Chapter 17 #2
I set the paper down, feeling something lodge in my chest.
I kept wandering the living room. The bookshelf held rows of CDs and vinyl records, mostly classic rock and jazz—she still loved old things, that hadn't changed. Under the TV stand sat a stack of children's books. "The Very Hungry Caterpillar," "Guess How Much I Love You," "Winnie the Pooh"—Lily's.
I crouched down and picked up "Guess How Much I Love You," opening to the first page. In wobbly crayon letters: "Lily's book."
My fingers traced the letters. My eyes burned again.
I put the book down, stood, and walked to the window. Outside was a small balcony with potted plants—mint, basil, and blooming lavender. She used to grow lavender in her little courtyard at the palace, too.
Before I ordered it torn up.
I closed my eyes, breathed deep, and pushed down the surge of guilt.
Then I heard a child's voice from below—bright, cheerful, ringing through the morning air like a bell.
I stepped to the window and looked down.
Below the apartment building was a small playground—slide, swings, sandbox. A little girl in a pink dress sat on a swing, a middle-aged woman—probably a nanny—standing nearby. The girl's brown hair was tied in two pigtails that swayed in the breeze.
Lily.
Mia's daughter.
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I could hear blood roaring in my ears.
She was swinging. The nanny pushed her back, and she flew up, laughing. That laughter was like a key, unlocking something dusty and forgotten deep in my chest.
I stood there watching her laugh in the sunlight, feeling like a voyeur.
Then she turned her head and saw me.
Her gaze cut through the window, landing directly on me. Those gray-blue eyes—my eyes—blinked. Then her face broke into a brilliant smile.
She waved at me.
I froze.
She waved again, then jumped off the swing and ran to the building entrance, looking up and shouting something—too far away, I couldn't hear.
But the next second, Lily ran inside and stood at the door, looking up at me. Her hair in two pigtails tied with butterfly clips.
She looked at me. I looked at her.
About three feet between us.
Then she spoke, her voice clear as spring water. "You're the guy who played guitar last night!"
I blinked. "You saw me?"
"I saw you from the window!" Her eyes sparkled. "You sing well!"
I felt something slam into my heart.
"Thank... thank you," I said, voice rough.
"Are you Mommy's friend?" She tilted her head, those gray-blue eyes full of curiosity.
"I... I guess so."
"What's your name?"
"My name is Zane."
"Zane!" She repeated it like tasting the word. "My name is Lily! Mommy says Lily means lily flower!"
"I know," I said, my voice gentler than I expected. "It's a perfect name for you."
She smiled, showing two little dimples. That smile—identical to Mia's—made my knees weak.
"Zane, can you play with me?" She asked, eyes shining with hope. "It's boring swinging by myself."
I opened my mouth to say "I'm not sure your mom would approve," but before I could speak, she grabbed my hand.
Her hand was small, soft, warm—like a little bird landing in my palm.
"Come on!" She pulled me toward the elevator. "The swing is so fun! I can push you!"
"Wait, Lily—"
"Hurry hurry!"
She dragged me into the elevator, stood on tiptoes to press the "1" button, then turned with a triumphant smile.
"I can reach it!" She said. "I'm big now!"
My eyes burned.
The elevator doors opened. She pulled me out of the building, across the path, to that little playground. Morning sunlight bathed the slide and swings in golden light.
Lily released my hand and ran to a swing, patting the seat. "You sit here! I'll push you!"
"You'll push me?" I couldn't help smiling. "You sure you can?"
"Of course!" She puffed out her little chest. "I'm super strong!"
I shook my head, smiling, and sat on the swing. It was too small for me, my legs too long, knees almost touching the ground. But I sat anyway, gripping the chains.
Lily circled behind me, placing her small hands on my back.
"Go!" She shouted, pushing hard.
The swing moved about two inches.
"Um..." She came around front, tilting her head. "That's harder than I thought."
I laughed—really laughed, for the first time in five years.
"How about," I said, "you sit, and I push you?"
Her eyes lit up. "Really?"
"Of course."
She climbed onto the swing immediately, gripping the chains tight, turning to look at me. "Ready!"
I moved behind her, placed my hands gently on her back, and pushed.
The swing rose. She squealed with delight. "Wow! Higher!"
I pushed again, a little harder this time. The swing went higher, her pigtails flying like little flags in the wind.
"Higher! Higher!"
"Okay, hold on tight—"
I pushed harder. The swing soared, she was nearly parallel with the sky. She laughed—that bell-like laughter echoing through the morning air like the most beautiful song.
I stood there watching her fly, my heart filling with happiness and joy.
"Zane!" She called. "Look at me! I can swing to the sky!"
"I see you!" I said, voice thick. "You're flying so high!"
"When I'm bigger," she said, eyes shining, "I'm gonna fly to the moon!"
"Then I'll wait for you on the moon."
She laughed, that smile like a beam of light piercing the darkest corners of my heart.
We played at the playground for about an hour. She taught me how to slide—though my legs were too long and I got stuck halfway down, making her laugh hysterically. We built a sandcastle together, though a passing dog trampled it. She said it was okay, and we could build a new one tomorrow.
She held my hand, pointing at clouds in the sky, saying that one looked like a rabbit, that one like ice cream, that one like a sneezing dinosaur.
She asked about my favorite color. I said blue. She said she loved blue too, because the sky is blue, the ocean is blue, and Mommy's performance dress is blue.
She asked if I'd ever had a pet. I said I had a horse. She got excited and said she wanted a pony, but Mommy said she had to be older first.
As she talked, I watched her.
Watched the way she gestured wildly, the way her dimples showed when she laughed, the way her nose wrinkled when she thought hard about something.
She was like Mia. The laugh, the way she spoke, especially that nose wrinkle when thinking.
But she had my eyes.
Those gray-blue eyes, catching amber light in the sun, just like mine, like my mother's, like every generation of my family.