Read Online Nearer Than the Sky by T. Greenwood - Free Book Online Page B

walls, even in the darkness, were bright, reflecting the street lamp outside. The sheets were crisp to the point of being uncomfortable. I imagined Lily spraying them with starch and ironing them stiff and flat. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the noises of this house. I missed the sound of the woods. The sound of Peter breathing and the smell of a fire burning in the next room. Above me, the ceiling fan spun the stagnant air. And beyond that, I could hear the whirring of the dishwasher, the whirring of the air conditioner, the whirring of their hushed voices indistinguishable from the voices on the TV. I fell asleep listening to the sound of oxygen being forced into Violet’s lungs.
     
    I woke up in the middle of the night to a familiar sound. It sounded like branches tapping against the windows of the cabin during a storm. I reached first for Peter and then, remembering where I wasn’t, sat up disoriented and blinked my eyes until they focused in the dark room. The sound was coming from outside, but there were no trees in Lily’s yard. There was only a cactus, and gravel scattered to fill the spaces where grass should be.
    I got out of bed, covered my shoulders with a blanket, and walked down the hallway. The thick carpeting on the stairs was soft on my feet, different from the cold wooden floors of the cabin. But at least the floors at home were solid. I felt as if I might sink into the carpet here, that I might easily be swallowed in the creamy pile.
    There was a soft light coming from the living room. I thought Lily might be feeding Violet, that I might be intruding. I was afraid I might have stumbled into that hour of night when Lily and her baby were the only ones awake in the house. It was difficult to imagine Lily cradling Violet in her arms, though. Even in pregnancy Lily had lacked that certain indescribable quality I have always equated with motherhood (the slight blush of a cheek, the certain swell and softness of the body). Leigh Moony’s face was already beginning to turn that particular shade of blush, even just a couple of months into her pregnancy. Her bones were not so angular anymore. But Lily had retained her pale cold skin and sharp angles throughout. I saw her once in the early months when I came out for one of Ma’s false alarms. Then later, after Violet was born and Lily brought her to Maine. By then the small swell of her breasts had already disappeared; she’d let her milk dry up, opting for the cans of formula and clean glass bottles instead. I had noticed after dinner that her dish rack was full of sterilized glass bottles and rubber nipples.
    Lily wasn’t in the living room, and Violet was silent in the crib. I peeked at her and watched her for several moments, looking for some indication that she was still breathing, for the faint rise and fall of her chest.
    There was a light on outside, illuminating the back patio. Beyond the reflections the light in the living room made on the sliding glass door, I could see the faint outline of Lily’s patio furniture. White wicker chairs and a glass-topped table.
    I glanced at Violet and then slid the door open slowly. A rush of warm air hit my face. It had to have been thirty degrees warmer outside than it was in the house. It felt like going inside the cabin after sledding or skiing on a winter afternoon in Maine. At first I didn’t see Lily, and thought that maybe she had just left the light on to ward off burglars. Maybe she was in the kitchen fixing a bottle or some warm milk for herself. Then I heard that scraping, brushing sound again and saw a flash of Lily’s hair. What I hadn’t noticed until now were the tumbleweeds, a virtual forest of mangled branches. The entire backyard was littered with them, some as tall as Lily. I could hear her grunting as she pulled them apart, cutting them with a pair of hedge clippers. From the patio I watched her fighting the tumbleweeds as if she were in the jungle instead of her own backyard. My