Chapter Twenty-Three Lily
The following morning, Mom and I decide to complete item one on Lottie’s bucket list. We had it on the schedule already, so despite the news from yesterday’s lunch, we keep the plan.
I wake up early, restless. I can’t believe my father is here, unannounced and uninvited. After years of not seeing him, having no clue where he is or how he’s doing, it’s bizarre to have him right outside our door, sleeping on the couch.
Sometimes when I was walking around New York, I was struck by the fact of his existence. Most days I didn’t think of him at all. His absence was nothing, like trying to miss someone you never really knew. It didn’t matter.
Except, occasionally, it did.
Once in a while, when I was crossing a street or forcing my way into a packed subway, it suddenly dawned on me: I have a father.
I have a father—living on this very same planet as me at this very same astrological moment—and he doesn’t know where I am.
He doesn’t know if I am well or unwell. He doesn’t know if I’m madly in love or heartbroken, if I’m thriving in my career or living on the streets.
I wouldn’t say the realization hurt so much as it confused. When we’re apart, I call my mom upward of three times a day. She knows every meal I eat. And yet, I have this other parent—this whole other half of my family tree—who doesn’t have a clue.
I always hated the term daddy issues. It feels like just another way for us to blame women for the sins of men.
For most of my life before Henry, I closed myself off to boys.
I didn’t want to play into any preconceived notions of what people think it looks like to live without a father.
Eventually, I didn’t want to be abandoned, so I abandoned people first.
Three years ago, when I first moved to the city, my father reached out. We had talked here and there over the years, but I was determined to ignore him—still angry about the Mistress.
Then came the emails. Subject lines with “Can we talk?” appeared in my inbox: malignant ghosts.
I couldn’t tell if my father was drunk or sober at first, but upon reading more, I realized he had entered into a sober living program in Palm Springs, where the desert had physically dried him out, wrung him out like a dish towel.
He realized his mistakes. He wanted to make amends.
I marked the messages “Spam” and ignored them all.
Henry couldn’t comprehend why I didn’t answer my father. “He’s trying to make amends,” he said. “Why are you closing yourself off to that? You’re making your life smaller.”
Work with Clive was piling up. One day, I got off at the wrong subway stop and ended up having to run ten blocks to make it to the office on time, arriving in a cold sweat.
My clothes sat in boxes on the floor; my furniture from Ikea was only half-assembled, always missing one bolt or screw so everything wobbled, off-kilter.
I was in no shape to have this conversation with my father. I was barely taking care of myself.
“You complain about not having a large family, but then you throw away the family you do have,” Henry said smugly.
After the fifteenth email from my father, I gave in. I did this for Henry’s sake as much as for my own, to prove to him that I was lovable—that I was trying to let people love me.
My father didn’t answer. His emails stopped arriving. I didn’t hear from him again.
At first, it made me laugh, like, really laugh: a deep, throaty, soulful bellow. My laughter was rage and it was relief and it was even a little smug, the smugness of being proven right.
Henry didn’t like the way I laughed. He found it unsettling, because he thought I should be crying. He thought I should be crying because he didn’t know what it is to run out of tears for someone.
Pretty soon after, work got worse. That’s when I had my first panic attack.
Clive needed me to send out emails to some potential photographers.
He needed me to make a dinner reservation.
He needed a thousand tasks all at once. It was an unseasonably warm October day when everything first came crushing in. At first, I thought I was fainting.
My old therapist later suggested my panic attacks were “unprocessed grief.”
“The emotions you suppress have a way of popping up, no matter how much you try to bury them,” she told me.
Now, looking at my father, asleep on the couch—slightly drooling on Lottie’s favorite pink quilt, the one with ladybugs printed on it—I wonder if she was right.
It’s early and Rose still isn’t up, so I decide to get a head start on the day by going to the local diner, Downyflake, to pick up donuts.
It’s strange being the only one awake in the house; I’m not used to the feeling.
I throw my hair into a claw clip, pull on jeans and a sweater, and grab the keys from the hook in the entranceway.
At Downyflake, I’m one of five people waiting for the owners to open.
A few construction workers stand outside in a silent, makeshift line.
We can smell the donuts wafting out. My eyes are dry and hurt when I blink, my eyelids sticking together as if in protest of being awake.
It is dark outside, and everything looks purple around the edges, humming with energy.
When a young woman with a tall bun opens the door, I select five donuts: some tossed in sugar and cinnamon, others covered in chocolate frosting that sticks to the side of the white bag. The latter are my favorite. The former are Lottie’s. I grab two coffees, one for me and another for my mom.
Back at the house, Rose is awake and already ready to go. She sits outside on the small steps that lead to the front door, still in her silk pajama pants and a tan sweater.
“Wow.” Her face lights up when she sees the coffees and donuts. “You’re a lifesaver.”
The sun is already starting to lighten to a color of gray that is all white and only a drop of blue, so we hurry to the ocean in companionable silence.
We carry blankets underneath our arms. The grass is dewy beneath our sandals, and when we get to the beach, the sand is still cold.
We lay out the blankets by the lifeguard stand, hold the warm coffees between our hands, and stare out at the sea, waiting.
“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” Rose observes after a few moments.
“Mmm,” I say, noncommittal. “You are as well. How did you sleep?”
“Fine,” Rose says. There are dark circles under my mom’s warm brown eyes.
“Pretty big revelation yesterday,” I remark, still staring at the ocean.
“Pretty big surprise guest, too,” says Rose.
I turn to look at her. “How are you feeling about the Lottie stuff?”
Mom pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Betrayed, honestly. But also a little silly. Does it matter who tried to convince me not to marry Tommy? I’m the one who listened. I’m the one who is ultimately to blame.”
“It’s not too late,” I say, trying to keep the urgency out of my voice and failing. “I mean, he’s still here. I don’t know what kind of conversation you had at the wedding, but if it was bad enough, he would have left.”
“It is too late,” she sighs. “Trust me. Too much has happened. Anyway, how do you feel about your father being back in town?”
Sick, infuriated. “Fine.”
“Really?”
“I’ll survive,” I say, and feel my stomach turn.
The sun is beginning to peek its head out, like a little kid testing whether time-out is over yet. A sliver of light appears at the horizon, turning the water gold where it touches.
“I think we should abandon the bucket list,” says Rose, staring straight and squinting.
I turn away from the view in surprise. “Why? Because you’re mad at Lottie?”
“Because I’ve been trying my entire life to be her, to make her proud. I’ve put her on this ginormous pedestal, and it was wrong. I need a break from Lottie and her ‘Lottie-isms.’ I need to make my own decisions now.”
“Are you sure? This seemed important to her, and I know you’re mad now, but if we abandon the list, we might regret it later.”
“I’m sure,” says Rose, her voice impassive. “I can’t go through the charade right now when everything feels so tainted. Listening to Lottie got me into this mess. I always assumed she knew best, but maybe she didn’t.” She pats my hair and smiles. “Maybe some other time.”
“I understand.” I nod, but inside, my heart is heavy.
We fall into silence. When the sun rises, it is big and brilliant. It emerges from the waves triumphant, bathing the sand, the water, and our blankets in orange light. I watch the color dance across Rose’s face, turning her aglow.
When we walk back to the cottage, my father is awake and waiting for us in the small kitchen.
“Coffee?” he suggests, holding up Lottie’s old turquoise pot.
I ignore him and go straight into my room, getting dressed for the day.
I picked up an extra shift at the yacht club and have to leave soon.
Afterward, I’m going to spend the rest of the afternoon working on my new portrait project.
I started to add paint to them, including some of Lottie’s sayings into the backgrounds.
I used only the most exuberant colors for my great-aunt.
“Good writing should feel like singing and reading like dancing,” she once said, and I felt that way about the painting process of this project, too.
I want the colors to sing. I want to resurrect Lottie’s ruthless laugh, her vibrant clothing.
On one, I included my favorite Lottie quote: “We’re all under the same rain. Some of us just have better umbrellas.”
The problem is that after yesterday’s revelation, it doesn’t feel right to celebrate Lottie’s advice. Rose is right. Maybe the problem is that Lottie was my umbrella, and I can no longer trust that it will hold up against the storm.
As I’m walking out the door, my father stops me, blocking my path. He’s wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a Lakers sweatshirt, another reminder of his life without us.
“Lily, before you leave, can we talk? You barely looked at me yesterday.”
There’s something pathetic about a grown man in his pajamas begging like this, but I refuse to fall victim to his trap. “I’m busy,” I tell him.
“Come on, just hear me out, okay? I came to the island to talk to you. I miss you.”
I’m not sure why the sentiment makes me want to punch the wall. I ignore him again and continue walking out the door. He follows me into the garden. The sun is large now, and everything feels hot and itchy. Even the grass looks wilted, like it’s tired.
I’m heading toward the gate when my father reaches me, grabs me by my left wrist.
“Lily, please,” he begs.
Thomas is passing by on his bike. I don’t see him until he’s already coming our way. “Hey, what’s going on here? Get your hands off her,” he calls, jumping off the seat and pushing the red bike to the ground.
“Whoa, man. Relax! This is my daughter,” says my father, stumbling back onto the lawn.
Thomas looks between the two of us, as if trying to make the genetic puzzle match: line up our slight noses and green eyes and the impish edge of our thin brows that always made my father look slightly feminine. “Your daughter?”
“Yes, my daughter, you idiot. And you must be… Thomas Wentworth.” His sarcastic grin is back. “It’s nice to finally meet the man my Rose was always in love with.”
“Dad,” I warn, crossing my arms in annoyance, like a petulant teenager. “What are you doing?” I don’t realize until after I’ve said it that it’s the first time I’ve called him dad instead of father in what must be years. The word feels wrong in my mouth.
“It’s okay, Lil,” says my father. “I’m pleased, really.
When we were together, it was always ‘Thomas this’ and ‘Thomas that.’ I couldn’t even do the dishes right without being told a story about a time you somehow did them better.
” He mocks my mom’s voice, using an obnoxious high-pitched tone.
“ ‘You know, Thomas once cooked lobster bisque from scratch.’ ”
Thomas is frozen, listening as if in disbelief. His forehead is still shiny from his bike ride, and his ears are turning red at the tips. There’s a strange woodsy smell about him, like sawdust.
“Dad, stop. Let it go.”
My father reaches out a hand and offers it to Thomas.
“I’m just messing with you. It really is nice to meet you,” he says.
Thomas looks at the hand like my father has just offered him a dead fish.
My father shrugs and retreats. “You know, you’re a pretty good-looking guy. I can see the appeal. Very rugged.”
“Dad.”
He acquiesces, taking a step back and turning his attention to me. Thomas is still standing there, dumbstruck.
“Lily, promise you’ll talk to me? I’m only going to stay for a week, but I really want to talk to you. I want to explain,” pleads my father.
The garden doors creak open again, and in walk my grandfather and Aunt Elizabeth. They’re dressed in linen and carrying Mrs. Clay in a Nantucket basket.
“Hello!” my grandfather says cheerfully. “This is quite the scene. We were just stopping by to see what everyone is up to for the day.”
I check the time on my phone and cannot believe it’s only nine. I’m due at the club in thirty minutes. There’s been more drama in this one morning than I experienced in the last two years combined.
My grandfather notices Thomas, who is slowly becoming reanimated.
“Oh, and look who it is! This must be the famous Thomas Wentworth.” He places an arm around his shoulders and guides him toward Lottie’s bench.
“Say, why don’t you tell me about this company of yours.
I’m looking for a good investment opportunity. ”
Thomas looks like he’s been suddenly zapped onto an alien planet where nothing follows the rules of gravity.
I force myself to stifle the laugh that is bubbling up.
This is one of my grandfather’s favorite pastimes.
He loves to ask about “investment opportunities,” when in reality, the only thing he can afford to invest in is a good haircut and a trip to the tanning beds.
I can’t tell if he’s living in delusion or purposefully being deceitful.
He hasn’t had “investment money” since the eighties.
Aunt Elizabeth beelines to my father. “Do my arms look bumpy to you?” she asks.
My father is looking at Thomas and my grandfather, distracted. “Hmm?”
“I think the rental we’re staying in has bedbugs. I woke up last night with a terrible, itchy sensation and now I have these little red bumps.” She lifts the sleeve of her button-down and shows him. The skin looks red but not bumpy.
“It just looks like your skin is irritated from you scratching,” says my father, still looking at the bench.
I take advantage of the momentary distraction to slip out.
When my father notices I’m leaving, he stares after me. There’s a slightly desperate, wild look in his eyes.
“Later,” I mouth to him with no intention of following through. He just nods, looking defeated, as Elizabeth continues to talk.