A Lily in the Light(67)
“How long does the DNA test take?”
Madeline inhaled sharply. “Well, that’s where it gets tricky. Technically, it doesn’t take more than a day, but labs usually run tests in batches because there’s too many. So Mom tipped off the news, and the story went national, which hopefully puts more pressure on the lab to work faster.
“And you know I don’t believe in this stuff, but when Mom went to church today, there was a lily on her usual pew. She thinks it’s a sign.”
They were too close this time, closer than any of the times before. The chances of finding Lily were still rare, less likely than being struck by lightning but not impossible. Anything she said or did might jinx it now. The thought of last night ruining anything was unbearable.
Four years ago, the police had found a tiny skeleton wrapped in a burlap sack on Long Island when a water main had broken. They’d roped off the backyard with yellow tape and dug up the soil in squares while the family looked on from bedroom windows. They were a nice family, two boys and one girl, a golden retriever who probably used to romp through the very same backyard that the police now pulled ribs and a skull from. The police had searched missing children’s cases from the past ten years, and Lily’s little file had been among them. There were thirty-two case files in total. Cerise had done thirty-two novenas, one for every child, every day. Father O’Brien had even given her a key to their church so she could come whenever she wanted. Her father had taken a baseball bat to the roof and beaten what was left of Birdman’s coop to pieces. The splintered wood and chicken wire scattered across the checkerboard tar. Her brother had cleaned it up. Esme knew this because Madeline had told her. “At least you’d have an answer, closure,” people had said, but they didn’t understand. They’d always wonder why it had happened. There would always be pieces no one could answer, too scattered with time and silence and speculation and unfairness to ever bring any kind of peace.
The thought of comparing her life to her sister’s was unbearable. If Lily were to come back, what would she think of Esme’s life? It was easy to move on when she could pretend Lily would’ve wanted her to, but if she came back and felt that Esme hadn’t done enough, hadn’t been broken enough by the hole she’d left in her family’s life—what then?
“I had a dream about her . . .” Esme interrupted. Her voice trailed off. She didn’t want to talk about the beach or Christophe or how chaotic she felt now that everything was happening, but she needed someone to understand. “Do you remember when Nick was failing school, and Mom said he couldn’t play baseball anymore, so Lily said the only team he could play for was the Tutors? She was only four. How could she be so sassy?”
“I don’t know, Es. I always felt like you understood her better somehow, like you got how she ticked. I didn’t get it. I still don’t, and I hate how I was then . . . I keep thinking, if she comes back, what would she remember about me? That I was bitchy and annoyed all the time? That she bothered me?”
“You had your moments. But maybe it wouldn’t matter. I don’t remember much from when I was four—do you?”
“No.” Madeline sighed. “But we’ll always know what we were.”
It was deeply and unfortunately true. Was that why her sister had stayed—to make up for whatever she thought she should’ve been?
“How’re Mom and Dad?”
“Why don’t you call them, Esme? How long has it been?”
“I can’t, Madeline. I just can’t. It’s too much.” Nothing had happened between them, and yet the more she traveled, the farther away she felt. It was hard to pretend she felt as close to them as she had before, well, before she’d left home, before Lily. Or she’d call, and they’d ask how she was and listen for thirty seconds before launching into a laundry list of everything they’d done that week—found a new forum, a new message board, reviewed the case file again—until Esme felt drained and defeated.
“Dad ripped the gate off the lot across the street and planted a million plants. I think he’s lost his mind.”
“Is that legal?”
“Of course not. But he did it, and all these people are coming to help him. They built raised beds, and someone bought a mulcher. The city will probably rip it down, but it’s kind of nice for now, I guess. He promised me a tomato the other day. He was really excited about it.”
She liked the idea of her father in a garden, surrounded by plants and neighbors.
“It’s his kind of church.” Madeline sighed again.
Esme thought of the studio, of the barre beneath her fingertips cuing her brain that it was time to focus. Her sunburn throbbed in hot waves under her tights. It was time to go.
“Tell them I said . . .” Esme paused. Tell them what?
“I’m not telling them anything,” Madeline said. “They’d rather hear from you, Es.”
“I know.” Esme said goodbye and placed the phone in its cradle.
Sometimes she imagined that other life: coming home from school, backpack straps cutting through the padding on her coat, finding bolts of satin on the dining room table, smooth as a pearl, the TV on in the background. It was always Oprah at four p.m. Her mother nodded along behind the ironing board or the sewing machine, pins pressed between her lips. If she was quiet, she could do her homework on the coffee table and listen to Oprah too.