A Lily in the Light(31)

That same fragility was still there, waiting behind every tantrum. If her baby swing was moving, she’d cry until it stopped. She’d spit her pacifier in and out, crying for it, then pushing it away. That was still Lily.

Once, she’d wanted to play soccer like Madeline, but on her first practice, she’d refused to wear shin guards and had sat in the dirt drawing pictures with a stick until practice had been over. Then soccer was stupid. Or jeans. She would not wear jeans because they squeezed her legs, but tights were OK. And school. She liked preschool mostly, but there were days she would not go. No amount of coaxing could get her out of her pajamas and into her clothes or her hair brushed and teeth cleaned. She would push breakfast off her plate and onto the floor until Cerise gave up and let her stay home. Lily wanted things her way. There was very little room for anything else.

But she couldn’t blame Lily. She was only four.

The door closed behind her. The door between her and her parents was almost magical. Out here, she couldn’t be pierced by bitter bullet words. She was Rapunzel. She’d thrown down her hair and been saved. Now she was floating free in the hallway, weightless, like Anna Pavlova on top of her elephant. She held the doorknob so she wouldn’t float toward the ceiling. Lily might have felt like this that night, relieved to leave them all behind and wander the hallway, stepping from one carpet square to the next, finally alone and content in her own head. Would this have happened to any other kid, or was it Lily’s fault somehow, just by being Lily?

There was a light bulb out in the hallway, and the whole stretch was green gray without it. Before, her father would’ve fixed it. She would’ve taken a chair into the hallway and held the new bulb while he unscrewed the old one. Then the new one would pop into place and throw bright light over everything, but that was before. This hallway was a dark lifeless stretch, the kind of a place a child could disappear from.

She walked the hallway in little Lily-size steps, following the old gray rug, and tucked herself into a corner. The row of closed doors stared back.

The door to Mrs. Rodriquez’s apartment opened and closed. Mrs. Rodriquez was in her ugly camel coat and slippers again, fumbling with the lock while a bag of trash bulged unevenly at her side, but instead of swooping toward the elevator, she stood stock still and tipped her head toward Esme’s door, where her parents were still hurling muffled, angry words at one another.

Another door opened, and another neighbor popped out. Jeannette had her baby strapped to her chest. Its arms and legs dangled like a marionette without a string. The top of its head was covered in a knit yellow hat. Esme couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl, but it stared at her with wide, blinking eyes, a silent watcher. Its mother turned toward the muffled voices and shook her head slowly from side to side, making big sad eyes at Mrs. Rodriquez.

“What a sin,” Jeannette said softly. “No family should have to go through that.” She kissed the top of the baby’s head, like counting a blessing. Esme curled further into herself, an invisible lump in the hallway.

“She was a beautiful girl,” Mrs. Rodriquez said. “Just beautiful. When I think about it, my heart breaks.”

“They seem like a nice family too.”

“The oldest is a wild one.” Mrs. Rodriquez rolled her eyes. “Like my Denny.”

Why were they talking about Nick?

“That’s what happens with too many kids.” Jeannette wrapped her arms around the baby. “I was one of five. My parents were just too tired . . . the things we did . . .” She shook her head and tipped her chin toward Esme’s door. “Between that and all those people she had coming and going, it’s no surprise. I never liked that business running out of there. God knows who’s coming in your home. Our home . . .” Jeannette threw her hands in the air and waved them around like a wild bird. “Once they’re in, they’re in.”

She couldn’t be talking about the brides, not the ones with pretty hair and perfect makeup. How could she think they were dangerous? Esme wanted to stand up, to rustle herself so they’d know she was there and stop talking. It would feel good to see their faces turn red in the gray-green light and their eyes dart wildly, trying to figure out how much she’d heard, but she was too stunned to move. How could the same people who’d left sloppy tuna casseroles in glass dishes say these things about her family?

“I don’t know what they were thinking.” Mrs. Rodriquez sighed. “Letting that little one take the train to Long Island by herself sometimes. Unbelievable. The things that can happen to girls . . .”

Esme froze. Mrs. Rodriquez was supposed to be their friend. She was one of the few places it was safe to eat Halloween candy from without her parents checking it first. Esme had never liked her, and she was probably a witch, but her mother had liked her. She’d even sewed a black lace shawl and a hat with a black web when Mrs. Rodriquez’s fat husband had died. Cerise hadn’t even let them laugh when she’d told Andre that Mrs. Rodriquez’s husband was so big they’d had to nail two coffins together, because it was disrespectful. But Mrs. Rodriquez didn’t care about being disrespectful, not here in the hallway where she thought no one could hear.

Shut up, she prayed silently. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

“I just hope that little girl gets a second chance,” Jeannette said finally.

Something broke in Esme’s apartment, something glass. They both froze. The screaming stopped. Esme didn’t want to hear any more. She jumped to her feet and slammed against the push bar on the stairwell door, not caring if they finally realized she was there. She ran to the roof, feet pounding on the concrete steps, leaving a trail of echoes in the empty staircase behind her.