Midnight Lily(62)

I sighed loudly again, thinking that Ryan didn't know the extent of what he might be dealing with, what forever might mean between the two of us. "Oh, the angst," Nyala said and laughed. "I should write this into one of my novels."

I gave her a mock stern look and then smiled. "I should write a novel of my own. I obviously have the imagination for it."

Nyala nodded. "You have the heart of an artist. It's why so many of us lose our minds."

I laughed. "What?"

"No, it's true. Go into any institution in the world and take a poll. I don't have any scientific data to support it, but from my personal observation, the majority of crazy people are artists. They're more sensitive souls—they have to be to create art others respond to. But it means they're more easily broken."

I shook my head, smiling. "I'm not an artist."

"Maybe you just haven't found your art yet." She pulled her head back and gave her clay an assessing look and then went back to work. "Think about what it means to be a writer, for example—you have to create an entire world in your head and then fashion characters so believable you know their every thought, their every dream, every intention, every potential, every motivation. You have to live in their head enough to understand them, to tell their story. You have to make them so believable that sane humans actually fall in love with that character. Or mourn their losses, or feel anger on their behalf, feel authentic emotion for them. I think a writer needs to be at least partially crazy to manage something like that."

Yes. Yes, that's exactly how it could be for me in my own mind. I should never, ever try my hand at writing because I had no problem going there. My problem was that I would stay there. And I wouldn't know whether the world I'd suddenly found myself in was real or not real. That's what it was like to go crazy—like jumping straight into a novel. In any case . . . "I think most authors would say they have a vivid imagination," I corrected.

She snapped her fingers, a small bit of clay flying away from her hand. "Yes! And you and I have the most vivid imaginations of all. Next time one of us sees a person who isn't there, or knows all the thoughts and feelings of a vision, we'll say about the other, ‘Isn't her imagination particularly vivid?’ What a wonder! What a marvel! It's not just vivid, it's strikingly vivid. Astonishingly vivid. The most vivid of all."

I laughed, my soul feeling lighter. Nyala somehow managed that. Always. I guess some people might call her crazy—and there were times when she sunk into a dark abyss where only she went—but I called her my miracle. She was somehow able to magically change my outlook on an entire situation, to provide that tiny shift in perception that gave me hope to rise above the problem. And it always felt right because she was able to put voice to that which was already in my heart. How she did that, I wasn't sure, but if that didn't speak of miracles, I didn't know what did.

"Those quacks and pill pushers might try to diagnose us with something else, but Lily, girl, our real diagnosis is a particularly vivid imagination. And we both know it." She gave me a big grin.

Oh, if only that were true. Still, sometimes you had to laugh. And that's just what I did, collapsing back on the couch.

**********

I felt a little bit better when I left Nyala deep in her clay, although seeing Ryan at the aquarium still weighed heavily on my heart. As I walked, I pulled out my phone to call my grandmother. She answered on the second ring. "Hello, darling."

"Hi, Grandma. I just wanted to let you know I'm headed home."

"Okay. I need to run out to the store in a little bit so if I'm not home when you get here, I'll be right back. I have a pot of gravy on the stove. Did you have a good time at the aquarium?"

I hesitated. "Yes. Grandma, did you call someone to follow me around there?"

There was a pause. "No. Why would I do that?"

"Because you don't trust me." And could I really blame her?

She sighed. "I do trust you, Lily. And I want you to get out. It's good for you. I just don't want—"

"I know. You don't want me to see Ryan. We talked about that. I agreed."

"Right. Speaking of which, I scheduled the movers. We fly back to Colorado two weeks from tomorrow."

I swallowed. "All right."

"All right. I'll see you soon?"

"Yes, see you soon."

It took me a little over forty-five minutes for public transportation to get me from downtown San Francisco to Marin. From there, I walked to my grandmother's rental house and let myself in the door. "Hello?"

There was no answer. I followed the scent of Grandma's "gravy"—rich tomatoes, basil, and garlic—and saw it simmering on the stove. Grabbing the wooden spoon she had set on a spoon rest to the side of the stove, I lifted the lid of the pot, leaning in and inhaling the comforting smell. I stirred the sauce and replaced the lid, moving over to the sink to wash my hands. I'd make a salad to go with dinner.

"Lily," came the deep voice behind me.

Startling and turning abruptly, I found Jeffrey standing in the doorway. My heart began hammering in my chest. "H-Hello," I said. "I was just going to make a salad. Will you be joining us for dinner?"

He shook his head. "No. I have an appointment tonight."