Page 58 of Exquisite Things
“Did he—” I don’t want to ask the question.
“He never laid a hand on me.” She knew precisely what I wasgoing to ask. “He was more destructive to himself than anyone else. And I suppose he brought me down with him. Lots of drinking. Eventually, the drugs killed him. Which saved me, I suppose. Nothing like burying the man you watched overdose to shock you into sobriety.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She pushes my chin up. “No boo-hoo backstories, remember?”
“Yeah, but still...”
I realize something about Lily. She sees all that’s wrong with the world. Doesn’t ignore it. But she refuses to let the awfulness define her. I think it’s her knowledge of the brutality around us that makes her work so hard to provide light.
I don’t leave a classified ad for Oliver right away. I decide to wait two more weeks. The first day of spring feels like a symbolic day to summon him. That’s what this feels like. A summoning of the past into what is now my present. I race out the door to place an ad in the newspaper.
“Where you going, Bram?” Lily calls to me from the living room. She’s sitting on the floor. Cutting fabric rolls into manageable pieces. “Come here.”
I enter sheepishly. “I—” I’ve already gotten her permission to invite Oliver for a “holiday.” But telling her about our covert way of communicating with each other through newspapers would invite too many questions.
“Happy New Year.” She looks up from her fabrics. A warm smile on her face.
“What’s that?”
“It’s your new year, isn’t it? Nowruz. First day of spring.”
“That’s right. It is.” It’s been so long since I’ve been around anyof my own people. So long since I’ve celebrated Nowruz properly. The last time must have been before my father sent me off to London for boarding school. Lifetimes ago.
“Nowruz means new day, right?” She knows she’s right. She’s done her research. “Thought this could be a new day for us too. You didn’t have plans, did you?”
“I— No, not really. Where are we going? Out for kabobs?”
“Nothing says new day like kabob.” She laughs. “You’ll see.”
What I see soon enough is this: Lily leading me to the South Bank. Down to the Thames. Lily tells me she’d like to be cremated and scattered into the river someday.
“I don’t like thinking about you dying.”
“Then don’t.” She takes my hand. “Think about me floating for eternity. I love water. I’ll be happy here.”
“Is it because it reminds you of Jamaica?”
“You think this filthy river reminds me of Jamaica?” She puts a hand in the dirty water. “You never had a mother, did you?”
I shake my head.
“I was thinking. What if I baptize you here? With the water from this city we call home.”
“Baptize me?” I don’t think of Lily as particularly religious.
“Maybe it’s a silly idea. I just thought it would mean something. Like a wedding symbolizes a union. This can too. My commitment to you. To be a mother to you.”
“And mine. To be a son to you.” I smile. “It’s not a silly idea. It’s a beautiful one.”
She nods. Takes my hands in hers. “In the name of Donna Summer, Grace Jones, and Oscar Wilde, I now baptize you as my son.”
I don’t know why she chose Oscar Wilde of all people. Perhaps,like Donna and Grace, she thinks of him as some kind of patron saint.
She bends down. Cups some water into her right hand. Sprinkles it onto my face with her left. The filthy water feels like it cleanses me. I do feel reborn as she declares me: “Bram Summers of the Brixton Summers.”
“I love you, Lily.”
