A chair moved.
“Okay.”
I closed my eyes.
“Lily is alive.”
Silence.
Then my mother whispered:
“Claire.”
“I saw her.”
“Sweetheart, grief—”
“She knew about the moon.”
Another silence.
“She knew about the bowl.”
“She knew things nobody else knows.”
I heard my father take the phone.
His voice shook.
“What do you need from us?”
That nearly destroyed me.
Not:
Are you sure?
Not:
Where is she?
Not even:
How?
What do you need?
“I don’t know.”
“Then we’ll start there.”
Two days later, I took them to Lily’s apartment.
My mother stopped in the doorway.
Lily stood by the window.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then Mom crossed the room.
“My baby.”
Lily stiffened.
Then collapsed against her.
My father remained near the door crying silently.
When Lily looked over, he managed:
“Hey, kiddo.”
She broke again.
I stood apart.
I loved Lily.
I was furious with Lily.
