Page 9 of Stalked

We sat in silence for a beat. The weight of the conversation hung thickly in the air. I eagerly wanted to know everything my mom had said and what had transpired in that conversation to make Lily so angry.

Keeping my face blank, I watched her reach for the glass of wine that had been sitting on the table and sip slowly before she said, “Daniella wants me to put you on the list at the hospital.” She licked her lips. “Because she wants you to visit her.” She took a deep breath and gazed back into her wine glass, shaking her head. “But it doesn’t matter, Mercy. I’m not authorizing the hospital to let you go inside. It would completely erase everything you have done to heal these last three years.”

Lily’s eyes locked with mine. I could see the fear behind them. She quickly looked away, unaware I was on the verge of another panic attack.

I lowered my brow and exhaled slowly. “Lily, I’m not a child anymore,” I said, not believing the words that were about to leave my lips. “What if she wants to tell me she’s sorry? I should let her, right?” I could hear the doubt in my own voice, and the last time I had gone to see her, she was anything but apologetic. That day didn’t just affect me; it affected Lily, too.

Right after they incarcerated my mom, I sat down with her to get answers as to why she tried to kill me. Minutes of silence passed before I gathered enough courage to ask the question I desperately wanted an answer to. While my hands shook nervously in my lap, I asked my mother why she wanted me dead. Her eyes looked dull, and she twitched when I said the word ‘dead.’ Large bags hung under her eyes, and she stared at her cuffed hands in complete silence. I searched her face for any sign that it wasn’t my fault but found none on her emotionless face.

My mom showed me no compassion or empathy. Her silence proved that she didn’t care about me at all. That thought hurt me more than the feeling of a blade slicing my chest open.

I couldn’t tell if they had drugged her or if she had simply lost her mind. As she looked up, it felt like she was looking through me; I remember wondering if anything was happening inside her head. It was in that moment of thought that she came after me like a tiger attacking its prey, leaping over the table she was still chained to, and knocking over her chair. Somehow the chains of the cuffs snapped, and she freed herself. She lashed out at me, and all I could do was shield myself with my arms, so she didn’t cut my face with her sharp, unkempt nails. Her shrieks of rage and hatred filled the small room before the guards ran and grabbed her. Yanking her off me, they dragged her out of the room, where the asylum doctor quickly sedated her. I could still hear her shrieks fade as they carried her back to her cell.

Lily’s voice pulled me out of my memory. “Mercy, I’m begging you not to go.”

I leaned forward and reached out, placing my hands over hers for comfort.

“Please, Lily.”

There was a brief expression of doubt on her face before her words caught me off guard. “I’ll sleep on it,” she said.

That’s good enough for now.

I gave her an agreeable nod to settle her worries and let go of her hands. If I had to go through the courts, I would. Lily was hiding something else from that conversation, and I was determined to find out.

She took a deep breath and slowly released the air from her lungs. Lily looked exhausted and worn down as she lowered her head to her hands.

“As upset as I am at what your mother did, I miss how close we all used to be,” she said, then glanced up at me. “I miss the woman she used to be.”

Guilt tore through me then. I was so blind. Lily was hurting just as much as I was?—she had lost her only sister.

We all needed to focus on the good times we used to have as a family. Talking or even thinking about what my mom did only brought pain to both of us.

My favorite day with my mom was when the city dedicated a bench to my grandfather. My uncle Joel and his husband, Derek, had flown in from New York, and we were all together, laughing and crying while sharing memories of what a great man he had been.

I hummed, “Hey, do you still have that photo we took that last day together? The one in front of the bench?”

She sat there for a moment, and then her face lit up. “Scalloptown Park!”

I was fifteen years old. Two years after my grandfather passed away, the city installed a bench in his honor for all his service to our community. We had gone together for the unveiling and dedication.

“Yeah, it’s on my Facebook page, I think,” she said, while grabbing her phone and scrolling through her photo albums. “Ah. Here it is.” She brought her phone in front of us. We looked at the picture for a few seconds as if replaying the memory. “I’ll text it to you,” she said.

“Thank you.” I needed a reminder on my phone that we were all happy once. My phone made a small chime as a new message popped on the screen.

I opened the attached image, saving it in my picture gallery. My mom and I were sitting on that same bench with Lily, Joel, and Derek standing behind us. We had asked a jogger, who was passing by, to snap a quick photo.

My grandfather, William Winchester, was an important figure in our community. He was a city councilman and business owner who devoted his time and money to various projects around town. Before he got sick, he was about to expand his hotel chain nationwide. He was only married to my nana, Helen, ten years before she passed. Together they had three children, all a year apart from one another. The oldest was my uncle Joel, who lived in New York. Their second child was my mother, Daniella, and their youngest, my aunt Lily. After my grandfather died, they split the inheritance equally between the three of them. My mom took her share and set up a trust fund so that when I turned twenty-one, I would be able to access the money.

Lily opened her café a little over four years ago with her part of the inheritance. She had contemplated using the funds for traveling or opening a boutique. Ultimately, she decided a small café was what our town needed.

Joel, an artist, opened a gallery of the work he’d been creating since he was a kid. He painted abstract art, while Derek, a photographer, focused on real-life portraits, fromThe Barber on Main StreettoThe Prostitute on 22nd Avenue.Together, they incorporated their projects into works of art that drew national acclaim. They agreed that their spare room would be available for me to rent after I graduated from college until I found a more permanent place to live.

Even after everything that had happened, I wasn’t going to let this stop me from living my dreams. I would graduate with my friends from Brown University with a degree in marketing and, someday, open my own firm in New York.

Lily finished the last sip of her wine and placed the glass next to the sink.

“I need to open the café early tomorrow morning. Are you going to be alright hanging out alone, or do you plan to head into town?” she asked.

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