Tin Lily (14 page)

I breathe.

“Stay with me, Lily,” Dr. Pratchett says. “Tell me about these phone calls. Did your dad call often?”

“Hank. Almost every night.”

“What did he say?”

“Did you know she
’
s hiding money? Did you know you
’
re poor for nothing? Did you know she
’
s sleeping with every guy she meets? Did you know your mother
’
s a slut and a whore? Did you know, Lily, did you?”

“Terrible things about my mother. Untrue things.” Things that made me question my thrift store clothes, question Mom when she got home from work an hour late, made me hate my father for making me doubt her.

“When did your parents separate?” Dr. Pratchett’s asking.

“We left a year ago.”

“And he called you often?”

“When he was drunk. We didn’t talk if he wasn’t.”

“Did your mother ever ask Hank to stop calling?”

“She tried once. He came over instead. It was bad. After that I told Mom I would handle it. She would sometimes tell me not to answer, but I always did anyway. Except…”

“That last night?”

“If I’d just stuck to the rules. His rules.”

“Lily, if you hear nothing else from me, I’d like you to hear this. Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“What happened is not your fault. We cannot control the choices other people make. As hard as it is to accept, I don’t think it would have mattered if you’d answered or not.” He says each word like they weigh three tons each.

I watch Dr. Pratchett awhile. If I was Binka, my ears would be all the way forward. “Why?”

“When Margie and I talked after your first visit, she told me Hank went to work for his father what? A year or so before you left?”

Nod.

“She also said Hank did this because he believed his father would leave him an inheritance, quite possibly the family metal works business?”

“Yeah. Even though Da—Hank—didn’t want to install rain gutters.”

“But your grandfather didn’t name him in the will.”

“No.”

“Lily, from what Margie’s told me about your mother, Hank contacted her quite often, usually during work hours. Did you know that?”

I can’t find words in me to say anything. Hank called Mom? When? Why didn’t she tell me?

“Would you like to hear what they discussed?”

“You know?” My voice is a whisper in this spicy-like-Christmas office. I think there’s paint, maybe some whiskey now too, but I ignore these signs of not-Hank, keeping focused on Dr. Pratchett.

“Margie told me. She thought you might feel more comfortable talking about it here.”

I focus on my hands and pick at a hangnail. When I look up again, Hank is standing behind Dr. Pratchett’s chair. His arms are hanging at his sides and one hand is holding a bottle of whiskey. His smell is too much. I look down at my hands again, wonder if Dr. Pratchett sees me seeing Hank.

“What did he want?” I say.

“I wanted you and your mother to come home,” not-Hank whispers.

I don’t look, but I think probably he hasn’t moved his lips.

“Well, he missed you both very much,” Dr. Pratchett says. Careful like, he says Hank missed us. “He was hoping you might rejoin him again someday.”

“But you never did,” not-Hank says. “I needed you and you left me.”

Dr. Pratchett leans forward again. “Are you okay?”

Am I? No, I am not. There are not-Hanks to think about and kitchen bullets and real-Hank coming for me. There are Margie’s metal boxes that mean some things that look weak are strong and some things that look strong are weak. There are the bees, one knocking around right now, buzzing in my ear. And now Hank harassing Mom and I never knew.

Like Dr. Pratchett hears the bees too, he reaches across empty air and touches my hand, keeping me here. “We can discuss this another time if you prefer, Lily.”

I glance at the clock. It’s after time. “Maybe that’s a good idea.” I can’t hear what Hank said to Mom right now. Can’t hear it, can’t handle it.

“Just one thing before we end our session. When the phone would start ringing in your house, how would you make it stop?”

I don’t look up because I still smell whiskey. “I answered it.”

He waits.

“You think I should answer the buzzing?” I say to my hands.

“Did the phone stop ringing when you answered it?”

“Yes.” I look at not-Hank behind Dr. Pratchett’s chair. His whiskey bottle is gone. He stares at me with dead mantis eyes, then slowly holds up his hands, takes a mock picture of me.
See you later.
For the first time, I see him disappear.
Click. Snap.
Gone.

“What do you think will happen if you answer the buzzing?” Dr. Pratchett asks.

“I’ll disappear forever into the quiet place, end up a crazy homeless person talking to invisible people on a street corner. Or die.”

“You won’t die, Lily, and I don’t think you’re in danger of losing your mind.” Dr. Pratchett smiles. If he knew about the not-Hanks, he’d think something different for sure. “We’re here for you, your Aunt and I. I think answering the buzzing may be the next big step in your recovery. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Just one more thing before you go.”

“You said that last time.”

Dr. Pratchett smiles and gets up from his chair. “The joy of getting old, my dear.” He opens a drawer. “I have a workbook I’d like you to begin using as a companion to our sessions.”

“Homework?”

“Afraid so.”

“Summer school,” I mutter under my breath.

He laughs and holds it up for me to see.

“Margie has that one.” It’s the same workbook I saw on her shelf, the one I didn’t look at because I thought she might’ve written in it.

“It’s a good one,” he says without acknowledging Margie’s been a crazy here even though she told me.

Dr. Pratchett says to work through the book slowly, to not skip or look ahead. I can put it aside if it’s too much. I regard it with suspicion.

“It won’t bite, Lily, and I believe it will help you. I want you to pay close attention to what the book says about self-care. Sound good?”

“I didn’t bring a bag today.”

Dr. Pratchett looks confused.

“Sorry, I mean I’d rather not carry that around if it’s not in a bag. People are nosy enough without a book that tells them all about my problems.”

“Of course,” he says and grabs a canvas bag out of a drawer. “I’ve got plenty of these. You keep it. Carry the book back and forth in it. Okay?”

“Thanks.” I take the bag and read the stamped logo. “Twice Sold Tales. Margie and I went here once. It’s where Ha—” I look up fast. “It’s where this really cute cat decided to use me as a bed.”

Dr. Pratchett’s eyes go squinty. “Were you going to say something else?”

I shake my head and look down at the workbook in my hands. “I’ll start on it tomorrow. Okay?”

I don’t look at Dr. Pratchett again, but I feel him watching me. Push, don’t push. Right now it’s don’t push. I’ve made him late for his next appointment.

“Okay, Lily, sounds good.” He walks me over to the secret door. “See you next week?”

I think about Hank at the bookstore, in Margie’s apartment and almost say, “I hope so.” I manage to keep my mouth shut tight, though, and nod instead.

I trot fast to the elevator, then hit the down button over and over when I get there. I don’t watch my reflection or think about my almost telling Dr. Pratchett about the not-Hanks. I think only about Binka home alone and how if I don’t get downstairs fast, I’m going to miss my bus.

Finally the elevator doors sweep open with all their dramatic flourish. Empty. I ride down by myself and hit the lobby running. I stop only when I notice bright blond hair and a shiny turquoise blouse out of the corner of my eye. I stop, almost skidding into the guard’s desk. He smiles at me and then turns back to the blonde. Tiffany.

“Miss, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Tiffany turns to an older version of herself with the same platinum blond hair, same expensive-type clothes. The woman who’s probably Tiffany’s mom smiles and tips her head. I don’t like her smile. There’s nothing soft or kind about her. She’s all hard edges and prickly barbs. “Now listen to me, Branson. I will not have you speak to my daughter this way.”

Tiffany gets this satisfied look on her face, her eyes glittery in the bright lobby. She watches the guard’s face closely.

Tiffany’s mom leans forward, unfurls a long, tapered finger with a long, tapered fingernail. “You find that necklace, Branson. If you don’t, I’ll be forced to believe some not-so-nice things about you, young man.” She pretends she’s joking.

“Ma’am—”

“What have I told you about that word?”

Poor Branson has moved into dangerous territory. Tiffany’s mom’s head is lowered like a bull and she’s watching him through her eyelashes. She’s about a second away from either launching herself across the high countertop to strangle the guard or ask in her fake calm voice to talk with his boss. It’s hard to tell which.

“So sorry, Mrs. Spangler,” Branson says. It’s obvious the security guard’s an old hand at this. I imagine Tiffany and her mom give him lots of crap all the time. He’s younger than the other guards and has a tattoo on his neck. I’m guessing getting a tattoo on your neck sets you up for a pretty high pain tolerance. Two unhappy, spoiled ladies probably just barely make his radar.

Tiffany’s smile is getting bigger and bigger and she’s watching Branson with a shiny glint in her eyes, like she’s hungry to see him get in trouble.

“Now, my daughter says she left the necklace on this counter. It’s a ten-thousand dollar item, Branson.” She looks him up down, up again. “I’m sure you can appreciate its value.”

“Of course, ma—Mrs. Spangler.”

“I’d like you to tell me where it is.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know.”

“My daughter says you were the one working when she left it here.”

“It’s quite possible.” Branson keeps his gaze steady, his focus on Mrs. Spangler.

“You realize this could mean your job?”

“I didn’t take your daughter’s necklace.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Quite sure.”

“What, pray tell, do you believe happened to it?” Mrs. Spangler’s gone full sarcastic.

“I imagine your daughter forgot where she put it. Perhaps it’s in your apartment. Or tucked away in a purse for safe-keeping. Like the ring she lost last month.”

Tiffany leans back, crosses her arms and stares hard at Branson. “I didn’t put it somewhere, you idiot.”

Mrs. Spangler turns to Tiffany and pats her on the arm. “There there, dear. Nothing to worry about.” She swivels back to Branson and there’s none of the sympathy she showed her daughter two seconds ago. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Peabody immediately,” she says in a hard voice.

“He’s off today.”

“Call him at home.”

“I’m afraid he’s unreachable. He’ll be in tomorrow, however. I’d be happy to relay your message then.”

Mrs. Spangler pauses to decide if she should keep throwing a fit, but even she can see that Branson is intractable. “Fine. You may have Mr. Peabody call on me at two o’clock sharp tomorrow afternoon. Not a minute late.”

“But, Mom—” Tiffany’s whining now, not wanting the confrontation to be over.

Mrs. Spangler shakes her head slightly. It’s enough to shut Tiffany up until she sees me at the other side of the counter, watching her.

“What do you want, homely?”

Mrs. Spangler turns and gives me the head-to-toe sweep like Tiffany did in the elevator last week. “A new friend of yours?” she says.

Mrs. Spangler and Tiffany laugh like they’ve both just heard the best joke ever. They walk off arm-in-arm to the elevators, whispering and laughing between them, stealing glances over their shoulders at me. I hear “She wore that ratty thing last week” and “God, she’s pathetic, isn’t she?” and “Why doesn’t she comb her hair?” and “Did you ever see such black eyes? Terrible.”

Branson walks over to me, a kind smile on his face. I see he has lots of places for piercings, but none in. Empty holes where shiny, pretty things should be. I think people like Mrs. Spangler probably make him keep them out. His collar almost covers his neck tattoo, but not quite. It’s an intricate Celtic design that speaks of a patience Tiffany and Mrs. Spangler couldn’t hope to understand. “Are you all right, miss?”

“I’m okay. Are you okay?”

Branson smiles and shows me his very white teeth. “Thank you for asking. Yes, I’m fine.”

“My name is Lily,” I say. I offer my hand to shake. I think we’ve bonded, Branson and me. We’ve both been harassed by the Spangler duo.

Branson envelopes my hand in both of his, squeezes, then lets go. “It was great meeting you, Lily.”

I walk fast toward the glass doors. Before I get there, though, I turn back and give Branson a little good-bye wave. He’s nice and I don’t know if I’ll see him again since Tiffany’s mom might get him fired. He waves back and gives me another big smile. I think maybe I’ve made his day a little better.

I don’t feel too bad about that.

I’m walking fast past the water fountain, late for my bus. The water’s taking a break from all its dancing—quiet now, gone to its own nothing place.

“Hey, Lily!”

I turn toward the voice and see a familiar face. “Oh hey. Rick, right?” Not Rick. Nick. Like Andros. Anders.

His black hair waves back and forth when he shakes his head. He’s got that surprised look on his face again. “Nick, actually.” His expression says,
how could you forget my name?
His mouth says, “Still up for Pike’s?”

I think about last week and try to remember if I said I would go to Pike’s with Nick. I don’t remember promising.

“Oh, sorry,” I say. “Not today. I’m late.”

Nick looks taken aback. I’m a little annoyed he’s so sure of himself. Or me. Or girls in general. “Sorry,” I say again and start walking toward the bus stop.

“Wait,” Nick says. “We could still head down.”