Chapter Eighty-Six Lillian
Chapter Eighty-Six
Lillian
Lillian sat on her front porch and pulled the blanket around her waist a little tighter. It would be Thanksgiving soon, too cold to sit out here in the afternoons. She’d have to take a break until the warm weather returned in the spring.
It had been lovely today, at the cemetery with the kids. A nice outing. They’d had cookies at her house afterward, where she told them stories about George Washington’s dogs.
She was about to rise from her chair and go inside when her arms and legs began to tingle.
“Walter . . . I feel . . . funny,” she called to her dead husband.
She tried to move her leg . . . but she couldn’t . . . because it had gone numb . . .
Then she began to sweat, profusely.
This didn’t make sense. It was autumn, and chilly out here.
She suddenly felt as weak as a newborn kitten. She slipped from her chair and crumpled to the floor.
An excruciating pain flashed through her skull. She squeezed her eyes shut against the late-afternoon sunlight.
Then she heard voices coming from next door.
Help me! she cried out over and over again. I’m right here. Help me!
But she couldn’t make her lips move. Couldn’t push the words out.
Voices again. In the yard. Next door.
“Hey, kids, I’ve got a treat for you.”
A man’s voice.
Her heart hammered inside her rebellious body. Who was this man talking to the kids? Where was Kiersten? And Piper and Rosamund? Where were the mothers?
“A few weeks ago your moms asked if I could give you a tour of the new house we’re building.
Unfortunately it wasn’t safe then, with all the work going on.
But we’ve hit a lull in the building process while we wait for the windows to come in.
So you guys can come over now and learn all about construction work. ”
Now she remembered. This was why she was sitting outside. The mothers were just down the street. At Aspen’s house. She was supposed to keep an eye on things. Protect them. Keep them safe.
“We can go inside?” a little boy asked. Her heart softened. Little Johnny. So much like her youngest son. George. Curious George. Remember those books, about a monkey and a man in a yellow hat . . .
Stop it, Lillian. Listen.
Her mind felt clumsy . . . like a boat. A big boat . . . in the water . . . unwieldy . . . Walter, help me turn it. Help me turn the boat so I can listen . . .
“That’s right,” the man said. “I’ll meet you there in ten minutes. Just go inside and wait. I’ve got the architectural plans so you guys can see what it’ll look like when it’s all done.”
No. No. No. Don’t leave the yard. Don’t do it.
The boat started to turn again . . . to drift in another direction . . .
Help me, Walter. Help me warn them . . .
Tears of frustration rolled down her cheeks as she whimpered and tried again and again to cry out, to push the words out of her mind and into her throat, through her mouth, into the open air.
But she couldn’t.
The boat turned again . . . and turned again . . . swirling under the sky-blue sky . . .