Lily asks him, “Who are you?”
She is prepared for the flood but he does not open his mouth. Instead, he turns his palms to her. They are blank.
She asks him again, “Who are you?”
He opens his mouth and the water pours out but Lily stays in the in-between place and does not make a sound until she and the bed and Frances sleeping next to her are soaked. It’s not so bad. The water is warm, having been inside him. When all the water is out of him, he is still looking, looking, his empty palms facing her.
She asks for the third time, “Who are you?”
Ambrose speaks his first words. He has a dark voice because he lives in a dark place. “I am No Man.”
“Don’t be afraid, Ambrose. Don’t be afraid. We love you.”
Ambrose says, “Hello.”
“Hello,” says Lily. “Hello, little boy. Hello.”
Lily wakes up because Mercedes is sponging her head. “She’s waking up.”
“Ambrose,” says Lily.
“She’s delirious.” Mercedes’ voice feels like surgery on Lily’s skin.
“Who took my skin?”
“Soaked with fever.”
Lily buries her face in her drenched pillow because the light is an eye operation.
“The light is off, Lily, see? There’s no light on.”
Daddy has arrived with the doctor. It’s a good sign that Lily’s fever has broken, unless her temperature goes back up. Gangrene. Somewhere in the scalpel light Lily hears him talking to Daddy and her sisters, “You did the right thing, Mercedes.” They’ll have to keep an eye on her for the rest of the night, if her temp goes up, if it goes up…. They go out into the hall, Lily can’t hear them any more except that Mercedes cries out something, then Frances comes back in and sings songs to Lily. Nice ones. Beautiful sad ones in minor keys, long story songs that our ancestors sang on the boats coming over in other languages.
That was midnight. At 3:30 a.m. Lily wakes up. There’s a bright moon glazing the window. On either side, Frances and Mercedes are slumped in chairs under bedsheets lit like snow-drifts shadowed blue. It’s Christmas Eve. The shepherds have fallen asleep beneath their flocks of snow. Lily sits up in bed. Her skin is no longer sore. She feels cool and calm, a midnight clear. She walks between the snow-drifts and their deep sleepers to the window because she has been invited. Oh, it’s not the moon at all, there is no moon tonight, the light is coming from the creek.
Ambrose is in the creek. He is leaning out to wave, his left arm above his head, his right arm stretched along the lip of earth. His lower body is concealed by the embankment, he looks like a merman waving to Lily in the slow wide lullaby of the ocean, hello…. His skin has changed from white to amber and the glow has wakened Lily from her bed of fire into soothing rose milk. She puts a hand to the window, hello…. Ambrose is the drowned sun, he is the buried sunshine, he’s saying, come Lily, come. My sister. And I will heal you. A garden locked, a fountain sealed, many waters cannot quench me. He says, the spring in my garden pours down from Lebanon, come to me and I will give you rest. And Lily says, yes. She is asleep but her heart is wakeful, yes I’m coming, Ambrose. Wait for me dear brother, I am coming.
Lily leaves the snow sleepers by the window and walks down the stairs, through the kitchen, out the back door and over the coal clinkers in the back yard in her bare feet, she shouldn’t be able to walk at all with her wounded heel but there’s no pain. Just the glow of Ambrose waiting for her in the creek, her big baby brother. He opens his arms. She goes to him. He picks her up in her white nightgown and cradles her, her head resting in the crook of his left shoulder, his right arm encircling her body. She has never felt so warm and peaceful, are my eyes open or closed, it doesn’t matter. There is almost no sensory change between the air and the water, it takes her a moment to realize why she feels lighter now and even more tenderly embraced — it takes the sight of her own hair fanning out from her head and the thickening of the soft orange light to let her know that now she is under water, her cheek resting against his breast, her body curved around its first companion, I would take you to my mother’s house, to the room of she who conceived me — Lily has never got used to being alone. They turn in the water and turn again, then Ambrose lifts her above the surface once more and the creek rains down from her. He lays her gently on the bank and her heart breaks. Her tears begin to flow because he is leaving — don’t go! He sinks into the water on his back — take me with you! His body turns white again and shimmers into segments until all the pieces disappear. Lily lies face down at right angles to the creek, her head hanging over the edge, arms outstretched towards the spot where she last saw her brother.
That’s how Mercedes finds her at 5:00 a.m., in the first snowfall of the season.
Mercedes blamed herself for the fever that was consuming Lily and might result in the loss of her leg or worse. That was why she went straight to the coal cellar after the doctor’s visit. While Frances sang to Lily in the dark, Mercedes was naked under burlap, kneeling by the furnace, offering up her sacrifice to God.
She cups the lump of coal in both hands, elevates it and bows her head; “Through my fault.” When she did this last week she was serene, a foolish smile on her lips. This time, however, she weeps hot tears. This time she is truly penitent. That was the problem the first time. Pride. She was proud of herself for staging her penance in the cellar, for establishing the Lourdes cocoa tin. She was pleased with herself as she bathed and bandaged Lily’s foot with an expertise she thought surpassed that of the nurses at New Waterford General. Her piety was pride in the Devil’s guise, her penitence nothing but a fresh occasion of sin, oh how often must we learn the same lesson? God reacted swiftly and smote Lily. “Through my fault,” Mercedes can barely get out the words, and as she takes the first bite of coal, chews and swallows, sorrow overwhelms her. She is so bitterly aware of how she hurt God, and of how God in His infinite mercy has given her this second chance of which she is not worthy. “Through my most grievous fault.” She takes another bite of coal….
When Mercedes finished in the cellar, she rose shakily, changed back into her nightgown and went upstairs, where she washed the soot, snot and tears off her face, scrubbed her tongue as best she could, got her opal rosary and went in to keep watch on Lily. She fell asleep in a chair opposite Frances. When she awoke for no reason at 4:55 a.m., Lily was gone. Mercedes obeyed an ancient reflex to look out the window and down at the creek.
The following evening, when Lily opens her eyes and looks into Mercedes’ praying mouth, it occurs to her for the first time that she must be dreaming, because why has Mercedes got a black tongue?
Lily slept through extreme unction and she slept through the doctor saying no point even amputating the leg now, and was she in the habit of sleep-walking? She slept through Daddy laying his head on her chest and sobbing. She slept through Frances bribing and threatening God, “You bastard, I’ll be good, okay? Just don’t murder her and I won’t smoke any more, okay? I won’t swear, I won’t make my fuckin maniac father mad any more, and I’ll say the rosary ten times a day and be a goddamn nun, okay? Amen.”