Nothing to See Here (60)

“I was in love with you,” I told her.

“I know you were,” she admitted. She took a shot and it clanged off the rim and that gave me this tiny measure of hope.

“It was so easy to be in love with you back then. And I liked it, because as long as I was in love with you, I didn’t have to love anyone else,” I said. “And I’ve always kind of been in love with you. And I’m still kind of in love with you.”

She nodded, and then she looked over at me. She was so beautiful, and I remembered those nights in our dorm when she looked at me and accepted my weirdness. She held on to me like nothing mattered. She was kind to me. Even if it had only been a few months, it was longer than anyone else had.

I waited for her to say something, and she just stared at me, figuring me out. I don’t know what I thought would be there, in her eyes. She just shrugged, like what could she do about it? I knew she was sorry. It broke my heart, and I knew that a good part of my life had been spent waiting for it to break so I could get it over with.

I didn’t think she was going to say anything, but then she started speaking, not really at me, to the darkness, to the universe, which of course wouldn’t be able to hear her. “I know, Lil. I know. I know. I know. But what? What did you think I’d do with that? What kind of life could I have? Us? I think about it, okay? I think about you. But it can’t be anything else. The minute it became something else, what would happen? We’d be so unhappy.”

“I wouldn’t,” I said, staring right at her. “I would not be unhappy.”

“You have no idea,” Madison said.

“Could you just say it?” I asked her. If I heard her admit it, if I heard the words in her own voice, I could remember them, could replay them in my head. Maybe it would be enough.

“I can’t,” she admitted. “Lillian, I can’t.”

And that was it. What else could I do?

“Please don’t send the kids away,” I told her.

“Do you want them? Is that it?” she asked. “Do you think that would make you happy?”

“I just want someone to take care of them,” I said.

“Why does it have to be me, though?” she asked. “Why does it have to be Jasper?”

“Because you’re their parents now,” I told her, and I thought maybe this was a trick question.

“I hate my dad,” she said. “I was glad to get away from him. Your mom, holy shit, Lillian.”

I knew that nothing I said would change anything.

“I want you to stay with them through the end of the summer,” she said. “Here at the estate. And then they’ll go abroad. And Jasper will see them, okay? He’ll see them on breaks and holidays. They’ll have their trust funds. They’ll be a part of the family.”

I was crying so hard, but I didn’t know when it had started, what had been the exact thing. I couldn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry, Lillian,” Madison said, but I didn’t know what she was sorry for. She took another shot, made it easily, and the ball bounced right back into her waiting arms.



Back at the house, Bessie and Roland were still asleep, and I crawled into bed. Even though I tried to be as quiet as possible, Bessie woke up. “You’re crying,” she said, her voice so soft and dreamy.

“It’s nothing,” I said.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Are you mad at us?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “God, no, never.”

Roland turned, reaching for us, and then propped himself up, waking to the room around him. “Is it morning?” he asked.

“Lillian is sad,” Bessie told him.

“Why?” he asked. I wanted to shoot into the sky like a comet. I was a grown woman, crying, surrounded by fire children who were not mine. No one looking at this would feel good about it.

“Life is hard,” I said. “That’s it. C’mon, kiddos. Bed. Let’s go to bed.”

I settled into the bed, and the kids repositioned themselves around me. I closed my eyes, but I could tell that Bessie was still staring at me, wanted to know what was inside me. And I knew a secret to caring for someone, had learned it just this moment. You took care of people by not letting them know how badly you wanted your life to be different.

“Lillian?” she whispered once Roland started snoring again.

“What?” I asked.

“I wish you’d never leave us,” she said.

“I do, too,” I told her.

“But I know you will,” she said, and, holy shit, this cracked me open. It made me want to die.

“Not yet,” I told her, and it sounded so wimpy, and I hated myself.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked.

“Let’s talk in the morning,” I told her.

“No,” she said, “right now. You know the fire?”

“Inside you?” I asked.

“Yeah. It just comes, you know? It just happens.”

“I know, kiddo,” I said.

“But sometimes it doesn’t just come,” she said. I could tell this meant something to her. And so I let her say it. “Sometimes I can make it come.”