If she dies, p.3
If She Dies, page 3
“Push me, Mommy!”
I turn with a catch in my throat, hearing Lily’s voice inside my head, but of course it isn’t Lily—it’s a girl with a fountain of long curls in a tie-dyed T-shirt. She’s maybe four, tugging on the shirt of a young woman fixated on her phone.
“In a minute,” the woman replies, eyes never leaving the screen. “Climb on and I’ll be right there.”
The girl runs toward the swing, panting like a happy puppy, and throws herself face-first across the seat, sending the swing a few inches into the air. She gives a hoot of delight as she reworks herself to the proper upright position, hands wrapped around the chains, her eyes expectantly on her mother, who continues to stare into her phone, oblivious to all else. I want to go to the woman and tell her that her daughter is waiting. Tell her she needs to treasure every second of their time together, good or bad, because someday, even if the child has a long and happy childhood, they will grow up, move away to start their own life, and be gone.
But I don’t.
It isn’t my place to tell this woman anything, and even if I tried, the only thing I’d probably earn is a dirty look or profane retort. I’m in no position to give motherly advice.
I think we should have another.
It’s an impossible idea. Even if there were no health complications and I overcame my feelings of betrayal, how could I trust myself with another life? I failed once, and there’s no guarantee I won’t fail again. Why would Josh even trust me with that responsibility?
Eve and her friends are on their feet, and when I check the time, I see it’s twelve thirty. Lunch is over. I pull the earbuds from my ears and close my laptop. School releases at three, which means I have two and a half hours to kill before I return to JoKat, where I will sit and wait for Eve to come home. My life is nothing more than blending into the background and passing time.
I close my laptop as I stand . . . and then abruptly stop as I turn my attention toward the parking lot. There’s a girl standing by the public restrooms, watching me. She’s already turned away by the time I blink, pretending to study something in the opposite direction, but I know her eyes were on me. I keep my head down but my eyes up, watching her above my sunglasses as I slowly zip my laptop case and gather my phone and coffee cup. The girl is somewhere in her twenties, dressed in a light gray hooded jacket over a long-sleeved dark purple shirt even though the day is warm. Heavy eyeliner accents her dark skin, and I’d guess her to be Latina, maybe Native American. Her black boots are worn and weathered and match the color of her tousled bob cut, and it looks like she has a hoop earring in her lower lip. There’s something vaguely familiar about her, as if I’ve seen her before—maybe not directly, but somewhere in passing. I’m positive I’d remember if we interacted.
The school bell dings across the field, but I don’t take my eyes from the girl, who hasn’t turned back in my direction. I normally park on the street when I come to Grady Park, but today, there were no empty spots, and my only option was the parking lot . . . a few feet away from where the girl is standing.
Just a coincidence, I tell myself.
I start toward my car, moving slowly, gripping the strap of my laptop case. The girl tosses her coffee cup into the garbage, and for a horrible moment, I think she’s going to approach me, but she only disappears in the opposite direction. I relax my guard, already chastising myself. She didn’t know me. She probably didn’t even see me. No one ever does. I am a Plain Jane, invisible to all. This is what I tell myself . . . until I pass by the garbage can where she tossed her empty coffee cup.
It’s from JoKat.
I climb into my car and lock the doors. It’s a pointless gesture that doesn’t shield me from being seen, but I don’t care. Right now, the only thing I care about is getting out of here, but when it takes me three attempts to put the key into the ignition, I force myself to stop and take a breath. Then another. And another.
I’m fleeing from a glance that meant nothing and a cup from JoKat Coffee, which is only a few miles from here and always frequented by young people. Newton is a college town—90,000 strong with the students—and the girl certainly looked young enough to be in college. It would also explain her rough appearance. College kids today dress all kinds of crazy.
I start the engine, feeling better, and when I check the rearview mirror, my breath stops in my throat.
The girl is standing at the edge of the parking lot with her phone raised as if taking a picture of me inside my car . . . and by the time I whirl in my seat to look through the rear window, she’s gone.
FIVE
Paranoid: That’s what Josh would call me.
I’m still thinking about the girl at the park as I drive across town. Josh always jokes that my superpower is overthinking everything—at least, that’s what he used to say back when we talked and laughed and joked—and he’s not wrong. My mind has always been a fickle friend, but since Lily died, it’s become an enemy that can’t be trusted. Today at the park wasn’t the first time I’ve heard Lily’s voice inside my head. It never happens when I’m alone; only when I’m in public. It’s as if that part of my mom radar still functions, and more than once, I’ve caught sight of Lily in the distance, only to have her disappear within the blink of an eye.
But I didn’t imagine the girl at the park. I didn’t imagine her watching me. And while I can’t prove it was me she was taking a picture of, I know what I saw.
Josh, on the other hand, would have a rational explanation. He would tell me the girl was snapping a picture of the park to share on social media. Or maybe there was a bald eagle or some other majestic bird in the sky above me. Maybe she was simply taking a selfie.
This is what Josh would tell me, so this is what I will tell myself.
Even if I don’t believe it.
I have been recognized before in public, more than once. In the weeks following Lily’s death, dozens of people with whom I once had a connection with—no matter how distant—called, texted, or e-mailed. Past co-workers I hadn’t seen in years. Distant cousins whose names I barely remembered. High-school classmates that I never once spoke to during those four tumultuous years. I appreciated their sentiment the best I could.
But there were also people I didn’t know.
Nameless people who recognized me from the news and would approach me in public, wanting to share their own stories of loss and pain, as if that would somehow lessen my suffering. Some would come to the door and actually ring our bell, as if they knew me personally. Not many, but a few. It wasn’t comforting; it was mortifying. I was already living in hell. I didn’t need more stories. I didn’t want to share my pain with others. I wanted to be left alone.
Maybe the girl at the park did recognize me, as the local news outlets ran the story of Lily’s accident along with pictures of our family. Or if the girl is a student, she could be studying criminology or a similar field, and maybe the teachers use local crimes for in-class examples. It’s as plausible as anything else. The girl recognized me, and it took her a few minutes to piece it together, and when I returned to my car, she snapped my picture to show her friends.
You won’t believe who I saw today—remember that five-year-old girl who was killed at that grocery store last year? Her mother was sitting at the park today, watching the children, looking like she had lost her best friend. Isn’t that so sad?
Maybe.
I slow my car as I near the entrance to Peaceful Gates Cemetery. There’s an elderly man perched on the edge of the sidewalk, looking side to side as he waits for a break in traffic to cross the street. There’s no cars coming in the opposite lane, and when he catches my eye, I stop and wave him on. He raises a trembling hand in thanks as he starts the slow, painful journey to the opposite side, and I jump as the vehicle behind me lays on their horn. My rearview mirror shows me a middle-aged man with mirrored sunglasses and gel-slicked hair who angrily tosses up his hands in clear protest of my good deed. It doesn’t make me angry; it only makes me sad, because I was once him: impatient and always in a hurry. Annoyed at people who drove too slowly, didn’t use their turn signals, or didn’t pass city buses when they stopped to pick up or unload passengers. I also multitasked while I drove: making phone calls, eating on-the-go breakfasts, and I was always distracted with my thoughts—trying to remember what we needed from the grocery store, or if I sent off payment for the utility bill or car payment, or one of a hundred other things. What I should have been doing was singing along with Lily, answering her questions, and looking out the window at the things she wanted me to see. My focus was always on myself, or my mood, or the surrounding traffic—everything but Lily.
Time was always my curse.
Mornings were for play and household chores, afternoons for errands, and evenings for dinner and baths. By age four, there were no more naps, no slowdowns, and Lily was go-go-go all the time, every day: a tornado of energy. By the time Josh arrived home from work, I was exhausted and crabby and ready to escape, telling Josh he had to take Lily for an hour so I could have some peace and quiet, as if she was a dog that needed walking. I would escape into the bedroom and try to relax with some wine and a book, listening to them laugh and play in the living room as I sat alone, feeling guilt and shame. All I ever wanted back then was some time for myself. Now I have all the time in the world and nothing to fill it.
Nothing . . . except for Eve.
The car behind me honks again, and I blink awake, realizing the elderly man has crossed the road, but I’m still sitting here, blocking traffic. I pull forward and turn into the cemetery as the driver behind me gives me the courtesy of another honk as he passes, just for good measure.
I take a moment to collect myself. Peaceful Gates is ten acres of headstones, hills, and grass—no gates, no fences. The north end is walled off by trees; Willis Funeral Home looms over the cemetery from a crest to the east, and a small white trailer—the office for the cemetery manager—sits to the west. The cemetery and I have a long, complicated relationship. In addition to Lily and my parents being tenants, Mary Kecho, my childhood best friend, is also buried here. Sleeping pill overdose at age fifteen. We had drifted apart our freshman year of high school, mostly because of different class schedules and interests and activities—the sort of thing I imagine happens to a lot of childhood friends—but it took me years to overcome my guilt. Mary always had trouble making friends, and I would often see her sitting alone at lunch, or walking down the hallways with her head down, speaking to no one. I learned later from her parents that Mary had been struggling with depression, which only deepened my guilt, especially when the coroner listed the cause of death as suicide. Her parents maintain it was accidental because Mary didn’t leave a note, but that doesn’t explain why she was found fully dressed inside the bathtub, or why the autopsy revealed she had swallowed thirteen pills.
Just one more person I loved and failed.
I take my foot off the brake and start down the road toward Lily. There’s an older couple bent over a headstone off to my side, but other than that, I am alone . . . or alone as one can be with dead people beneath my feet. The thought always prickles my skin. Peaceful Gates is only a few miles from our condo in Newton, and whenever we would pass by it in our car, Lily would say in singsong, “There’s where the dead people sleep,” and then laugh and cover her mouth. I don’t know where she heard it, and I know she didn’t fully understand what she was saying, but it always made me uncomfortable. A five-year-old had no business knowing about death. Josh, on the other hand, said death was a fact of life, and Lily had seen plenty of villains die in her favorite Disney movies. I argued those deaths were never shown, only implied, which made it different. We agreed to disagree.
I guess the joke was on both of us.
Lily’s headstone is just ahead, only a short distance from the road, and I park by the concrete bench under the tree where I sometimes sit. The bench and I also have a history. When I first started coming here after Lily’s death, it would sometimes take me hours to gather my courage to approach her headstone. I would get out of my car, sit on the bench, get back inside my car, lock the doors, get out again. Sometimes I would make it halfway to the headstone before turning back, and more than once, I would simply curl up on the concrete bench and weep.
Lily’s on the east side, and I stare somberly at the headstones as I walk; the same ones I will pass tomorrow, and the next day, and every day until I die and join them in the dirt. I try to imagine the day when I leave this earth to whatever lies on the other side. Will Lily be waiting for me, still five, wearing the same yellow flowered dress she was buried in? Will she know me? Remember me? Be angry with me?
A pained smile touches my lips as I near Lily’s headstone. The polished black granite is the shape of a butterfly—two feet high, four feet wide—and sparkles under the cloudless sunlight. LILY JEAN PARKER is etched in silver lettering across the front, and the words “Love You Most” is etched into the base, something Lily and I used to say to each other. I know Josh secretly thought it was all too much, too extravagant—too gaudy—but I insisted. It was the only time I’ve wanted to spend any of that cursed blood money in our account. I would have spent it all on the headstone if I could have, just to be rid of it.
“Hey, Baby Girl,” I say, settling onto the grass. The flowers I left inside the bronze cup two days ago are already starting to wilt, and I try to perk them up by repositioning them, but it only makes them worse. “Did you miss me? I missed you. I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
I lift my head at the squawk of passing birds, low in the sky, no worries other than where to land when they tire. I envy animals. I sometimes imagine myself as a feral cat living in the cemetery, sleeping by Lily every night. Protecting her. Watching out for her.
“Daddy’s been thinking about you too,” I tell her. “He couldn’t come today because he has work.”
I hate lying to Lily. It’s true Josh is working today, but he’s only been here once since the funeral. I don’t know how to make him understand how important this is to me. To us. Lily is still here—in my heart and in my soul. I feel her presence. I talk to her.
“The other day, I was thinking about the first tricycle your daddy bought you. Remember that? It was white with red wheels and colored tassels. You loved riding it to the tunnel park from our condo, although you rarely made it to the corner of Cooper and Tonning before you tired, and I ended up carrying you, while Daddy carried your tricycle. He would complain and complain about how heavy it was, and he’d groan and pretend to limp, but he was only joking, and it always made you laugh.”
My thoughts are now on Josh, not Lily. How he never complained about changing diapers; always got up in the night with Lily so I could sleep; was always happy to bottle feed her. For the first year after Lily was born, they were inseparable. She was the sparkle in Josh’s eye. The spring in his step. His reason to get out of bed.
It was shortly after Lily’s first birthday that things started to change.
Josh was still attentive—ready and happy to help whenever asked . . . but only when asked. He stopped holding her as much and taking her with him when he ran errands—something he had always loved to do. He rarely helped me get Lily ready for bed each night. Only occasionally read to her. It was as if Lily’s novelty had simply worn off.
I hate that I think that way, and I know it’s not the truth.
Not entirely.
Around that same time, one of Josh’s co-workers retired, and Josh had inherited her entire workload. This meant longer hours at the office, working through lunch, and sometimes bringing home work at night. It didn’t take long for the job to wear Josh down and for his lack of sleep to catch up. Lily was still a year away from the Terrible Twos, but she was already throwing epic tantrums, fighting naps, and spitting up every brand of strained baby food we tried. For the first time since she was born, Lily had become more exhausting than fun, and something had to give. Josh couldn’t control how much time he had to devote to work, but he could control the amount of time he spent with Lily.
I know it was ultimately Josh’s work and not Lily that spurred the change in his behavior. I know this. But at the same time, I wish Josh would have fought for what was important. That he would have still made an effort to prioritize Lily over his job, no matter what the cost. People say it does no good to dwell in the past, but if Josh wants another child, how can I not? The past is where we draw our experience and knowledge, and my heart tells me this is more about Josh trying to atone for his parental sin. To prove he can be a good father and do things better this time. Or maybe he’s only doing it to try and make me happy, which also isn’t right. The desire for a child should be born out of love—not to fix past mistakes or help someone heal. That’s not love; that’s duty.
I close my eyes to clear my head. Sometimes I think I’m too hard on Josh, and other times I don’t think I’m hard enough. But he’s trying. He’s fighting for me. And above all else, I need to remember that. People are complicated and sometimes impossible to understand, even when they’re trying to do the right thing.
Especially when they’re trying to do the right thing.
“We both love you so very much,” I tell Lily. “I’ll be back real soon, so think happy thoughts for me until I return.”
I close my eyes and put a hand on the top of her headstone, trying to visualize the vibrant, living Lily inside my head who sang and danced around our living room with her favorite stuffed animal, Wapsie the Cat, pinned to her chest. I so want to see this Lily.
But I don’t.
I only see Lily’s unmoving body inside her tiny mahogany casket, six feet under the earth. If the embalmer did his job correctly, she would look relatively the same with the exception of dark spots on her cheeks and neck. In another few months, her skin will start to discolor and her fingernails will turn black. These are things I don’t want to know, but I do know. The internet is no one’s friend.
