A Lily in the Light(17)

“I’ll leave you to it,” Mrs. Rodriquez said, placing her hand on Cerise’s arm. “If you need anything, I’m down the hall.”

Andre placed the last dining room chair in the living room, counting to make sure there were enough even though there were too many. He didn’t look tired and gray like her mother did. He reminded Esme of the popcorn maker they used to have, where the kernels rolled over one another in slow waves while the whole thing got hotter and hotter and popped all at once. Annette rummaged through her purse, but she didn’t pull out a crystal or a pack of tarot cards. It was a wad of crumpled tissues. She pressed them to the red tip of her cold, flushed face.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “This weather always gets me.” To Esme’s horror, she threw the used wad back into her purse and extended her hand toward Andre.

“Annette,” she said. Andre’s big hand closed around her small one. He’d said once that the street psychics were gypsies who made up stories people wanted to hear. If he didn’t approve of Annette, he didn’t show it.

“Sit,” he said, guiding Annette away from the door.

“Tea?” Cerise’s hands were shaking. She pressed them against her leggings, stretching her fingers like she did after a long day of sewing. Esme’s heart beat a little faster. She recognized the look in her mother’s eyes. It was the same look dancers had when they leaped for the first time, running delicately, thinking so much that it showed in tight lines around their mouths, hoping they’d land correctly instead of crumbling. Her mother looked more likely to crumble.

“No, thank you.” Annette stared into the flickering candle on the table. Esme wondered if that was how it happened, if images of Lily jumped out of the flame and Annette read them back like reading a newspaper. Annette’s purse fell beside her feet, open, dark, and gaping like a hungry mouth.

“All right.” She sighed. “Did Teresa explain the process?” She turned toward Cerise, already settled into one of the dining room chairs. Annette’s Keds looked uncomfortably tight around her feet. Esme wondered if loosening the laces would make air hiss out, but she pushed the thought away because if Annette really could read Lily’s thoughts, she could probably read hers too.

“Yes.” Cerise nodded. If Esme wasn’t so nervous, she might have laughed at how serious everyone was.

“I need something of Lily’s, something she used often, and then I’ll share what I see.”

Used. The word made Esme bite her tongue sharply and taste blood. She rolled the word around in her head until it lost its meaning.

Cerise turned to Esme. “Es, why don’t you pick something? You know what she likes.”

It was an apology, a small stab at normalcy. Esme accepted. She made her way to the bathroom for Turtley, Lily’s sponge pet with googly eyes. It was just a bath toy, but Lily took Turtley to bed, even when it was still wet. It was the fastest swimmer of all the bath toys, faster than scuba man and tugboat. The world’s fastest turtle. Lily held up its drooping head to talk to other stuffed animals. Turtley told them how he used to be a real turtle with a gold shell and lived in the ocean, not a dumb bathtub. She had tucked it in her backpack and taken it to preschool because Turtley had never been to school, but he’d only gone once because it was boring. Turtles didn’t have to read anyway, Lily explained. There were no turtle books.

Turtley was on the edge of the bathtub, his front arms hanging over the lip of the tub, long dry since Lily’s last bath. Why would Lily leave him behind? Esme didn’t want to touch him. Turtley should stay exactly as he was, but nothing else would work better. She picked up the floppy turtle and silently promised Lily that nothing would happen to him.

In the living room, Annette’s voice was muffled. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Cerise said. “I’d like them to be here.” The pain and decision in her voice were almost tangible.

“Let them decide,” Andre said. “They’re old enough.”

Annette smiled sadly.

Were they?

Esme put Turtley on the table between the two candles and settled into her seat beside Madeline. Nick hovered by his bedroom, slouched against the doorframe. No one moved. It was the most “yes” anyone could offer.

Annette pulled a tape recorder from her pocketbook and slipped a new tape into the open receiver. She pressed play and record. Esme glanced at Madeline quickly. How many times had they waited by the radio together for some song they wanted to tape, squealing as the first few notes started and they slammed their fingers down on play and record? Madeline pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them close. She looked like she wanted to vomit. Esme didn’t blame her. Everything was real and not real, nauseatingly so, like wearing someone else’s glasses.

“This is yours to keep. What we hear may not make sense today, but it might later. When we start, it’ll sound like I’m talking in my sleep. I’ll talk to you through Lily’s words. You can ask questions, and we’ll see what answers we get.”

Nick lingered in the alcove between his bedroom and the living room, eyeing Annette carefully. If she’d been a person on a late-night infomercial telling them to call now and get answers, Esme knew he would’ve laughed. Anyone who falls for that crap is an idiot, he would say.

“How the hell does this work?” Nick interrupted, frustration oozing off his skin in waves as thick as radiator heat. “How do we know you’re not just making shit up?”