Tin Lily Read Free

my girl. Now tell me what ’ s wrong.”
    “There ’ s a field-trip to the zoo today.”
    Mom nods, understands right away. “You don ’ t want to stay in the library with the other kids not going?”
    I shake my head. “Please don ’ t make me. ”
    She smiles big. “We ’ ll both stay home.”
    “But work—”
    “That ’ s what sick days are for, sweet pea.”
    She leaves to tell my father we ’ re playing hooky and I snuggle under my covers, thinking how lucky I am to have a mom who understands I can ’ t go to a place where they ’ ve put wild animals in small cages. She understands I can ’ t see the defeat in their eyes and not cry for weeks after. She gets it.
    There’s soft talking down the hall and then Dad ’ s here. “Don ’ t wanna go to school today, huh, kiddo?”
    I shake my head and pull the covers to my chin.
    “Well, I guess that ’ s all right then. You and Mom have a good day, yeah?”
    Dad doesn ’ t make a fuss because he’s still sorry about all the beers he drank the night before. He ’ s always sorry in the morning. I reach up, touch his name embroidered on his blue uniform shirt: Hank. “ Thanks, Dad. ”
    He gives my hair a ruffle, kisses Mom and leaves.
    We spend the day making chocolate chip cookies and watching my favorite movie. We snuggle on the couch and talk about everything except the zoo. It is one of the best days of my life.
     

 
Three
     
    The night is quiet in this hospital. Someone (cop? social worker? nurse?) sits next to my bed, only looking up from her magazine when I shift. I don’t sleep. I focus on the ceiling tiles and count the holes. My focus: counting. So far 1,039.
    I’m at 10,952 and the darkness outside my window is gone when a cop walks in and magazine lady walks out.
    His nametag says Newbold, but he wants to be called Officer Archie.
    “Do you remember me, kiddo?”
    There’s nothing in me that wants to answer, so I don’t.
    “I was there last night. I understand if you don’t remember.”
    He sits in a chair next to this hospital bed. Not my bed. My bed doesn’t have a switch to make it raise up, or a blue blanket with a million little waffle patterns, or a worn-out button with the picture of a nurse.
    Officer Archie wants to know what happened, but I don’t have the words to say.
    He smiles and pats my arm. “How about I say what we suspect happened and you let me know if we’ve got it right?”
    Nod.
    Officer Archie opens a little notebook, flips a few pages over and gets down to business. “Now, as far as we can tell, Henry Berkenshire, 38, came to 2119 Oak Street—the house where you reside with your mother, Rachel Berkenshire, also 38—at approximately 6:45 PM last night.” He looks up at me. “Is this correct, Lily?”
    I stare at him awhile. I keep quiet.
    He looks back down. “It appears your mother let your father in.” He glances at me again, but doesn't ask me to say if he’s right. His voice doesn’t accuse, doesn’t say it was Mom’s fault. Just the facts, ma’am. “Your father then entered the residence, fired off four shots in the kitchen area, presumably chasing Mrs. Berkenshire, finally ending his pursuit in the living room, where he shot—”
    I flinch.
    Officer Archie doesn’t finish his sentence, doesn’t need to. He closes his notebook and sits back with his arms crossed. His mouth is hard. His eyes are soft.
    They don’t know Hank’s kitchen bullets were for me.
    “Is this what happened, Lily?”
    I decide it is and nod.
    “Okay, thank you, young lady.” Officer Archie takes a deep breath and leans forward. In his eyes I see he’s done this a lot, this recounting of the worst kind of awful. There’s weariness and sadness and awkwardness. “I understand your parents were separated.”
    Nod.
    “And your father is an alcoholic?”
    I watch Officer Archie closely, wonder how he knows.
    “We’ve been in touch with your mother’s friends. At her place of work.”
    I don’t say