The morning of her departure, all the adults pretended as if it were completely normal for Lily to be leaving with her aunt and uncle in the middle of the New Year festival. The children’s questions were shushed, and they were herded away into the living room to look out the window for the waiting taxi.
Lily’s mother thrust a paper bag full of steamed buns into her hands. They were still warm, and Lily realized her mother must have just run out to buy them. “Don’t forget to eat,” her mother said stiffly.
Lily’s father carried her suitcase down the stairs and put it into the trunk beside Aunt Judy’s and Uncle Francis’s luggage. On the sidewalk, he placed his hands on Lily’s shoulders and looked her in the eye, finally, and said, “Listen to your aunt and uncle. Call us when you get there.”
Lily turned away first, angry with herself for wanting to cry.
The taxi ride to the train station was a blur. They crossed the Bay Bridge on the lower deck, heading toward Oakland, and the bay whipped past through the steel girders—water and boats and tiny crested waves. It made her queasy. She rolled down the window to catch the breeze, but it smelled of a noxious combination of exhaust and seawater. She closed her eyes and wished she was going in the other direction.
The train station was smaller than she had expected, but still confusing, with countless people rushing around with their suitcases and tickets clutched in their hands. She was embarrassingly grateful to have her aunt and uncle to guide her in the right direction. Uncle Francis lit a cigarette while they waited and paced, smoking; Aunt Judy sat on a bench beside Lily, studying the train schedule. When their train was announced, Aunt Judy jumped up and Uncle Francis put out his cigarette, and Lily followed them down the platform and onto the train. Aunt Judy gestured for Lily to take the seat by the window.
Lily had tossed a random novel from her bedside stack into her bag when she packed yesterday. She hadn’t even glanced at it then, but now she pulled it out and saw that it was The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury. Aunt Judy had given it to her. She opened it, but she couldn’t focus on the words. She felt as if her mind had been turned off, and all this was happening to someone who looked like her but couldn’t possibly be her.
After the train started moving, and after the conductor came through to check their tickets, Uncle Francis went to the lounge car for a coffee. Once they were alone, Aunt Judy turned to Lily.
“I know I’m not your favorite person right now, but I need to tell you something,” she said. “Please listen.”
Lily didn’t speak, but she closed her book.
“I really am trying to do what’s best for you,” Aunt Judy said.
She put her hand on Lily’s arm, and Lily tried not to stiffen in response. Her aunt’s thin gold wedding ring glinted in the light from the window.
“I know it feels like the end of the world now, but it’s not,” Aunt Judy continued. “In a few months you’ll graduate from high school, and your whole life will be ahead of you.”
My life is right now, Lily wanted to retort, and she raised her gaze to her aunt’s face to say it, and was stopped short by the expression there. A pleading look, straightforward and earnest. The bright bubble of tears in her eyes.
“I don’t understand what you’ve been going through,” Aunt Judy said, “but you’ll just have to put up with me until I do understand.”
Aunt Judy squeezed Lily’s arm, and then she let go. Lily nodded slightly, just enough for Aunt Judy to notice, and it felt like wrenching a door open the tiniest crack. It was all she could do just then, and she had to turn away to look out the window to avoid seeing the hope on her aunt’s face.
Lily watched the city of Oakland roll by, brick buildings and chimney stacks and the chrome glint of crawling traffic. She wondered where Kath was. She wondered if Kath could sense her, sitting here on this train as it took her away. Perhaps it was possible, if she closed her eyes and sent out her thoughts along the steel track like a message along a telegraph wire.
I love you. I love you.
The train swayed gently beneath her, and she leaned against the window to feel the cool glass against her cheek, and she was sure that Kath had heard her, she was sure.
* * *
—
Later, Uncle Francis returned with a newspaper that he split with Aunt Judy. Lily kept her book closed on her lap as she gazed out the window. After Oakland, they passed through suburbs and small towns, and then there was a flash of water—the end of San Francisco Bay, glittering beneath the cloud-scudded sky. The train stopped for a while in San Jose, just long enough for the passengers to stand and stretch and think about dashing into the station, and then it continued onward.
Lily pulled out the bag of steamed buns her mother had given her and shared it with her aunt and uncle. Lily raised one to her mouth and took a bite, and the taste jolted her: the caramelized edges of the meat, the fluffy softness of the bun, the savory-sweetness where the sauce had soaked, jamlike, into the dough.
Rounded green hills dotted with live oaks went by, and all of a sudden the clouds that had been dogging them since San Francisco were gone, and the sky was robin’s-egg blue. A hawk soared overhead, riding a draft of wind on widespread wings.
Lily realized she had never been this far from San Francisco before, and a fleeting thrill went through her. This was the world.
One Year Later
EPILOGUE
It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, and Vesuvio’s was mostly empty. Lily looked past the long wooden bar with its few patrons, past the colorful paintings hanging from the upper walls, and toward the rear of the room. A row of small tables with cane-back chairs lined the wall across from the bar, and there at the end, in a shadowy corner, she saw her.