A Lily in the Light(30)

Nick’s knee bounced. The paper was a jumble of up-and-down lines and tiny text.

“I wasn’t in my room,” Nick mumbled.

“Where were you?”

“On the fire escape.”

“Doing what?”

Nick looked away and fumbled with his sleeve, twisting the fabric between his thumb and forefinger until it popped back open again.

“Smoking.”

“Smoking,” Cerise repeated. There was a time when this would’ve been bad enough, but now Cerise wanted worse. She was tired and rabid, and Esme could almost feel her mother’s angry heart beating in her own chest, so angry it pumped mean cold through her whole body, keeping her as still as a lion waiting in the weeds.

“What else, Nick?”

“That’s it. Just smoking.”

“What else?”

“Cerise—”

“Stop it, Andre. Just stop! You were here. You were here, and you had no idea—none—what was really going on, and here we are. So stop defending him, and let him speak.”

She wasn’t just blaming Andre. Esme felt the hot tar hit her too and stick to her skin.

“Nick, every day that passes, every second this gets colder and colder, the less likely, the less . . . if you know something, Nick, even if you were too afraid to say it before, please, Nick, please tell us now.” Cerise’s voice fell away. She turned her head to the side and looked away from them all, like she couldn’t stand the sight of these four people who’d let this happen. Disgust rolled off her in waves. And then it broke.

“I wasn’t here,” Cerise sobbed. She looked down into her open palm. “Her little head used to fit right here.” Cerise wasn’t talking to anyone now. “I just want to see her.”

Her mother’s shirt was on backward. The neckline climbed her mother’s throat and dipped in the back, but her mother hadn’t noticed. This wasn’t Mom. No matter what, even if Lily came home, her mother would never be the same. Esme could never unsee this mom, telling an imaginary baby in her empty hand that she was sorry.

Nick stared at the ceiling. His eyes were red rimmed, but Esme couldn’t tell if he was crying or angry. He was somewhere in between, knee bouncing, fist opening and closing at his side, lost in his baggy clothes. Esme wanted to tell him it was OK, but he would’ve pushed her away. Alone. The word floated through her head. He was alone.

“I didn’t”—Nick started, and then he flipped—“do anything! I was just on the fire escape, and why is it always me? Look at her . . .” Nick pointed at Madeline and rushed on. “She tells Lily that she’s the worst baby ever and throws her hissy fits, and no one says anything to her, but me, me, I must’ve done something, right? Nothing I say is true. What would I even do, Mom? What would I even do?”

Nick paced in little circles. He found the cereal bowl on the table and flung it. It smashed somewhere in the living room, and then the front door slammed behind him. He was gone, but the air was still charged where Nick had been. Madeline stared back like a ghost, and for a quick second, Esme hated her for being so mean and blameless.

“C’mon,” Andre said softly, stepping toward Cerise. The palm of his hand closed around Cerise’s shoulder, ready to lead her away to the couch or the bed. Put her away, Esme prayed, so she’ll stop mumbling to no one.

Cerise pushed his hand from her shoulder. “Don’t touch me,” she hissed. “This is your fault.”

It was a poison-apple bite. There was an odd stillness where Esme’s heartbeat had been. Her blood stopped flowing. Her mother hadn’t spoken to her, but she had. She should’ve gotten up that night, put away her textbook, joined Lily in her pillow fort, and told her about the orange thing before the whole thing escalated. But she hadn’t, and now the thought of Lily’s tipped-back face smiling at her big sister felt like the worst punishment because she’d never deserved any of Lily’s I-love-you drawings or best sisters or special kisses because she was not the good person Lily believed her to be. She was just lazy and selfish, and Lily knew that now, wherever she was.

Her father turned to stone.

“You were here, Andre, and what were you doing? A mother always knows,” she was babbling now. “I would’ve known, and we wouldn’t be here.”

Esme could not take it. She slipped around the side of the room like a shadow. She made a breeze too small to notice but enough to rattle Lily’s drawings on the wall. Were they laughing at her? Pointing paper fingers. Madeline had said so many mean things that night, but Esme had not gotten up. Esme had not told Lily the story of the orange thing. Esme had not left her bed when everything had been happening in the living room, too annoyed to do anything but wait until it was over, desperately craving quiet—and now she’d gotten that.

But Lily. “Pretend she’s an egg,” Cerise had explained on Lily’s first night home from the hospital. “She’s very delicate.” She’d put Lily’s head in the crook of Esme’s elbow, and Esme had finally understood. An eight-pound caterpillar had stared up at her with milky-blue eyes. Her arms and legs had moved freely, so unlike the stiff limbs on the plastic doll Esme’d practiced with. A real baby was tiny bones and fresh skin, a peach fuzz of warm hair on a soft skull, not blinking doll eyes that never wrinkled or watered. A doll never balled its hands into little fists and screamed. There was room for mistakes with the plastic doll baby, but not with Lily. She’d been as fragile as a seashell, and Esme had only just forgotten.