A Lily in the Light(65)
“I can see the moon,” Lily had told the psychic, and Esme had been stupid enough to believe that she’d been in a canopy bed and not dumped on the side of the road like a thrown-away doll.
The first few tears spilled over. Christophe didn’t notice, and Esme didn’t care. Lily had shifted again from a thing that had happened to them and back to a little person. The weight of it was unbearable. Esme wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. Sand scratched her face. You’re so fucked up inside, a symphony of misery. She would never be normal. Everything she did would always drip with the mess of things Esme tried to hide. She’d never have a normal life without those awful thoughts, but neither would Lily. They were both caught in it, crawling on opposite sides of the same web, caught in a swelling tide of everything they’d lost.
Esme startled awake. The beach was alive in a new way. Seagulls and kites circled the sky in figure eights. Children splashed in the surf. A little girl ran past with a red plastic bucket, splashing water onto Esme’s leg. Her feet had turned dark pink. The sand was gritty between her toes. The tent was as hot as a sun-drenched car with the windows rolled up. High tide had come and gone. Lily’s memory was heavy and hollow.
“Oh my God.” She sat up. The back of her neck was sticky from Christophe’s arm. She shook him gently, controlling the urge to shake him harder. “Wake up.”
He mumbled and sat up slowly, stretching, looking younger in the sun. The sand scratched the burn on her feet. Esme fumbled with her shoes, wondering how long it would take to get back, what time it was, how much rehearsal she’d missed, what Adam would say.
“Morning.” He kissed her on the cheek.
She fought the urge to wipe it away. She had to leave this place. “Good morning,” she said hastily, climbing to her feet. She touched her fingers to her face and was relieved it didn’t feel raw and red like her feet. At least she hadn’t burned her face.
“What’s wrong?” He was already standing, eyes puffy, shoes in hand, shaking sand from his jacket.
“I’m late.” It sounded stupid out loud. She looked away from the water, where Lily wasn’t and never had been. “I can’t be late.”
Seagulls circled overhead. God, she was prey. Her stomach rumbled. Children were laughing, and a radio played in the distance. Christophe’s guilt was as clear as the rush of water behind them. She’d ruined the moment, but the whole thing felt stupid in the sun. If he had been someone else, she might have liked waking up beside him, watching him sleep, maybe even swimming before leaving or sharing breakfast while the day rolled on without them, but he wasn’t someone else, and the whole thing was wrong.
Christophe approached a family on a blanket near their tent, a young mother with an infant and a toddler, two little girls tossing sand into the wind. He asked for the time. Esme looked away.
“Nine,” the woman answered with a smile. She must have been watching them sleep.
The panic in her chest momentarily subsided.
“We can be back in two hours, maybe a little longer.” His voice was full of apology.
Esme thought of Lily disappearing beneath the water. The dream eased away. Sometimes she wondered if it was easier to live like her parents did, consumed with what they’d lost instead of trying to hack out a normal life. Today is a new day. She pressed her eyes closed and repeated the familiar words to herself. And I’m happy to be here.
“OK.” She sighed, thinking of what she’d say to Adam. She wrapped her hair in a bun as a fruit cart rattled through the sand full of oranges and strawberries and the ocean rolled tirelessly back and forth beneath a sweating sun.
Chapter Seventeen
If she had not stolen Birdman’s mail that day, her father wouldn’t have made her take ballet at the YMCA. She would’ve bumped along, riding bikes up and down the street, circling back at the stop sign; played with sidewalk chalk; gone to school; looked over Madeline’s shoulder when she read about chakras or Chinese horoscopes or whatever interesting thing Madeline was into and pretended not to be interested. That was scenario one.
Scenario two: She picked basketball or volleyball from the YMCA classes and went until her interest fizzled and her dad forgot the importance of constructive activities. She could’ve ditched the Y altogether and hung out on the handball courts or at McDonald’s, pooling change for fries, laughing and carrying on in the ball pit until the manager kicked them out. Or she could have tried ballet at the Y and been terrible at it. That would’ve been the end of dance.
Scenario three: Lily had never gone missing. If nothing had changed, maybe she wouldn’t have gone to San Francisco or she might’ve come home more because Lily getting taller and more grown up every time would’ve been weird. She would miss too much the longer she was gone and farther she was.
Scenario four: If Lily had gone missing but Amelia hadn’t asked Esme to live with her. She would’ve been pulled away from dance eventually. It was too expensive, too far, or it was not right to dance because of Lily. Amelia had seen that.
“Why did you do it?” Esme’d asked Amelia years ago. “You didn’t have to. No one expected you to.”
They’d gone for coffee on one of Esme’s rare, short trips back to New York just after she’d made SFB corps. She’d picked a coffee shop in Manhattan, a no-name place that wasn’t Amelia’s house or studio. There were too many memories there, too many associations with then.