Mrs. Jameson pulls Star into an embrace.
“You have a lovely home,” Star says.
“Oh, this old thing…” Mrs. Jameson says, but her cheeks flush and I can tell she’s pleased.
She motions for us to follow her and I see that there’s a wheelchair ramp that leads to the kitchen door and I’m grateful. “For Lilly’s chair,” she explains.
Right. The chair she needs because I drove drunk.
She lets us inside and Star looks around the kitchen. She stares at the pictures on the walls and stops at one of me and Lilly. “Is this you?” she asks over her shoulder.
“Yes.” That’s me. Before I did what I did and had to pay the consequences. Before the chair. Before Lilly’s injury. Before my life changed.
“You were a skinny boy,” Star says with a laugh.
“All arms and legs, that one.” Mrs. Jameson waves a hand at me. “Always was.” She touches the top of my head and I stiffen, because the contact is so foreign.
“May I use your bathroom, Mrs. Jameson?” Star asks.
Mrs. Jameson leads her down the hallway and then bustles back into the room. She stops in front of me. “Josh,” she says, and I immediately stiffen. It’s the same tone she used before she gave me and Lilly the condom talk. And the same voice she gave us when she wanted to be really serious. “I’m disappointed in you.”
My gut twists. “I know.” I look down at the floor. I think about it every day, what I did.
“You shouldn’t have returned the letters. You should have read them.”
I startle. “What letters?”
“The letters I gave to your mother. She sent them with your care packages, but you sent the letters from Lilly back every time. I don’t know how you could have done such a thing.”
I never got any letters. “You sent letters?”
Her eyes narrow at me. “Every month. Every holiday. Birthday cards. You didn’t get any of them?” Suddenly, the realization hits her. “She didn’t send them to you, did she?”
I shake my head.
“Your mother always was a strange bird,” she says. She heaves a sigh.
“That’s one way to put it.” I scratch my nose. “I never got any care packages. Or letters. Or anything. I haven’t heard from my parents since they sent me away. I haven’t heard from anyone at home until you called me.”
She taps her finger on the table. “Then I’m glad I finally found you.”
“You sent me letters? Really?”
“Your mother said she sent you care packages every month. I suppose she lied about that too.”
“Too?”
She blows out a heavy breath. “Never mind.”
“How is Lilly?” I ask.
“Lilly is happy,” she says. She covers her hand with mine. “I know you think you ruined her life, and I probably thought that a time or two myself, but it’s not true. Lilly is who she is. We play the cards we’re dealt. It’s about all that we can do.” Her eyes stray to my chair. “Are you all right?” she asks. “Truly?”
I nod. “I have a good job. Wonderful friends. My life is finally on the right track.”
“And Star?” she asks, her eyes twinkling at me.
“And Star,” I say. I don’t go any deeper than that, because I have no idea yet what Star is to me.
“Lilly has a boyfriend too,” she says. She laughs. “She met him at her day program. She’s in love.” Tears well up in her eyes. “I never thought I’d say this, but he’s perfect for her.” She covers my hand with hers. “If she can’t marry you, he’ll do. You always were my favorite. Still are.” She pushes a plate of cookies toward me. I wave them away. “Lilly’s in her room. Go and say hello.” She nods her head in that direction. “I’ll keep Star company.”
I sit for a long moment, prolonging the inevitable.
“Go,” she says sharply. “Now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I smile at her, but inside my gut is roiling.
I know exactly where Lilly’s room is. I roll in that direction, and stop in her open doorway. I knock softly. Lilly looks up from where she’s working at an easel, and she smiles at me, and she looks so much like sixteen-year-old Lilly did that my heart does a somersault. I don’t know what I expected, but it’s like time has stood still.
“Hey Lilly,” I say.
Her arms flail and she makes some grunting noises. I take it as an invitation, even though I’m not sure what it is. I roll over toward her and she leans in my direction. She points with her crooked finger at her lips.
Lilly used to have this thing she did every time she saw me. She would point at her lips and then wait for me to kiss her. She’s doing it now, and she’s looking at me and waiting, blinking her green eyes. I don’t know what to do. I look toward the doorway, hoping someone will be there to guide me. But no one is. She points to her lips again and I roll closer. I touch my lips to hers quickly, and she sits back and smiles at me. She holds up a picture she was drawing. Lilly always did love art.
“What are you working on?” I ask her.
She smiles her crooked smile at me and I have to tear my eyes away to look at the paper.
“Wow, look at that. This is really good, Lilly,” I tell her. And it is. It’s an abstract painting with vibrant colors and mismatched shapes that somehow go together.