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Clementine stayed silent as Lily loaded her dish and fork into the dishwasher and disappeared upstairs. She left the rest of her fish untouched, wondering why she felt so bad inside, when Lily seemed mostly okay about giving up George and Gracie. Lily wasn’t the type for drama, though. She didn’t throw fits or cry or demand attention. Clementine remembered back to when Lily was three years old, racing around the living room with Digger, who was a basset hound with big feet, so when he’d jumped on Lily’s back she’d gone flying into the coffee table face-first, banging her head as she went down. When Clementine rushed over, Lily just stood up, blood streaming down her forehead, and giggled as Digger had gone for the blood, trying to lick her face. Lily had ended up needing five stitches, which she patiently sat through, her little hands clenched into fists as the doctor gave her a shot to numb her. She still had a faint, pale scar at her hairline.
“I can’t believe that didn’t hurt,” Clementine had said, giving her a kiss.
“It did hurt.” Lily’s voice had sounded tiny and sure.
That was the moment Clementine had learned that Lily felt the same pain as everyone else—she just kept it to herself.
After Clementine cleaned up the dinner dishes, she went upstairs and walked past Lily’s door, where she could see the faint yellow glow of her reading lamp from the gap. She paused, ready to knock, but then changed her mind. The house was so quiet it seemed almost obscene to make a knocking sound.
The house was just so damn quiet.
Clementine took a shower, and something about all that warm water got to her, and the tears started. Before she knew it, Clementine was full-blown crying in the shower, all the while chastising herself for not even being as brave as a three-year-old getting stitches. Once all the tears and snot were washed away, Clementine dried off, brushed her teeth and got in her jammies. The bed felt colder than usual as she crawled in, so she put on the TV and hunted around for George Burns and Gracie Allen. It wasn’t on, just some reruns ofThe Andy Griffith Show, so Clementine pulled out her journal.
Dear Ty,
I’m mad at you for dying.
That is all.
Love,
Clem
