HLS No. 46: Lily's Place

From River West, a tale of two lives

We are born bristling with possibilities, and the rest of life is largely a process of pruning: our choices cut off options that otherwise might have been. Or, just as often, circumstances do the cutting for us and we merely endure.

Imagine, if you care to, some of the pieces—good or bad—that will never be part of your timeline. And then ask yourself: Where did they go?

Ceylon Girl with Long Hair (detail), c. 1880, photographer unknown

The library is bigger when she’s supposed to be asleep. The shining parquet floor rolls away forever without reaching the walls, and the ceiling seems raised so high she has to crane her neck to see it. She wants to put out her arms and spin like she sees the girls do on the grass at the village school, but she doesn’t quite dare. Not quite.

The lights are burning, and the French windows are open; the green curtains that she likes to hide in blow a little in the breeze. Her uncle must have stepped out for more whiskey, or to look at the stars. He loves to read but he can’t read for long at any one time, not without looking up to talk or scoring a line under something in his book.

She walks, putting one foot in front of another in a perfect line, toe first, then heel, as she has learned at dancing lessons.

A sound disturbs her and she spins, sees the lights and the curtains and the gilt-stamped book spines all in one blur. When she stops, she sees a little girl.

“Who are you?” the girl asks. She has brown skin and long, bristling, tawny hair, and she is wearing a white dress that pools around her feet and bags around her shoulders. It is tied around her waist with twine.

“Lily.”

The strange girl frowns.

“But I’m Lily. You can’t be.”