Chapter 4

I walked out of the school building, the sunlight so bright it made my eyes water.

I didn't want to go back to class, and I didn't want to go home.

I wandered aimlessly through the streets.

As I passed a stationery store, I stopped.

In the display window was a set of watercolors.

Exactly like the set my mom smashed last night.

I stood outside the window and watched for a long time.

It wasn't until dark that I turned and walked towards home.

The stairwell of our apartment complex always smelled of mildew.

The light had been broken for a long time; no one fixed it.

I climbed the three flights of stairs in the dark.

Just as I reached the third-floor landing, I heard an argument from upstairs.

"Are you crazy?! Knocking on doors in the middle of the night!"

It was a man's voice.

Unfamiliar.

My heart tightened, and I sped up, running to the fourth floor.

The door on the left on the fourth floor was open.

A man in a tank top, with tattooed arms, stood in the doorway, holding a baseball bat, his face furious.

My mom stood opposite him.

She was holding a stack of old newspapers.

Her hair was a mess, her eyes vacant.

"Where's Mr. Henderson?" my mom murmured, "I'm bringing Mr. Henderson his newspapers. Lily said Mr. Henderson likes to hear her read the newspapers."

"What Mr. Henderson! My name is Stone! I just moved in a month ago! If you knock on my door again, I'll break your legs!" The man waved the baseball bat in his hand.

I rushed forward and pulled my mom behind me.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I apologized repeatedly. "My mom isn't well, she got the wrong apartment. Please don't take it personally."

The man sized me up, then snorted.

"Keep your crazy people locked up! Don't let them out to scare people!"

With that, he slammed the door shut.

Silence returned to the stairwell.

I turned and looked at my mom.

She was still holding the stack of newspapers, staring blankly at the closed door.

"Mom," I tugged on her sleeve, "Let's go home."

"Where's Mr. Henderson?" She turned to me. "Where did Mr. Henderson go?"

"Mr. Henderson's son moved him out a year ago. This apartment was sold."

"Impossible." She shook her head. "Lily said yesterday she was going to read newspapers to Mr. Henderson. Lily doesn't lie."

My temper flared.

"Lily is dead!" I yelled at her. "She died three years ago! She can't read newspapers! Can you just snap out of it?!"

I snatched the newspapers from her hand and threw them hard on the ground.

The newspapers scattered everywhere.

They were dated three years ago.

My mom froze.

She looked at the newspapers on the floor, then slowly crouched down.

She began to pick them up, one by one.

The stairwell was dark; I couldn't see her expression.

But I could hear her suppressed sobs.

"Lily isn't dead," she said as she picked them up. "Lily is right here. She's just being naughty and hiding."

I looked at her hunched back, and tears suddenly streamed down my face.

I hated her.

I hated her for forcing me to pretend to be Lily, for smashing my paints, for making me a laughingstock at school.

But I also pitied her.

She was trapped in that summer three years ago, unable to move on.

I crouched down and helped her pick up the newspapers.

"Mom, let's go home," my voice softened.

She didn't speak, just clutched the newspapers tightly.