Chương 7
Her eyes flashed.
“Well, what do you want me to do, Conor?”
The sudden sharpness stopped me.
“Turn back time?”
“Make Dad not say it?”
“Make Mom defend you?”
“Make me less of a coward?”
“I can’t.”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
She pressed her lips together.
“I can only tell the truth now.”
The apartment went quiet.
From the kitchen came the sound of Claire closing a cabinet.
I sat back down.
Lily wiped beneath one eye with her thumb.
“I shouldn’t have yelled.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Can we not do the thing where every sentence becomes an emotional summit?”
That made her laugh despite the tears.
“Fine.”
“Thank you.”
She stared at the table.
Then she said, “There’s something else.”
I felt my shoulders tense.
“Of course there is.”
“Dad asked Josh to bring him a box from the house.”
“What box?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Then why does it matter?”
“Because when Mom heard, she told Josh not to.”
I waited.
Lily rubbed both palms over her jeans.
“And then they fought in the hallway.”
“About a box.”
“Yes.”
“What kind of box?”
“Dad called it the blue one.”
That meant nothing to me.
“Mom said he was confused from the stroke.”
“Maybe he is.”
“Maybe.”
Her tone told me she didn’t believe it.
“What did Josh say?”
“He said Dad had been asking for it before the second stroke.”
I leaned back.
“Did anyone get it?”
“No.”
“Then this has nothing to do with me.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
“You came all the way here and now you’re telling me about mystery boxes.”
“I’m telling you because Dad said your name right after he asked for it.”
That landed differently.
Claire returned with three clean glasses of water.
She set them down and sat beside me.
“What exactly did he say?”
Lily looked at her.
“Josh said Dad kept repeating ‘blue box’ and then ‘Conor.’”
“Could Josh understand him clearly?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly isn’t clearly.”
“I know.”
I looked at Claire.
“Don’t turn this into a detective story.”
“I’m not.”
“You have that face.”
“What face?”
“The librarian face.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It is.”
Lily said, “It is a little.”
Claire pointed at her.
“You’ve been here three hours.”
For the first time that day, the tension loosened without disappearing.
Later, after Claire went to bed, Lily and I sat on opposite ends of the couch.
Rain tapped against the windows.
She had changed into sweatpants and one of my old college shirts because she hadn’t packed pajamas.
“You still have this?”
She pulled at the faded logo.
“It survived multiple purges.”
“You hated college.”
“I hated economics.”
“You majored in economics.”
“I was committed to the mistake.”
She smiled.
Then the smile faded.
“Do you ever miss us?”
The question was so quiet I almost pretended not to hear.
“Sometimes.”
“Who?”
I looked at her.
“That’s a dangerous question.”
“I know.”
I thought about Sunday dinners.
Josh cheating at cards.
Mom complaining nobody loaded the dishwasher correctly.
Dad arguing with sports commentators who could not hear him.
Lily stealing fries off my plate while insisting she wasn’t hungry.
“You,” I said.
Her eyes lowered.
“Sometimes Mom.”
“Josh?”
“Sometimes who he was when we were kids.”
“Dad?”
I didn’t answer immediately.
“Yes.”
Lily nodded without looking at me.
“That’s the worst part.”
“What?”
“Missing someone you’re angry at.”
I stared at the dark television screen.
“Yeah.”
She slept badly.
I knew because at three in the morning I heard the guest-room door open, then the refrigerator, then the soft click of a glass against the counter.
I stayed in bed.
In the morning, she was already dressed.
Her flight was at eleven.
Claire had gone to work early, leaving a note beside the coffee maker.
There are bagels.
Nobody make any major life decisions before eating one.
Lily read it and smiled.
“She does know you.”
“Unfortunately.”
We ate in silence.
At eight thirty, I drove her to the airport.
Neither of us mentioned the hospital until we reached the departures lane.
Then she unbuckled her seat belt and sat there with her hand on the door.
“I’m not going to ask again.”
“Good.”
“But if you change your mind, call me.”
“I know.”
She opened the door.
“Lily.”
She turned.
“Don’t let them send anybody else.”
“They won’t.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
She climbed out.
I watched her wheel the suitcase toward the terminal.
Halfway there, she turned around.
For one alarming second, I thought she was coming back.
Instead, she lifted one hand.
I lifted mine.
Then she disappeared through the sliding doors.
I drove home.
At noon, Lily texted that she had landed in Chicago.
At twelve seventeen, another message arrived.
Dad had taken a sudden turn.
At twelve nineteen came a photograph.
Not of him.
Of a small blue metal cash box sitting on a kitchen table.
The lid was scratched.
A strip of masking tape had been stuck across the top.
My name was written on it in my father’s handwriting.
For several seconds, I assumed Lily had written my name on the tape herself.
Then I enlarged the photograph.
The letters leaned slightly to the right, the C too wide and the final r ending in a small upward hook.
Dad had written my name that way on lunch bags when I was a kid and on birthday cards when he remembered to buy one himself.
I called Lily.
She answered before the first ring finished.
“You saw it.”
“Where did you get that?”
“Josh.”
“Why does Josh have it?”
“He went to the house this morning.”
“And Mom let him?”
“No.”
I heard voices behind her, then a door closing.
“Where are you?”
“Hospital stairwell.”
“Why?”
“Because Mom keeps listening when I talk.”
I stood in my kitchen staring at the photograph.
“Open it.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dad has the key.”
May you like
I almost laughed.
“Of course he does.”
