Chapter 16 Lili
Sixteen
Lili
I’d followed Wren out when he left earlier, then stayed outside on the front porch after he was gone. The wood for the new
railing is piled up under a tarp in the yard, waiting for Mom to measure, cut, and nail it into place, and then for Goldie
and me to paint it.
But I’m not thinking about work, on the house or on the diary, as I hug my knees to my chest and look up. The sun set some
time ago and now the sky is clear and full of stars, each one glowing quietly, like a tiny light in a vast, peaceful sea.
They are beautiful from this spot, and I hope Dad got to see them on a night just like this. I wish I’d been here to see them
with him, but I’m trying very hard not to blame him for that choice, when I know he thought he was so close to the answers
he made sure I wanted every bit as much as he did.
The house is quiet when I slip back through the front door some time later. The moonlight follows me inside, streaming through the curtainless windows, bathing the now wallpaper-less room in a pale glow, and the only noise is the faint creak of the hinges as I ease the door shut behind me.
I toe off my shoes, the cool wood of the floorboards chilling the soles of my feet as I tread softly toward Dad’s study.
“Late night.”
Mom’s voice comes from inside the room, sudden but not surprising.
“Yeah, sorry. I was just on the porch and I lost track of time.” I walk in to see her sitting at Dad’s antique desk, a single
lamp glowing beside her, its light casting soft shadows across her face. “You too, it looks like,” I add, nodding at the painter’s
mask around her neck that’s covering part of the paint-spattered Britney Spears T-shirt she’s wearing.
She gives me a tired smile and lifts it off, setting it carefully on the desk.
“Goldie asleep?”
She nods but doesn’t speak. Her exhaustion is palpable in the way her body seems to fold in on itself, even without a word.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come right up to help you guys.” I move closer, the words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s just that Wren
and I found something kind of big, in a lot of ways.” There’s an internal clash of excitement and apprehension that I haven’t
fully reconciled with yet. Before I can try to explain, I catch the shadows under her eyes and the weary lines on her face.
“Mom? Why don’t you go to bed?”
She stays where she is, looking around the room before settling on the area rug in front of the desk. “It’s the same one he
had in his study in our old house. He spent so much time pacing on it.”
I hesitate, the sudden shift in topic catching me off guard until I look down at the faded patch she’s staring at, the stark evidence of Dad’s restless footsteps.
“Back and forth, back and forth, for hours on end. He’d miss dinner, wouldn’t come to bed, wouldn’t leave that spot for anything.”
She spreads her hands out on the desk, pressing down. “Forever pacing because he thought the past was more important than
the present.” She looks up at me then, her eyes heavy with sadness. “He missed so much making that path right there.”
An uneasy feeling creeps up my spine, and I step back from the rug instinctively, not wanting to add to the wear.
“We missed you tonight,” she says, her voice tinged with something deeper than tiredness. “All these nights lately. It’s not
just working on the house. You’ve been doing your part, but we’re supposed to be doing it together.”
I lift my arms helplessly then let them fall back to my sides. “Mom, I’m trying to do the best I can. I know I’m not here
as much as I want to be, but you agreed I could work at the museum and look into Dad’s research. Are you telling me you want
me to stop?”
The thought alone sends a panicky flutter through me for more than one reason. I know it’s not the same, what I’m doing and
what he did. I have to make the most of the limited time I have here. Wren’s not going to let me take Kezia’s diary when I
leave Nantucket, and sure we took photos, but there’s no substitute for the real thing. I need to bridge the gap between what
my dad started and what I hope to finish before I leave.
There’s also a little nagging thought in my mind that I want to do this with Wren. I don’t examine it any more than that.
Thankfully, Mom shakes her head.
“It’s okay to look into your past, but your present is happening right now, too. This time in your life won’t come back once
it’s gone.”
“I know,” I say, swallowing down the lump in my throat. “I’ll try to do better. I’ll even watch Spider-Man or any other superhero movie with Goldie this weekend if she wants.”
Even her smile looks tired when she stands. “I think she’d rather go thrifting. I haven’t been able to take her yet.”
“I can do that,” I say, aware that she’s exhausted in a way that has far more to do with me than with the renovations. I have
to try and do better, which is why I don’t follow her up to bed. If I start working on the diary tonight, then maybe I can
get home sooner tomorrow.
That worn path in the study rug sends me into the kitchen instead, where I’m immediately confronted by how busy Mom and Goldie
have been in here too. All the cabinet doors have been removed and partially sanded. There’s still so much work left to do,
and for some reason, that thought steadies me. It means I still have time.
Three hours later, sitting at the kitchen table with a half-eaten slice of toast slathered in Mrs. Mayhew’s blackberry jam,
that hope has all but fled.
Bouncing between Dad’s notebook, the books Wren let me borrow from the museum, and the diary photos on my tablet has gotten me exactly nowhere.
I’ve matched up and deciphered a few diary entries, but most of them are just birth and death records, notes about people she visited, or remarks on seasonal plants or weather patterns.
Like this one from right before the start of the war:
1775 Friday, March 31. Been remarked by a number of aged people that there never was such a moderate winter since their memory
but past fortnite more bad weather than all winter months.
Or this one about the miller and his wife:
1775 Thursday, October 26. Rode up to Fulling Mill—one Nichols an Old countryman keeps the mills here—he married at the Vineyard
lately brought his family on—he lives in Nat Macy’s house near the mill—his wife appears to be an agreeable woman.
I finish the last bite of jam-covered toast, trying not to feel discouraged. It’s only one night. I can’t expect to unlock
some hidden secret right away.
I’m about to put everything away and head to bed when a single word in one of Wren’s books catches my eye and ignites in my
mind, lighting up everything around it. I frantically clean the jam off my fingers and swipe my tablet, scrolling through
the photos of Kezia’s diary until I find the right entry. Then I double- and triple-check Dad’s notebook, implications bursting
like the fireworks inside me, brilliant and beautiful.
I shoot to my feet, reaching for my phone to text Wren before I realize how late it actually is. I check the clock on the stove; it’s after one.
Biting my lip, I start typing anyway.
Lili: It’s late and you’re probably asleep but I’ve been reading all night and I think I found something.
I let out a deep breath and put my phone face down on the table preparing myself for a long night of obsessing over my discovery
with no one to talk to about it.
But then my phone dings.
Wren: I’m awake.
Warmth tingles over my body.
Lili: I feel like I woke you up.
Wren: You didn’t.
Lili: Don’t you have to get up super early to open the museum?
Wren: Yes.
Lili: Then why aren’t you asleep?
Wren: Because I’m not. What did you find? Something to explain why your dad was so obsessed with the number 43?
I hesitate before responding. I did not think this through. Where do I even start?
Lili: I feel like I need to show you in person.
Wren: I’m not coming back over to your house this late.
Lili: I didn’t mean that.
Wren: So you texted me to tell me something you can’t tell me?
Lili: No, I just got excited so I texted you.
He’s the one who doesn’t respond right away.
Lili: Are you still there?
Wren: Yes.
Lili: I should have just waited until tomorrow.
Wren: It’s fine. Come in early tomorrow before we open. 6:30 am. Show me then.
Lili: Really? That would be great.
Lili: Just wait. You’ll be the one hugging me tomorrow.
Wren: I doubt that.
Lili: So did you have my number saved in your phone?
Wren: Yes.
Lili: Under what name?
Wren: Why does it matter?
Lili: I’m just curious if I’ve been promoted from tourist girl yet.
Wren: I’m going to bed.
Lili: Fine. Good night, tour guy.
Wren: Night, tourist girl.