it was there, along with all the invisible marks from Birdman’s hands.
She cut strips and then small pieces, pulling the threads apart, but stopped at Speedy. He hadn’t seen anything, but he’d felt her heart beating. It hadn’t been the same kind of beat as when she raced down the sidewalk, bike streamers flying, or when she double dutched, legs high and feet floating through swinging ropes until she couldn’t believe how long she’d jumped, and the light-headed, big-smile feeling made her skip a step. No, today’s heartbeat made her sick, as gross as dried piss on a toilet seat. She cut Speedy in half and stuffed him down the kitchen garbage, burying him under crumpled paper and salad scraps so he’d never tell anyone what had happened.
She’d been only six then, a soon-to-be first grader. She’d never danced or read a book without pictures and didn’t know she could make up stories for Lily by pulling a world out of thin air like a magician, but the shame still stuck years later. It echoed as the hard lines around Detective Ferrera’s eyes softened. She tasted that bitterness all over again, so strong she couldn’t look at her sister.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Madeline’s leg was shaking, bouncing against the couch cushion while Detective Ferrera watched them both. Esme felt heavy now, deflated.
“Because you would have said it was my fault.” Madeline would have been right. It was a fact. The hurt feelings from years before rolled away with it.
“No, I . . .” Madeline stopped and looked at Esme, but it was true. The sun and the moon, Andre called them sometimes. Two halves of the same thing, even if it feels like you have nothing in common. The lamp threw dark shadows over Madeline’s face. Sister. Esme rolled the word around in her head like a marble.
“Now what?” Madeline asked Detective Ferrera. “What does that do?”
“It gives us something to work with.” He turned to Esme. “Keep thinking of stuff like that. Even little things, things that you don’t think are very important, can make a big difference. Did you ever see him do anything strange like that to Lily? Or anyone else?”
If Amelia had told Esme she’d done well, she would have jabbered on about it at dinner between mouthfuls of salad. Then she would imagine what it meant—dancing where Paloma Herrera and Anna Pavlova had one day, that a choreographer would fall madly in love with her and make new ballets just for her—but when Detective Ferrera told her she had done well, she didn’t feel very good at all. She felt the way she had before the dentist had pulled her back tooth, when he’d pricked her finger and told her to count backward from one hundred, and she’d only made it to ninety-seven before the office had wavered and gone black. She wanted to sleep now, but Madeline’s leg was bouncing, and Esme’s stomach felt queasier than it already had because Madeline was thinking something over.
“Everyone always said how cute Lily was,” Madeline said slowly, “but one time, there was a replacement cleaning guy, and he was looking at her kind of strange.”
“How?” Detective Ferrera asked.
“Like he was measuring her or something. Do you remember?” Madeline turned to Esme. “The guy with the scar under his eye?”
“No.” Esme forced her eyes open and shook her head. The back of the couch felt like a hand against her head, soothing.
“He kept complimenting her outfit and her hair and how pretty she was. Just lots of stuff. Dad must have thought it was strange, too, because he picked Lily up and carried her the rest of the way.”
“When was this?”
“A few weeks ago, I guess.”
“Have you seen him before? Did he work here often?”
“No.” Madeline shrugged. “I only saw him once or twice.”
Someone laughed outside. It startled Esme.