Tin Lily (6 page)

“You have such beautiful hair, Lilybeans. We don
’
t do this enough. Girlie stuff. We
’
ll do more now, I promise.”

I didn’t know for sure we were leaving Hank yet. I didn’t know, but I sometimes hoped. I sit on the floor now, make a wish to feel her fingers again, want to hear her sweet words, wish I could go back. The ache and the hollow start up, the burning behind my eyes.

I look around the bedroom for a distraction. A canvas bag with all my clothes sits over on the chair that matches the desk in here. It’s time to unpack.

I open the bag. A cloud of dog food has followed me all the way to Seattle. I wander through the apartment, holding a T-shirt out in front of me—evidence to show Margie why I need to do laundry.

“Yes, we’re both home. She’s… quiet.” Margie’s talking on the phone, pacing the living room, her back to me, moving from one bookcase to the next. This living room was my favorite place when we visited. All four walls are stacked high with her paperbacks, first editions and falling-apart hardbacks. It’s a miniature library.

The boxes are new, I think: a copper box big enough to hold one of those old-timey dictionaries before you could look up words online; silver boxes so small you could balance one on the end of a finger; a black box, scratched and shiny, old and new all at the same time—a box trying to be a conundrum; and my favorite, a red box with a bird etched into its lid. There’s a box for every shelf on every bookcase. A bazillion touchstones.

Margie’s playing with a business card, her thumb bending and unbending one corner. She holds it up against the spine of a thick book. I see “Mack and Darcy Langhorn” with a Utah number underneath. There’s nothing else on it but a red/brown fingerprint in one corner—the corner she’s bending and unbending. I think Officer Archie must have given her the card. It’s a just-in-case card that lets Margie send me away if I’m too much trouble.

“Not talking much, no.” Margie pauses, waits for the other person to speak. “There’s something wrong. Like she’s broken inside. Her eyes are so distant and she’s not the Lilybeans I knew. She was always a quiet kid, but she had this light inside that’s not there anymore. And she has these spells where she goes completely silent—” Another pause.

“No, she doesn't do anything. Just freezes. You can’t wake her up. It’s eerie.”

Margie waits, nods at the phone, bends the card, unbends the card.

I turn to go.

I hear “Dissociation?” in Margie’s scared voice before I’m back in the blue and white room.

I pull out Mom’s old laptop. It takes a long time to wake up. I find an open wireless connection and search “Mack and Darcy Langhorn Utah." I guess it won’t hurt to know more since if Margie can’t take care of me, it’s where I’m going anyway.

Langhorn Ranch: Where All Your Beef And Lamb Needs Are Met With 100% Guar-OWN-teed Satisfaction!
Mack and Darcy’s pictures are cut out and poking above a wide-angled shot of green pastures—a homemade job with ragged edges around their heads and hands. Mack-Hank’s eyes are cold with no understanding. Darcy’s eyes are vacant, tired, her hands old before they should be. I click “About Us." It’s the same picture, only not cut out. They’re in the pasture now and behind them are nestled-down sheep, fluffy white cotton balls with no thought to dying because someone’s hungry for lamb stew.

At the bottom of the page there’s “click here for Rick’s page!” I “click here," get redirected to a page with some random guy leaning against a rickety fence, grinning with a feathery stalk of something sticking out from between yellow teeth—teeth that look like they’ve been shuffled and rearranged like a deck of cards. He’s got one thumb hooked in the front pocket of his jeans. His other arm stretches over the top of the fence. It’s not his thumb or his arm or his teeth I care about, though. It’s his smile. It's his eyes. He’s another Hank. It’s more than coldness and not understanding. It’s something I don’t want to know about.
Rick Mirely—member of the Langhorn team,
the caption under his picture says.

I close the laptop, decide not to think about Rick-the-team-member, his eyes telling me all about what’s inside him, or about Mack-Hank and how at the hospital he had no understanding or patience.

Mostly I decide not to think about the nature shows Hank forced me to watch after his light went out, how he said watching animals die on TV would make me stronger, help me face my fears. How he’d change the channel quick when Mom came home and pretend I was crying for a different reason. But Mom knew. Before we left, my light starting going out too. Mine and Mom’s, busy flickering because of Hank’s choices and Grandpa Henry’s poison. We left barely in time and then it didn’t matter anyway.

Margie pokes her head in.

“How you doing in here, kiddo?”

“Waiting.”

“For me?”

“Yes. I went looking for you, heard you on the phone.”

She looks surprised. “I’m sorry, Lily. I hope that didn’t hurt your feelings.”

“No.”

“I was talking with your new therapist. He wanted to know how you were doing.”

“Okay.”

“His name is Dr. Pratchett. You’ll see him every Thursday starting next week.”

“What about your work, my school?”

Margie nods, her eyes on the floor. “It’s so close to summer I’m not going to enroll you until next fall.” She looks up. “The good news is, you had enough credits to pass your sophomore year.”

I didn’t, but it’s okay.

“As for work, I have to go back next week.” She’s an important person, Margie. A metallurgist, sure, but a bigwig too. Supervisor, CEO, head honcho. Something.

“I thought you
might like to stay here while I
’
m at work
. Kind of a boring summer, but—”

“That sounds good, Aunt Margie. I could read. You have a lot of books.”

“That I do. Well, that
we
do. My books are your books now. We’ll get some shelves in here for your own collection.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

She gauges me for a bit, her eyebrows raised, her mouth crooked and undecided. “Dr. Pratchett’s asked me not to pester you. Bet you’ll be glad of that.”

“It’s okay.”

“He wants you to accept what happened in your own time.”

I don’t know what Margie’s saying.

“Dr. Pratchett says it’s important to let the memories in. Little by little. The good and the bad. I told him about your spells.”

“Okay.” I wait a few seconds so she knows I have a question. “Is it okay if I use your washing machine?”

“Of course.” She leads me to a whole room where she’s got her washer and dryer.

I spend the next little while doing laundry, getting that dog food smell out of my clothes. Between loads, I go back to the blue and white bedroom and sit on the bed or in a chair by the window. I don’t open the laptop again. I decide Hank’s small bullet is better than Mack and Darcy’s ranch, better than Rick-the-team-member with that strange light in his eyes.

When there’s no smell left, I go into the living room. Margie’s sitting on the couch. She puts down the book she’s reading and smiles.

“How will I get there?” I say.

She squints her eyes and shakes her head. I haven’t used enough words again.

“How will I get there on Thursdays? To Dr. Paget’s?”

“Dr. Pratchett’s. I’ll drop you off and pick you up. Tomorrow we’ll go on the bus and I’ll show you the route just in case I get stuck at work one day. Does that sound okay to you?” She looks worried about the bus idea, like just saying it out loud will make it come true.

“Sounds good.”

“I have to take classes starting next week so the state knows I can take good care of you. I’ll be gone on Wednesday evenings.”

“I’m sorry for all the fuss.”

“No fuss,” Margie says. She crosses to me, brushes my bangs back. “No fuss at all.”

The next morning Margie takes me on the bus to Dr. Pratchett’s building. It’s a straightforward route, no transferring. I’ll find it if I need to.

“This is just in case I get stuck at work, Lil. My plan is to take you every week.”

“Okay.”

The building is a big glass one with dancing fountains out front. Yards of concrete lead up to heavy glass doors. There’s a fond smile on Margie’s face. “I saw Dr. Pratchett for awhile after I moved here. He helped me a lot.”

I figure Margie saw Dr. Pratchett for stuff Grandpa Henry said. Probably he made her light flicker too. There’s no flickering anymore, though. Margie’s light is strong and warm—a happy light I don’t mind being around.

Margie nudges me. “He’ll help you too. I just know it.”

“Okay.”

“Feel like heading to my favorite bookstore?”

“Yes.”

Margie looks happy. “Thought that might cheer you up.”

I think I smile, but by the look on Margie’s face, it’s something else. She puts her arm around me and guides me back to the bus stop. I wonder if I’ve forgotten how to smile, how to feel something besides nothing.

We ride for a little while before we stop at a bookstore with a neon cat on its sign. I know right off I’m going to like this place. The front picture window holds a big display of books and a tabby cat, orange-and-white striped, stretched out on a cushy bed, watching the world go by. A bell jingles over the door when we open it. The cat raises his head, but doesn’t get up. He’s watching me with yellow eyes and I can’t help but ignore the stacks of books and head right to his perch.

Pretty soon I’m leaning into the display window, giving the tabby’s head a stroke.

“His name’s Cheetah.”

I glance over to see a woman with long white-gray hair and a worn face. Happiness and intelligence dance in her eyes and her smile is easy.

“He’s sweet,” I say. By now Cheetah’s getting up off his bed so he can have a more thorough pet. He looks ready to jump into my arms.

“Careful, he’ll decide to go home with you.”

“That’d be okay, huh, boy?” I give his silky ears a good rub and turn back to Margie.

Her eyes are full, her mouth turned up. “I think he likes you,” she says, pointing over my shoulder.

I look and Cheetah’s stretched as far toward me as he can get, his paw just brushing Mom’s sweater. I crouch down and he climbs onto my bent legs. The lady with the worn face lets out a big laugh. “Well, I guess you’ve been claimed.” She steps behind the front counter and I see now she’s the owner of the shop.

I sit down on the floor and let Cheetah cuddle in. “You go ahead, Aunt Margie. I’ll stay here a little while.”

Margie smiles and nods. “Okay, kiddo. I’ll check on you in a few.” She wanders into the shop while I stroke Cheetah, accept his kisses on my cheek. With this orange fur ball on my lap, I feel a little something inside. It’s not a big something, not anything earth-shattering. A quiet something that made Margie smile. Cheetah feels like a tether. He makes me want to ignore the buzzing, to keep out of the quiet place, to stay here for a little while.

“Never seen him do that with someone so soon. You’ve got the touch,” the store owner says from her spot behind the counter.

“Okay.”

Her laugh, loud and good-natured, bounces off the books around me. It’s not like Mom’s soft tinkling laugh, but still nice. She disappears into a room I haven’t noticed until now—her office, I think.

Cheetah’s busy purring and kneading my leg with sharp claws when I hear the bell over the door jingle. Paint-splattered work boots stop in front of me. Hank. I keep my eyes on Cheetah, remembering not-Hank at the airport, at the dog food house. This will be a not-Hank too, I tell myself.

“That’s a cute kitty you’ve got there, Beans.”

I look up slowly. My eyes are his eyes. He’s not wearing flannel, but a black button-down shirt instead, different jeans, no stains, same crazy smile.

“Leave me alone,” I say. I don’t expect the tremble in my voice or my words. I want him to disappear like the others, disappear because he’s not really here.

He laughs his soft, mad laugh and slowly lowers himself to the floor. He sits cross-legged like me, our knees almost touching. Today he doesn't smell like anything and I wonder where his whiskey’s gone, where he's stashed the mints he’s always chewing to cover up his boozy breath. “Sorry, kiddo. We’ve got some talking to do.”

I look around the shop. We’re alone. It doesn't matter. I can’t tell Aunt Margie Hank’s here. If he’s in Seattle, he’ll hurt Margie. If he isn't and I’m crazy, it’s Mack and Darcy’s for me. Or the loony bin.

“Could we talk later maybe?”

“Where’s my sister?” He says the word like it tastes bad in his mouth, like Margie being his sister makes him feel sick.

My neck cracks when I shake my head side-to-side. “Leave Aunt Margie alone.” I plead with my voice, with my eyes.

Hank laughs again and reaches across to stroke Cheetah’s head. His laugh reminds me of when he would call at night to say bad things about Mom, make fun of us for trying to be on our own. I think about the phone ringing the night he came with his bullets. Sometimes I forget my not answering the phone is why he pounded on the door, came in, took Mom.

“It was my fault,” I say.

Hank stops stroking Cheetah’s head and looks at me. “What?”

“What you did. It was my fault. Because I didn't answer the phone.”

His head tilts to the side. He studies me and I study him. Finally, his eyes roll like he’s listening to something. I’m wondering if Hank’s hearing bees too when he says, “Not quite time yet.” His hands are on his knees and I notice little flecks of paint—a spot of red, a lot of white, some silver.

“Not time for what?” I ask even though I don’t think I want to know.

His eyes roll to mine again. Hurt to rage. Blink. Rage to hurt. “You know that bastard talks to me more now than when he was alive?” Hank says this like he’s asking what I think of the gray clouds outside. Casual-like, Hank tells me he’s hearing Grandpa Henry’s voice.

Hank gets up and walks over to the door. His head is bowed, his lips moving and not moving. “When it’s time, we’ll go to my father’s house. We’ll go back to where it started and finish it. That should make the old bastard happy.” He turns to me and smiles in a sad, decided way. His sad, decided smile makes me jump a little inside, makes a bee start knocking around inside my head. “When it’s time I’ll come back for you. You have fun with Margie ‘til then, okay? She was a good sister when we were growing up. Good and kind.” He gives me a look like he wants to say more, then his eyes cloud over and go flat with no light. “Good and kind until she left. Like your mother. Like you.” He nods at me once. “You go ahead and tell Margie about our little chat if you want. Then she can come along with us when it’s time.” He opens the door. “See ya soon, Beans.”