Beneath the Apple Leaves(102)

Now that he was here, Andrew couldn’t go in, couldn’t remember what he wanted to say. In the window, he did not see Lily among the customers. He tucked his hand in his front pocket and turned the corner to the back of the building, leaned against the back wall. His fingers found the ring in his pocket and he looked forward to throwing it in the river after this ordeal ended, another scrap of useless litter clogging the Pittsburgh waterways.

For a moment, he thought about leaving but resisted. He wouldn’t leave without an explanation. He wouldn’t leave until he put her behind him once and for all.

A line of steam rose from the bottom of the steel back door, carrying the smell of all that was being boiled inside. The sounds of the kitchen echoed against the walls, the sounds of large pots moving, the slurred voices in Polish and English, of shouted orders.

The steel door opened. A rush of warm air spilled out, magnifying the sounds within for a split second before the door clamped like a lid to a pot. Lily hoisted a garbage bag with two hands, her shoulders struggling with the weight. Andrew pushed his back against the wall, his insides cold and frantic.

Her hair was pulled back into one braid, the short strands hanging loose around her face. Her dress was spotted and smeared with grease. A blue sweater reached past her hips and the sleeves past her wrists, must have been given to her by a very large woman and made Lily look all the more tiny and fragile.

Lily opened the metal lid of the garbage can, releasing a torrent of flies that she did not seem to notice; then she lifted the bag and dropped it into the can with a bang. The young woman wiped her forehead with her sleeve, her eyes closed.

She looked so tired. A part of him wanted to run to her and pick her up in his arm, feel her head against his shoulder. He wanted to rub her hair and kiss her softly and tell her to rest, rest against him, he had her now. But then Lily put her hands to her lower back and stretched, the slight bulge of her pregnancy visible beneath the sweater.

The sight bruised and left him weak. Pieter had been right. Her growing abdomen plain to see left him queasy. And Andrew then realized that he had come in hopes that Pieter had been wrong. In the hopes that there had been some terrible mistake and she was still his, would still be his. He had come with hope and now there was none. There was nothing to do but say good-bye.

“Lily.”

The woman jumped and spun. Andrew emerged from the shadows. Her whole face dropped and her hands pulled the large sides of her sweater to her middle, clasped them closed with a tight embrace, her eyes wide as those of a hunted rabbit.

“What are you doing here?” The question barely had muscle to give it volume.

“I had to see for myself. To make sure.”

She shook her head frantically. “But how? How did you . . .”

“Pieter.” He stood straight without wavering. “He saw you working here.”

Lily tightened her grip upon her sweater, her eyes drawn to her feet. “I’m sorry.” A tear rounded and dripped off her downturned cheek.

Andrew nodded, his stomach cramped. “You could have told me, Lily.”

The outstretched sleeve flew to her mouth and she bent into it, covered her sobs, her shoulders shaking quietly. Andrew watched her, watched the woman he loved, for the last few seconds before he would never see her again. There was nothing else she could say. The lead weight of acceptance numbed. There was no anger or regret or hope, just the numbness and a readiness to go, to leave this all behind.

He turned to go. “I would have done anything for you, Lily. I’m sorry you didn’t think I was good enough for you.”

“Good enough?” she sputtered.

He met her tear-streaked eyes only briefly. “I just hope this man, whoever he is, treats you well. I hope he loves you even half as much as I did.”

“Love?” Her mouth opened and her face twisted in repulsion. “You think the man who did this to me loved me?”

But he couldn’t hear anymore. The numbness grew up his neck and closed his ears. “Good-bye, Lily.”

She came up from behind and grabbed his arm, twisted the material of his shirt in her hand. “You think I wanted this? You think I left you because you weren’t good enough?” Her crying melted into shouting, her eyes stretched and wild.

He was tired. “Let go,” he ordered wearily.

“How could you think that?” She beat against his arm with a weak fist. “How could you think I don’t love you! I’m the one not good enough. Don’t you see?”

He closed his eyes, just wanted to leave. She let go, her body shaking. “Don’t you know what I am?” She pounded on her chest. “Don’t you see? Look at me!”

The detachment shattered under her disgust, under the pain writhing the body in front of him. Her anger fled, left her unable to stand, and she collapsed onto her knees on the broken concrete. Her head lowered to her hands and she cried from the very depths of her small body. She turned her face upward, the way a flower leans higher to the sun. “Don’t you see? I’m the one not good enough for you. I never was.”

Andrew knelt in front of her, oblivious to the dirty concrete. “Why are you saying these things?”

Beneath the quivering chin were signs of exasperation. “You don’t want anything to do with me, Andrew. I’m no good.” She reached for his face, touched his cheek. “But now you see. Now you know who I am.”