Tin Lily (8 page)

“Yes.”

I hear Dr. Pratchett shift while I run a finger down the engraved spine of an old book—
The Grapes of Wrath
, one I had to read for English last semester. About poor people trying not to be poor anymore, about people dying because they were poor, about the haves and the have-nots. About Hank working for Grandpa Henry’s money and me and Mom in our dog food house.

“Dissociation is a common response to trauma, Lily.”

“Okay.” I wonder if Dr. Pratchett would say the same about Hank on the blue and white bed, stinking up Margie’s apartment with his whiskey and paint, his mint.
Not-Hanks are a common response to trauma, Lily
. Somehow I don’t think so.

“Sometimes medication is used as part of a treatment plan—”

“No pills,” I say.

“It’s not my first choice either. I’d like to see how we do in our sessions first.”

I brush my fingers along the base of a trophy. “Nice trophy.”

“I’m into sailing. What do you like to do?”

I walk to the chair I think I’m supposed to sit in. I sit. There’s a couch too, but I don’t feel like laying down, like being a cliché. “Reading,” I say.

Dr. Pratchett smiles. “I gathered that. What else?”

I think for a minute, but not outside my small focus. “I don’t mind riding the bus here. Seattle is pretty.”

Dr. Pratchett sits in a matching leather chair facing the one I’m in. He crosses one leg over another and folds his clasped hands around his knee. I see argyle socks inside dress shoes. He doesn’t have a notebook or a pen.

“Aren’t you going to write anything down?”

“Not while we’re talking. I’ll make some notes after you leave.”

“So you can remember me if I come back next week?”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “I think I’d remember you if I didn’t take a single note.”

“Okay.”

Dr. Pratchett leans back in his chair and the leather makes a soft scrunching sound. “What would you like to talk about, Lily?”

“Well, maybe you could point me to some good bookstores?”

“I can do that, certainly. I thought you might also want to tell me a little about yourself. You like to read and you like to ride the bus around the city—”

“I’ve only taken it from my aunt’s apartment to here. Once.”

“Well, that’s a very good start. What else do you like?”

I let my mind wander for just a minute back to before. It’s a narrow path of memories that feels okay. I see an orange fur ball in my lap and feel wet kisses on my cheek. “Animals,” I say. “I like animals.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

“Cats. I’ve always wanted one.”

“Do you think your Aunt Margie would allow you to have a cat?”

I go cold all over and start to shake.

“Lily, are you okay?”

Everything’s all caught up in my throat. I can’t talk. I hold out my hand, asking Dr. Pratchett to wait with any more questions. He nods, moves to the edge of his chair and waits with his face creased up, with his eyes not blinking.

I let my body shake for a while longer. I think about
The Stand
, only
The Stand
, not the fact that Mom and I were going to pick out a cat at the humane society right after school was done for the year—a reward for my good grades, a new addition to our family. Two plus one. Now just one.

“Has it been an hour yet?” I ask in a barely-there voice.

Dr. Pratchett frowns a little and looks at his watch. “Not quite. Can you tell me what just happened, Lily?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No reason to be sorry. Would you like to talk about it?”

I shake my head. “It’s not a good idea right now.”

“That’s just fine. We’ll take it slow. Do one thing for me?”

“I’ll try.”

Dr. Pratchett’s smile is warm, comforting. “Good. Before giving it any thought, toss out a single word you would use to describe how you’re feeling right now. Just one word. Right off the top of your head.”

“Tin.”

“Tin?”

“Hollow. A tin girl. Yes.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“There’s nothing left.”

“Nothing at all?”

I shake my head. He doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t push either. If he knew I’d seen not-Hank in Seattle, he’d believe me. Normal people get scared when they think they’re going crazy. It’s when there’s nothing left inside that a person can
not
be afraid.

The clock on Dr. Pratchett’s desk says it’s time to go. I stand up.

He looks at me for a minute before he stands too. “Are you sure you’re okay to go by yourself?”

I make the corners of my mouth turn up, but then remember Margie’s expression when I tried before and press my lips back together. “Yes, I’m okay. Margie’s waiting in her car downstairs. I’ll go straight there.”

He holds his hand out and says, “It was very nice meeting you, Lily. How do you feel about coming back next week?”

I watch Dr. Pratchett for a minute. There’s no pity in his eyes, only kindness and concern. I wonder if maybe he can help me stop seeing Hank and hearing the bees. Maybe Dr. Pratchett can help me not go crazy all the way. His office full of leather furniture, the spicy-like-Christmas smell, these help me decide. I guess if I have to see a doctor he’s a pretty good one.

“Okay,” I say and shake his hand.

Dr. Pratchett looks pleased and gives me a card with his number on it, says call him anytime I need to, then shows me a secret door that looks like a wall. It leads out into a hallway doubling back on his front entrance. I guess this is so his crazies don’t run into each other in the waiting room. I wonder if he thinks we’ll compare notes.

I make the turn, zoom past Dr. Pratchett’s office again and get to the elevator. Shiny metal doors distort my too-pale face, twisting it into something not quite right. There are sharp cheekbones where soft fullness was before, my brown-black eyes made bigger by the paleness that surrounds, by the pounds I’ve lost from not eating, not sleeping, keeping watch. My lips are white and pressed tight to keep it all inside—the buzzing and the memory of that night. With all the paleness, with the hollow and nothing left, with Mack and Darcy just around the corner, or the psych ward if I keep seeing not-Hanks, I am nothing but a living ghost.

A bee starts up. Just one. A baby learning to fly, knocking around in my head, letting me know the quiet wants to come. Pretty soon the bee wants to invite friends, to get the buzzing going full blast so I can’t ignore it.

I look at the lit-up number circle above the elevator so I don’t have to see my living ghost face, so I can try not to hear the buzzing. The elevator is stuck on the thirtieth floor when I hear Dr. Pratchett’s office door squeak open down the hall. I step forward fast and flatten my back against the elevator’s cold steel. He wouldn’t hear the bees, but he’d know by my face, tell Margie, say I need to be near people who can look after me better.

The door squeaks closed again and I peek down the hall to make sure. Shut tight. I lean against the elevator again, its chill seeping through Mom’s sweater and into my body.

I’m thinking about taking the stairs when the elevator doors finally open behind me. I stumble backward, sit down hard and lose my breath.

Someone’s laughing and leaning over me. “Are you okay?” he asks.

He’s beautiful and smiles like he doesn’t know there’s ever been anything but happiness in the world. He’s taller than I am and his eyes are green and they’re full to the brim with light and so much life. He’s a good tether, this boy with the dancing eyes, the wide, easy smile. He makes the knocking-around bees go for now.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again as I get back on my clumsy feet. His voice is deep like a man’s, but I think he’s around my age.

“Yes,” I say.

He holds out a hand for me to shake. “I’m Nick Anders.”

His skin is a light cocoa color and reminds me of chocolate chips melted in a pot on the stove. I think his parents must be black and white—Yin and Yang to make a beautiful boy with brown skin and light eyes. His hand is soft and warm and tingly with little sparks I don’t expect. “Like Nick Andros.”

“Who?”

I shake my head. “Fictional character. I’m Lily Berkenshire.”

“Do you live in the building?”

“People live in this building?”

Nick tilts his head. “Yes,” he says. “You don’t?”

“No.”

“Are you visiting someone?”

“I’m visiting a doctor who wants to talk about cats and tin.” I glance away from Nick’s big smile, wondering why these words have left my mouth.

“Sounds like the start of a great book,” he says.

I feel the corners of my mouth pull up a little on their own. He doesn’t look like Margie did when I tried to smile before, so I think this time I did okay.

“Are you all right?” Nick asks.

“Yes, why?”

He rolls his eyes and smiles even wider. “Well, you aren’t shy, for one.”

“Something’s wrong with not being shy?”

“No, it’s just the way you’re looking at me.”

“How’s that?”

“Like you’re trying to memorize my face.”

I think he’s probably right. His smile would make Margie happy, would tell her everything is okay. Maybe if I smile like Nick she’d feel better. Besides, something in his smile holds my attention, keeping me tethered and the bees far away.

“Every girl you meet is shy?”

Nick clears his throat, looks up at the elevator ceiling and taps his chin with an index finger like he’s got some long hard thinking to do before he can answer my question. He’s opening his mouth, his grin turning lopsided—a smartass grin, I think—when there’s a ding and the elevator doors slide open again. A bouncy blonde gets on, stands facing me, then gives me the head-to-toe sweep. Her face pinches up like she’s smelling something bad. I’m used to it from my old school and have to push down the impulse to lift my arm and take a big whiff of my sweater to see if that dog food smell didn’t all wash out. I stop myself until the elevator doors close, then sniff the cuff of my sleeve.

She glances at Nick, does a double-take, then slides up next to him. She stands close, her arm touching his. “Oh hi, Nicky. Where you going?” Her voice is all melted butter and fake shyness. I think Nick with his beautiful face and dancing eyes probably has a lot of girls go gooey like this.

He leans away, avoiding the blonde’s eyes. “Hey, Tiffany. Out and about. You?”

Tiffany starts coiling thick strands of dyed blond hair around one finger. She glances at the floor, at the walls, back to Nick. She pouts and then smiles, like she can’t decide which expression is cuter. “To my sister’s. She’s having a baby in a month and needs help this afternoon.” She pulls her hands behind her back and swivels the toes of one foot against the floor. She’s wearing high heels that have a strap made of hopefully fake leopard skin. It covers all but her pink toenails. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to put together a crib, would you?”

Nick shakes his head fast. “Sorry, I’m no good with tools.”

We reach the lobby with a stop so smooth I don’t know we’re there until the doors sweep open. I start to move toward them, but I can’t get past Tiffany. She’s little, but she fills the space up with her glowering and flirting. She ignores me, staring up at Nick through long painted eyelashes, blinking slowly like she’s sleepy. “Sure you don’t want to come?”

Nick shifts uncomfortably and crosses his arms so he’s not touching her anymore. “Sorry. Have fun with your sister, though.”

Tiffany squints her eyes and it’s easy to see Nick’s made her mad. She’s not used to not getting her way. “Okay, no problem. Maybe I’ll catch you later.” Her voice is tight, deep—no more lightness, no more flirting.

Nick smiles politely. “Okay, see you later.”

Tiffany’s held us up getting off the elevator and the people in the lobby waiting to get on. She doesn’t seem to care. She saunters out like no one’s there, like she’s the only one in the world, her hips swaying back and forth in a tight skirt that doesn’t look all that useful for putting together baby furniture. Nick holds his arm out, inviting me to go next. I step out and don’t sway my hips at all. I think if I do my jeans will fall down.

I walk past the guard sitting at the front desk and through the first set of double glass doors before I realize Nick’s right next to me. I glance up and he’s smiling down at me.

“You don’t like people holding doors for you?” he says. That’s when I realize he’s tried to get out in front of me.

“I can open doors,” I say. I prove it with the next set of heavy glass. I hold it for him.

He gets an even bigger smile going. “You ever consider an illustrious career in the growing field of door management?” His eyes are almost translucent in the bright afternoon. There are no more gray clouds dimming everything. It’s all sunshine and heat and summer blue again, which for sure feels better than the cold steel of the elevator doors.

“I guess that wouldn’t be so bad,” I say.

He laughs. “Lily Berkenshire, Door Manager. It has a ring.”

I glance at this boy, this smiling, happy boy, and see something I didn’t notice before. Something familiar. “I’ve been called worse.”

Nick laughs because he thinks it’s a joke. “Why’d you smell your sweater when Tiffany looked at you?”

“I used to live next to a dog food factory.”

Nick’s face is one big question.

“The smell got into my clothes, into everything.”

“Where was that?”

“Salt Lake City.”

“You live in Utah?”

“No. Not anymore.”

“Then why would you still smell like dog food?”

I shrug. “She gave me a funny look. I thought she might have smelled it.”

“Oh.” He grins. “You want to know why she made that face? And why she ignored you?”

“Okay.” We’ve walked over to the big fountains out in front of the building, so Nick has to talk a little louder because the water’s shooting up, splashing back down. It’s reflected in the windows, all that glass alive with dancing water. Not splintered glass, not glass hoping for wholeness. Whole on its own.

“It bothers Tiffany when she meets someone prettier than her.”