I turned around.
Lily gripped his blanket, staring at the floor like a test she hadn’t studied for.
“Honey, is that true?”
She nodded once. Then she walked out.
I thought that morning was six months behind us. I had no idea my daughter was still living in it.
I found her at the elevators, pressing the down button.
“She wanted me to take her somewhere before you got home.”
“It’s already lit, Lily.”
“I want to go home.”
“Where were you going that morning?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll be mad.”
“Leave? She was sick.”
“I won’t be mad.”
“Then you’ll be sad.”
“Lily…”
“If I tell you, you’ll stop liking me.”
“I’m your mother. Liking you isn’t optional. It’s in the paperwork.”
“That’s why it’s worse.”
“I can’t tell you.”
I had no comeback. I resent it when a nine-year-old does that.
I left Max with her and went back to Eric.
“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?”
“I didn’t remember yesterday.” He rubbed his temple. “It’s coming back in pieces. This one showed up last night while a nurse fluffed my pillow.”
“What do you remember?”
“You’ll be mad.”
“Lily at the kitchen table in her coat. The suitcase by her feet.”
“What did she say?”
“‘Mom would be happier if I wasn’t here.'”
“She said that?”
“I told her it was nuts. I said you love her more than anything.”
“And?”
“That’s why it’s worse.”
“She looked at me like I’d said the sky was green.”
“Then what?”
“I said, ‘I want to show you something,’ and went downstairs. I was happy about it.”
“About what?”
“I wish I knew. Then I woke up and a stranger was feeding me applesauce.”
“What do you remember?”
I sat on the edge of his bed.
“Why would she think that, Claire?”
“I don’t know.”
It was the first lie I’d told him since he woke up.
Something was already knocking inside my head.
That night I cornered the boys in the kitchen. Lily was in the shower.
“The suitcase by her feet.”
“Has Lily seemed okay to you?”
“No,” said Max.
“No?”
“She sleeps with the hall light on,” said Owen.
“Since when?”
“Since Dad.”
“Why would she think that, Claire?”
“And she checks the basement door,” said Max. “Every night. Twice. Last week I found her there at two a.m.”
“What did she say?”
“That she was practicing.”
“Practicing what?”
“Staying away from it.”
“Why didn’t either of you tell me?”
“Has Lily seemed okay to you?”
“You were at the hospital,” said Max.
“Every night,” said Owen.
“I braided her hair every morning.”
It’s a strange feeling, being a good mother and discovering you weren’t looking.
“Max, you did her homework with her?”
“Most nights. Once she asked if people could be sent away for being a problem.”
“Since Dad.”
“Max!”
“I said no! I figured it was from a TV show.”
“I’m sorry. Both of you.”
“You were keeping Dad alive,” said Owen. “It’s fine.”
“It isn’t. But thank you.”
Later I went into Lily’s room. And what I saw there left me shaken.
“Once she asked if people could be sent away for being a problem.”
She was asleep, the hall light blazing through the door.
A shoebox stuck out from under her bed. I knelt and opened it.
