Chapter 14 - Lilyville
When I arrived at Apartment 4B the next afternoon, Lily was at the kitchen table making what appeared to be a cardboard city.
Shoeboxes had become apartment buildings.
Colored paper formed awnings over imaginary storefronts.
Toothpicks held tiny signs in place.
Sarah stood near the stove stirring soup.
“You’re early,” she said.
“You said normal human hours.”
“I meant after five.”
“It’s four forty.”
“You’ve exploited a technicality.”
“Business skill.”
Lily looked up.
“Mr. Hale, my city needs a hospital.”
I took off my coat.
“Most cities do.”
“Where should I put it?”
I studied the arrangement.
There was a library beside a park, a bakery next to an apartment tower, and what seemed to be a school surrounded by green construction paper.
“Somewhere people can get to easily.”
She thought about that.
“Near the bus stop?”
“That seems smart.”
She moved a white box beside a small paper bench.
Sarah watched us, her expression softer than usual.
Then she nodded toward the bedroom.
“The letter is in there.”
I followed her.
The room was small and neat.
A narrow bed sat beneath the window.
Beside it was a dresser covered with folded fabric and a framed photograph of Sarah, Lily, and an older woman I assumed was Evelyn.
On the bed lay a cream-colored envelope.
My father’s name was written across the front.
Thomas Hale.
I hadn’t seen that name written by my mother in decades.
I sat down slowly.
Sarah remained near the doorway.
“I can leave you alone.”
“No.”
She hesitated.
“You’re sure?”
“I think I’ve spent enough years alone with the version of this story I invented.”
She came farther into the room and sat in a wooden chair.
I picked up the envelope.
The flap lifted easily.
Inside were two sheets of paper.
The handwriting was my mother’s.
Thomas,
Evelyn says I should send this. I’m not sure she’s right.
You’ve written three times asking about Nathan. I haven’t answered because every answer feels wrong.
He is angry with you.
I paused.
Sarah said nothing.
I continued.
He thinks you chose to leave.
I have let him think that because the truth felt too complicated for a boy, and because I was angry too.
That sentence hurt more than I expected.
My mother had let me believe it.
May you like
Not because she hated my father.
Because she had been angry.
