"I’ll order pizza," I say as I get up to get my phone.
I walk into my room and find my phone already lit and buzzing with an incoming call—Kat.Great. I stare at it, waiting. When it finally stops ringing, I see I have eight missed calls from her. Eight? (Not counting the ones I ignored earlier.) Fuck. Me. I’m in deep shit.
I contemplate for a second and hit the callback option. Let’s get this over with.
I’m greeted with, "Where the fuck are you?"
Yup, she’s pissed.
"I’m not coming."
"You better be joking!Everyoneis here. Do you have any idea how that makes me look? Get your ass in your car and—"
"No!" She needs a serious attitude adjustment, and it’s my own fault for staying with her for so long.
"Excuse me?" I can hear the disbelief in her voice. I don’t think I’veevertold her no.
"You heard me. NO! I’m busy." I hang up.
When I turn, Lilly stands in the doorway. "You need to go?"
But instead of her being angry, or disappointed, or even relieved, there is nothing. It’s like a switch was flipped; she went from beingmyLilly to someone I don’t even recognize. A cold shiver runs down my spine.
"Nope, all good," I say with false cheer. I know she heard the exchange. "Ordering pizza now."
"You can go." This time I can hear a hint of panic in her voice.
"Calla, I am exactly where I want to be. I’m not going anywhere. You still eat pepperoni and sausage?"
She nods, and I grin brightly. "Cool. Let me make the call, and I’ll be right back."
The pizza arrivesforty-five minutes later, and we’re sitting on the floor in her room, eating, when she peers at me through her lashes. "What were my parents like?"
I finish chewing to buy myself time.
"Emily was a writer. I don’t remember for what, though. We could probably find that out. Mom knew her since kindergarten, I think. I’m not sure where she met Henry. I think they were married for a few years before you were born—or at least together for a few years. He was an architect—traveled a lot." Those are all facts, not really what she asked for, so I add, "They were nice. I liked them. Henry was awesome. He always played with us when he was around, instead of hanging out with the other adults."
I purposefully don’t call Emily and Henry her mom and dad. In my mind, my parents areherparents. They have raised her for most of her life and made sure she was safe as well as loved. To me, that’s what constitutes them as Lilly’s parents, not the blood relation.
Lilly squeezes her lips together for a moment, contemplating something. "What was I like?"
I smirk, remembering. "You were…you—always on the go; still are. You were sweet and funny. We lived close by, so there were a lot of barbecues and shit. You were somewhat of a tomboy. When you were five, you beat me up with a stick."
She looks up with a shocked expression. "Nuh-uh!"
I burst out laughing at her face. "We were playing pirates in the yard, and you refused to be the damsel in distress. You took my sword"—I make air quotes around the word sword—"and started hitting me with it, yelling I can be the girl."
Lilly barks out a laugh, and it feels so good to hear that sound coming from her. It’s the first genuine expression she’s shown all evening. Then, all the color drains from her face. "Why don’t I remember that?"
Why indeed?
That memory is not related to the incident or her parents. "I don’t know."
I sound just as defeated as she does.
We sitand talk for a long time. I tell her more stories from our childhood. We look at some of the pictures in the photo album, and I remember other things about her parents: places we went to, family outings we had. Some things she remembers, others she doesn’t. Eventually, Lilly’s face grows somber, and she stares off into space. She is starting to withdraw, so I suggest that we watch more news videos. Not that this topic is any better, but once she retreats into her head, I can’t get her back out for a while.
We just finished another video, and I say, "That one didn’t have any new information." When she doesn’t respond, I turn and see that she has fallen asleep, leaning against her throw pillows.