A Lily in the Light(78)
“We’re giving Lily time to process and warm up to the idea of meeting you all. You have to remember she doesn’t have much social experience. Gloria was her only means of social interaction, plus whatever media she was exposed to, but beyond that . . . nothing. Talking to us has been overwhelming for her. She’s very quiet, but we think she’ll open up as time goes on.”
“Could we . . .” Cerise’s voice was only a whisper. “Could we see a picture?”
They would meet in a week, if Lily was up for it, but that felt like forever. Detective Molina pulled a picture from a file. They’d skipped eight years, but it was Lily. A strand of wild dark hair fell over the long, slender nose she shared with her siblings. Her skin was the same color as the inside of an apple. She had Esme’s hazel eyes and long lashes, only Lily’s were red rimmed, cheeks puffy. She’d been crying. Her four-year-old self would’ve curled her hair around her thumb to hide her face. This Lily was too old for that. She’d had no one but Gloria for eight years. For as often as Esme had felt alone, there had been other people. Madeline’s hand found hers. There was paint on Lily’s hands and jeans. An artist. Esme smiled. At least they’d have that in common.
Cerise held the picture gently, moving it closer to her face and then away again. Andre watched over her shoulder. It was delivery room–like to watch her parents meet their baby after eight years of wondering, only instead of being young and fresh faced, amazed by the little person they’d created, they were both lost in something personal, together but not, the part of their lives that had created Lily so deeply shattered now because of her. Her father might never move from the couch back to his bed. The house was partitioned with invisible barriers because it somehow kept them going. The thought of Lily climbing over and under the emotional labyrinth her parents had built, if she managed to at all, was unbearable. Esme prayed there was enough of four-year-old Lily left to trample through the rules they’d made for themselves and didn’t need anymore, if they could only admit it.
Nick sat on the floor against their father’s old recliner, waiting for Cerise to pass the picture he’d probably seen at the station, but there was something about her brother, an unacknowledged relief. Her mother’s voice from long ago echoed, begging Nick to admit something he hadn’t done. Esme couldn’t imagine how it had haunted Nick, but now Gloria was the shadow shape lurking in every “what happened” scenario and in every “why.” Esme was sorry she’d ever doubted him. It was too late now to undo, even if Gloria had proved him innocent, but she would try. She would call him to see if he wanted to get coffee in a diner after a shift for him and a show for her, when they were bone tired from serving their audiences, him in his costume, Esme in hers. If they could play those roles every day, then maybe, eventually, they could play brother and sister too.
Cerise passed the picture to Esme. The water glass on the table caught the light just right and cast a blue shadow on Lily’s hand. It wasn’t tiny rainbows like the psychic had suggested, but she hadn’t been entirely wrong. Esme stared at the blue light on Lily’s hand. They were that light, split and fractured, scattered by one event. Would Madeline have studied law if not for Lily or Nick become a cop, or would Esme have pushed herself to dance, forcing herself into a make-believe world and a language without words to hide in? And what would Lily be now? But no matter what had happened to them, whatever statistically improbable event had shattered their lives, they still came from the same place. That part, Esme realized, could not be taken from them.
“Does she remember us?” Cerise inched forward on her chair. “Does she understand what happened?”
Detective Molina and Nancy exchanged a quick look.
“Well”—Nancy sighed—“trauma influences memory. Whatever memories she has are mixed with what Gloria taught her, and the two might not jibe. It’s going to take time,” Nancy said softly. “Healing takes time.”
Detective Molina and Nancy left with photo albums and pictures of her family. It was a safe way to meet before seeing each other in person. Esme wished she could just sit with Lily. They didn’t have to talk, just sit side by side so Lily would know she was safe, accepted however she was. Nancy said that once the questioning was over, they could make a plan for Lily’s long-term psychological care. They left brochures for reunification programs they could attend as a family. One had a horse on the cover with a smiling family around it. Equine therapy. Lily might feel more comfortable with animals at first. Lily used to like animals, and Esme sensed she still would. She smiled to herself, thinking of Lily watching her dance. Did she like ballet? Her face warmed, and her chest felt feather light. Maybe this was the answer to why she danced. It had saved her after Lily had disappeared, and now it would bring them back together again.
Esme paid the cab driver and stepped into the sunlight, into the watery stretch between home and Amelia’s studio where the orange thing had been years before. It was gone now, washed away with water and time, but Esme imagined Lily leaning over her lap on the Long Island Rail Road, pink sequined shoes glimmering in the sun, peering through her tangle of hair for her fish named Marley, who could go to the store for mint chocolate chip ice cream if it wanted to or swim with whales. For Marley, anything was possible.
She dropped a letter in the mailbox, a postcard from Paris of the Eiffel Tower in the mist. A wise woman once told me that if I could dance through the hardest part of my life, I could dance through anything. She was right. She had put the newspaper article from Paris and one about Lily in the envelope too. It was one small thank-you.