Christmas Eve, Adri found Lily stringing popcorn at the kitchen table, snow falling past the window behind her, looking forlorn. She stood in the doorway, watching her. She tried to picture how different life would look if she stayed—how this might be the next five Christmases, or ten.
“Hey, you wanna hang out tonight?” she asked. It wasn’t that she felt sorry for her, but that she liked Lily and wanted the company.
Lily looked up, surprised, and beamed. “I’d love it.”
They watched old movies. Adri fed the woodstove, and they both curled under the same big blanket.
“It’s a slumber party,” Lily declared, walking back and forth to get a soda, or a bowl of ice cream. She was too excited to sit still.
She made Adri open three Christmas presents early: two were little ceramics she’d painted at a craft class with Carol, and one was just a bundle of Christmas lights.
“You bought me Christmas lights for Christmas,” Adri said. She hadn’t gotten anything for Lily in return.
Lily looked at the lights for a moment and then held her hands out, palms up. “Well, it’s just nice to have something to unwrap, isn’t it?” She took the lights out of Adri’s hands and began to string them along the branches of the tree.
“I don’t know. So much plastic. Stuff like that is a waste.” She couldn’t stop herself.
“You should just say thank you, dummy.”
“You should be less wasteful,” Adri said dryly. But there was a knot in her throat, and they both sat in silence for a while.
“Adri, I love you even when you’re judging me,” Lily said and popped some more popcorn in her mouth.
Adri looked out the window, toward the shed. The word made her uncomfortable, and she didn’t know how Lily felt like she knew her enough to love her.
“I have an awkward question,” she finally said. Lily cocked her head inquisitively, then nibbled a kernel from where she’d placed it on her shoulder as a joke.
“What will really happen to Galapagos?”
“She’ll be fine here with me.”
“But . . . when you’re . . . not here anymore.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. I don’t know. I guess whoever took her from the wild should never have taken her in the first place, when you think about it in the long term.”
“Do you think she could ever go back to the wild?”
Lily gazed out the window, her eyebrows descending. “She’s a tough old thing. I’d take her somewhere and set her free if I had the courage . . . a wild animal should be wild. But she’s been in captivity almost her whole life.”
They both stared out the window at the tortoise, who’d poked her head out of the shed to gaze over the pasture.
“I think she’d make it, though.” Lily sighed. “She’ll outlive us all, just watch.”
“Lily? Do you think you’ll remember me? Like, as your dementia gets worse?”
Lily blinked at her. Her mouth turned down at the corners. “I don’t know. I wish I could promise you that I’ll remember you to the day I die. But I can’t. This getting old is the pits, Adri. I’m glad you don’t have to worry about it for a long, long time.”
Adri nodded. “Yeah.”
“Don’t fall asleep,” Lily finally said. “I don’t want this to end. If you fall asleep before me, I’ll write something on your forehead. Fart. Something like that.”
But after another twenty minutes it was Lily who was nodding off. At one point she startled awake, yawned and stretched, and said, “It’s a great feeling, isn’t it? When someone in the house stays awake after you?” And then she fell right back asleep.
Adri gazed around the room, at all the old books that had belonged to Lenore, to Beth, then to Catherine. She felt more lonely than she could ever remember feeling, and she didn’t know why. She was thinking about libraries, used gum, bus stops, red lights, convenience stores. All these things she’d never noticed, stupid things, even things she didn’t like. How she’d taken these things for granted, and she was never going to see them again. Dancers glided across the TV screen to old-fashioned music.
“Lily?” she whispered. Lily didn’t move. “Can I tell you something?” Lily breathed deeply, clearly asleep. “I think all my life my heart’s been broken,” Adri whispered, “and I didn’t even notice. And I don’t even know by what.”
It wasn’t because of any one thing—not losing parents she didn’t remember, not growing up in the group home—not the obvious things. It felt more like it had just come from being born, from time existing.
Lily pulled the blanket tighter up under her own chin, the lights of the TV flickering across her face, and snored.