33. Little Lilian
Chapter 33
Little Lilian
I wasn’t supposed to be there.
Mommy said I was gonna stay with Miss Janie while she and Daddy worked.
But Miss Janie’s mommy fell down the stairs.
That’s going to need at least three Band-Aids. Maybe four if the blood goes past her sock.
So Daddy said it was okay, just this once.
He said if I promised to be quiet, I could come to the lab too.
And I did promise.
I even zipped my lips and everything.
He smiled at me.
He never smiles like Mommy does, but it still counts.
I brought my otter.
He’s soft and brown with button eyes and a ribbon that used to be purple but now it’s sort of gray from all the hugs.
He doesn’t have a name because I don’t think he needs one .
I just know when he’s sad.
And he’s a little sad today, but I told him it’s okay—we’re going with Mommy and Daddy and we’re gonna be so quiet.
I brought my drawing book too.
I’ve colored three whole pages and I haven’t moved from the corner like Mommy told me not to.
I haven’t made any noise, not even when my pink marker dried out.
Even though I’m really sad about it.
I was gonna draw a heart.
It smells like lemons.
Not real ones.
The fake kind Mommy keeps in a bowl on the kitchen table.
Like what they should smell like, if they weren’t made of plastic.
The floor is cold, even through my clothes.
And the air feels like the freezer when I open it too long.
But I don’t say anything, ‘cause I promised to be good.
And Mommy says the air has to stay clean so the machines don’t get sick.
So I try not to breathe too much.
Mommy tells me Daddy has to leave early.
Something important.
He kisses my forehead and tells me to be good, and I tell him I will. I always am.
But once daddy’s gone, mommy and her friends stop talking as much.
They keep whispering to each other like it’s a secret.
I don’t know what about.
Maybe Daddy’s doing something scary .
I hope he’s not going somewhere to get hurt.
Mommy keeps smiling, but it’s the wrong one.
It’s the one she uses when the kitchen smells like something’s burning.
Or when I ask if we’re gonna be okay, and she says “of course” too fast.
She keeps peeking at the door.
Not like she’s excited.
More like she’s waiting for a bad thing to come in.
And then it bangs open.
Hard.
So loud it makes me drop my otter and cover my ears. Men come in—big ones. With scary masks and lots of yelling. One of them has red on his boots, I’ve never seen paint like that before.
Mommy grabs me so fast it hurts.
She yells, “Run!” but I can’t. I’m too little. I just stare.
She picks me up. Shoves me into the little glass box in the corner.
It’s cold. It makes my teeth feel funny.
“Stay here. No matter what. Don’t open the door. I love you. Be brave. Be so, so brave.”
I bang on the glass when they grab her.
I scream.
I yell that I’ll be good. I’ll be better.
I promise I’ll eat peas and not cry when my shoes are tight.
But she doesn’t come back.
One of the men throws something.
It hits the floor and goes crack .
Then it hisses.
The smoke comes out green—like the slime on cartoons.
But it doesn’t look funny.
It looks hungry.
Mommy screams.
She crawls across the floor to the glass.
Gets real close. Knees and hands and her face all scrunched like she’s hurting.
“Close your eyes, baby,” she says.
“Please. Be brave. Just for a second. Just close them for Mommy.”
But I don’t.
I can’t
I want to be brave, I do.
But I watch.
I always watch.
Like I was freezed just like that.
I press my hands to it anyway, just like she’s doing.
She looks scared.
She’s never scared.
“Mommy?” I whisper.
But I don’t think she hears me.
She says something. Her lips move, but there’s no sound. But I know that shape.
I love you.
“I love you mommy.”
Then she points. Down at me.
At the otter I’m squeezing.
At my little pink shoes.
At my face.
I think maybe she doesn’t want me to cry.
But I already am .
The nice lady is yelling. So is the man with the glasses.
They hug.
The boy is gone. I don’t know where. I hope he didn’t see.
He’s a big kid. Maybe he had to go to school or something.
I hope he’s okay.
I’m not okay.
I can’t stop it.
Their skin comes off.
Not like peeling.
More like… melting.
Like when you leave a popsicle in the sun.
Except it’s people.
Mommy’s eyes go wide and then…
then they go away.
I scream louder.
“MOMMY!”
The glass fogs up where my breath hits it, but I don’t stop yelling.
“I’ll be good! I’ll be better! Just come back!”
Mommy melted.
I think she was made of candle wax the whole time.
Nobody told me.
I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.
I don’t think I was supposed to see that.
But I did.
I watched.
I didn’t close my eyes like she said.
I don’t know where to put the scream.
It’s too big to fit in my mouth .
So I hide it.
I push it down into my belly, deep-deep-deep, where the hungry thing lives.
And then something happens.
It gets quiet inside my head.
Like when the TV stops working and all you can hear is the buzzing.
My tummy feels floaty.
My hands feel wrong.
Like I forgot how to be me.
I think…
I think I broke.
Not in the fun way. Not like plates when you drop them and they make that funny sound.
Not like glow sticks when you snap them and they crackle before they shine.
No. This is the bad kind. The kind you can’t tape. I think it’s too many bandaids.
I pretend I’m a fairy princess. And I can do magic.
I pretend the magic very hard.
I make a girl.
She smiles a million smiles a day and she doesn’t remember the glass box.
She likes tea and bedtime and songs with no words.
She wears bows and says thank you and never ever cries in public.
She’s good. She’s always good.
And then I feel it again—worse this time.
Like something’s chewing through the inside of my chest with monster teeth.
I don’t want to be soft anymore.
I don’t want to be scared .
I don’t want to be me.
I pretend the magic again.
And make another girl.
But she’s not nice.
She’s angry and loud and mean because she likes it.
She bites back. She hits first.
She thinks scary things are funny.
She laughs too hard.
She wants to make the bad people hurt like us.
She doesn’t cry at all.
She’s not scared of fire.
She is fire.
And me?
I’m the one under the bed, hiding in the dark.
I didn’t get a new name.
I just… stayed.
I think I pretend all the magic I could.
Sometimes I look out and see them.
Sometimes I listen to Lily hum.
Sometimes I watch Nerium hurt the bad ones.
But I can’t go back there. Where they are.
‘Cause I kept the worstest parts in my hands and squeezed them tight.
‘Cause one of us had to remember.
‘Cause one of us had to hide the memory and keep it safe.
I’m Lilian.
I saw what happened to Mommy.
And I never forgot.
Not even once.
I’ve been brave mommy.