Tin Lily Read Online Free Page A

could smell what was for dinner ten years before. I remember Grandpa Henry sick in bed, a nurse sitting at the kitchen table, her bags packed. Dad was always having to find new nurses for Grandpa Henry. He didn’t treat people too well. Never even talked to me while I was there. Not once.
    “Grandpa Henry had an estate?”
    Margie laughs. Not a good laugh—a twisted, angry laugh. “The old man had a lot of money and the company was worth a fortune.”
    “He didn’t leave it to you and Hank?”
    She shakes her head. “Not a cent. I think it may be why your dad did what he did, as much as you can name a reason. I had a call from Grandpa Henry’s lawyer before I left Seattle. Hank insisted on a reading of the will hours after Grandpa Henry died. I think he thought—”
    “Wait.” I hold up my hand to stop her talking.
    I take a minute to let her words sink in—the words about Hank coming because Grandpa Henry left him nothing, the words that tell me why. I hear a buzzing and bat at my ear. There’s nothing to bat. It feels like a bee’s climbed right inside my head and is knocking around in there like it’s confused or drunk. “Hank came with his gun because Grandpa Henry didn’t leave him any money?”
    “I think so,” Margie says, but her voice is far away now.
    “What did Grandpa Henry do with his money?”
    Margie shakes her head. “That’s enough for now, kiddo. You’re pale as a ghost.” She puts one hand to my cheek. Does she feel me buzzing? All these bees under my skin, thrumming inside my head, filling me up with nothing.
    I disappear for a little while. I go where it’s quiet.

 
     
Seven
     
    “Lily?”
    I blink hard and look around the hotel room, then back to Margie. “Yes?”
    “Where’d you go?”
    “Nowhere.”
    There’s fear in Margie’s eyes. “I’ve been calling you. You checked out.”
    I look at the clock sitting on the crammed-in-the-corner desk. I don’t know what time it was before, so it doesn’t help. “How long?”
    “Oh, not long—a minute or two.”
    “Did I fall asleep?”
    Margie shakes her head and squeezes my hand. “No, kiddo. Your eyes were open.”
    “Okay.”
    “Do you remember anything?”
    “Just talking about Grandpa Henry’s money is all. And the bees.”
    “Bees?”
    “Like in a hive. I thought we had one in here.”
    “You heard or saw them?”
    “Heard. The buzzing was soft for a little while and then it got loud and then it was quiet.”
    “All right. Do you hear them now?”
    “No.”
    We look at each other. Margie’s eyes tell me she’s scared of what happened. I don’t remember. I can’t help her not be afraid.

 
     
Eight
     
    We’re sitting, not eating dinner at the hotel restaurant—grilled cheese for me, salmon for Margie. My bread is white, the cheese is yellow. The yellow reminds me of the daisies Mom used to bring home sometimes. Daisies sitting in a vase like there was no awful coming. Just sitting, sucking up water, waiting until the little life left in their stems and petals petered out. Daisies and melted cheese, both dead and waiting. My focus: the bread.
    I think it’s been three days, maybe three weeks. I’m not sure.
    “I need my books, Mom’s sweater, my rug,” I say.
    Margie pulls out her cell phone, presses a few buttons and talks for a minute.
    “Officer Archie says it’s okay. He’ll meet us there.”
    “Okay.”
    I reach inside my pocket. Empty. It’s where I keep my house key. I try to remember these aren’t my normal clothes. I try to remember this isn’t my normal life.
    I check my pocket again.
     
    *   *   *
     
    We drive to the west side of Salt Lake City. The dog food factory is going, spewing white steam and thick stink into the sky. I sniff my new T-shirt. No dog food smell. It’ll be there by the time we leave.
    Margie drives a rental car up to the curb out front. Mom’s car is in the driveway. I’m sitting with my hand half-raised toward the door handle and trying to