Lillian

Robin called me yesterday around noon, demanding I meet with her as soon as possible. She was probably nice about it, but I know her, and I can hear the manipulation buried underneath her polite speech.

"I can probably make time tomorrow," I said.

"Wonderful!" she said. "I'm actually having lunch with Mom tomorrow, so you can join us."

How convenient.

Now it's tomorrow. Lunch has been had, and we're sipping coffee in the living room. Looks like the ulterior motive portion of the afternoon is about to begin.

"Hey Lil, want me to top that off for you?" Robin asks, reaching for my bright yellow coffee mug.

I shrug and hand her the cup, which is only half empty.

This is the first time I've visited Mom's house since the funeral. Nothing has changed. The walls are the same lavender color and are adorned with the same decorative mirrors and aqua picture frames. The throw pillows on the couch are just as fluffed as ever. The wooden coffee table and end tables are dust free and polished. I clench my fists, resisting the urge to punch a wall or tear a couch cushion, to disrupt the disgusting cheerfulness pervading the room.

“I’ve been really worried about you,” Mom says. “You’ve been holed up in your apartment for weeks and you haven’t returned any of my calls or emails.”

What does she expect me to do? Go on like nothing has happened? Sorry I can’t maintain the perfect, unblemished image she has stressed about her entire life. I've been making it to class every day, and I've maintained my hygiene, which is really all that matters to me. My entire world was shoved violently off its axis when my father died, so excuse me if I skip out on doing dishes or going out for drinks with friends. I am so sincerely apologetic that my mourning does not live up to your standards, Mom.

“Nobody emails anymore,” I say.

At this point, Mom is far more familiar with my snide mouth than she would probably like to be. She continues on, as if I hadn't said anything. "And then I find out your sister got a call from Austin yesterday."

"Okay."

The corner of Mom's lips tilt up, just barely, to form a sinister smirk I would never catch if I hadn't seen it so many times in my life. Sometime in my middle school years I began to think of it as her socialite expression, because I saw it most often at her fancy cocktail parties, right as she was about to gossip about one of her so-called friends. The fact that she's wearing it in this context disgusts me. "Robin told me that when he went over to your apartment a few days ago--"

I interrupt her, teeth gritted. "I know what happened. I was there."

Really, it's not even that big of a deal. Earlier in the week, I was hunkered down in the middle of my living room floor, looking through a box of my dad's old records that he gave me before I headed to college last year. I've always thought vinyl were really cool, but I don't have a record player, so I haven't had much use for the ones my dad gave me. When I saw the dusty cardboard box nestled in the back of my closet, though, it was like an electric current jolted me. I immediately dragged the box out and began digging through it. Every time I pulled out an album, felt the weight of it in my hands, I envisioned my dad right behind me on the couch, humming or strumming his guitar.

I was staring at Kiss's Destroyer album cover when Austin's signature drum roll knock shattered the trance-like state I'd slipped into. I didn't move from my spot on the floor to answer the door, so he called me.

When I didn't pick up the phone, he released a very loud puff of air. "Lil, I just heard your phone ring. I know you're in there."

I'm not quite sure how long he waited outside before he eventually left, but I was never able to fully recapture the peaceful stupor from the records.

"Well," Mom says. That one word is tight, terse, but, as usual, she sits up straighter and smiles politely, refusing to reveal her frustration. "Austin has been your best friend since, what, fourth grade? If you keep pushing him away, you're going to regret it."

Austin and I have actually been best friends since second grade, but I don't correct her because that would only help her case. Besides, I'm not trying to push Austin away. I just don't need someone looking over my shoulder at all times. Since the moment I got the call about my father's heart attack, Austin has been monitoring my every move. I guess I appreciate that he's so concerned for me, but hovering isn't going to soothe the ache I feel in every cell of my body.

Knowing that Austin is giving my family status updates on my mental stability causes heat to rush from my fingertips to my face to the pit of my stomach. I'm not some sort of science experiment that needs to be monitored.

Mom sighs and opens her mouth to push some more, but Robin waltzes back into the room, cutting her off.

Robin balances three coffee mugs, a glass bowl of sugar, and a carafe of milk on a silver platter. She sets the platter down on the table and begins dumping sugar in her cup. I blow on my coffee to cool it off, eyeing her perfectly manicured nails as she empties three spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee.

Just like Mom, Robin is always poised and perfect. Never a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her blazer. They probably think I'm a disgrace to the family because my nails are bitten and unpainted. If the circumstances were any different, I'm sure Mom would be on my case about my posture. Slouching is unbecoming, after all.

Robin must notice me watching her. “Do you want some sugar?”

“No thank you.” Please, continue to give yourself diabetes.

“Oh, that’s right,” she says, sitting up straight and forgetting about her drink. “You take your coffee black. Just like Dad.”

Well, it appears she found her opening.

I shrug and take a sip of my coffee. She should know by now that I’m not going to cooperate.

Mom decided to pipe in, "You were always so much like your father."

Unbelievable. They're double teaming me. Mom got knocked up at fifteen by some guy she met at a party. When Robin turned twenty-one, the dynamic of her relationship with Mom shifted to something that resembled friends more than mother and daughter. Just like in every friendship, there is one person who always takes charge of situations, and in this friendship it is Robin. She knows how to manipulate situations and push people to her side of things, and most of the time Mom just sits back and watches.

Evidently, not this time.

She continues, "Remember how you two would read the comics in the newspaper every morning?"

Of course I remember. Even last year when I went off to college a couple hours away, Dad would cut out the comics he found funniest and mail them to me once a week. It has been three and a half weeks since I received any newspaper clippings in the mail.

All of the space in my chest collapses. Mostly I would just read the comic strips then throw them away. I just assumed that he would be sending me the funnies for the rest of my life. Human nature prompts us to battle for survival and yet convince ourselves we, and everyone we love, are impervious to death. I assumed that my daddy was going to live forever.

Life sure knows how to bitch slap a person.

"Yeah," I say. "I remember."

"Oh." Robin places a hand on her chest. "And when you guys would go camping in the living room?"

"Yeah. I remember that too." We did it every year for my birthday until I was thirteen. We'd move all the furniture out of the way and pitch our tents in the middle of the living room floor. Dad would try to tell ghost stories, but he would give all the characters ridiculous names and make them funny stories instead.

With shaking hands, I set my coffee cup on the table. "Can you please just get to the point?"

Robin ignores me. "You know what I always loved? Yours and Dad's little jam sessions."

It feels like a tight band is closing around my head. There is pressure building and building and my vision is spotting around the sides.

"You two were fantastic on the guitar," Mom adds.

The band is squeezing tighter still. I try to speak, but my face is tingling, and I can't tell what my mouth is doing.

"You know, I have your father's guitar here."

There is a high-pitched ringing sound filling the room.

"Why don't you try playing it?"

Robin squeaks, like she hadn't thought of that herself. "That's a wonderful idea!"

I can't see or hear or think or breathe. "Stop!" I try to shout, but I still can't feel my face, and I don't know if the word makes it out.

All of a sudden there is pressure on my shoulders and I jerk away from it, but the pressure increases.

"Just stop!" I try again.

"Lilly, it's okay. Just look at me. Look at me, Lil." It's Robin's voice but it's so far away.

I have your father's guitar here. Why don't you try playing it?

Dad taught me how to play the guitar when I was nine. I don't remember exactly what happened, but Dad always told me that I came home from school crying one day because some boy insulted me, and Dad put a guitar in my hands, explained that the best way he was ever able to overcome pain was with music, and taught me how to play Smoke on the Water.

He was right, of course. Music was the best way to let all troubles float away.

But there are some heartaches that even music can't resolve.

My eyes snap open and Robin's face is only centimeters away from mine, her hands resting on my shoulders. She slowly removes her grip and takes a step back.

"You okay?" she asks.

Obviously I'm not okay, but the world is quiet again. The ringing noise is gone, my vision is clear, and the band trying to strangle my head has dissolved. So I nod.

"Oh sweetie," Mom says. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to make things worse. I've just been so worried. Robin told me that you haven't even picked up a guitar since your father died and I thought it might be good for you. I had no clue that you would react like this."

How Robin knew that I haven't played a single chord in the last few weeks was beyond me, but she was Robin, after all, so it wasn't entirely surprising that she has been keeping tabs on me. Her intel probably came from another one of Austin's reports.

"It's fine," I say. "I'm fine. Let me see his guitar."

Robin's mouth pulls down at the corners, but I know she's secretly thrilled that her plan is basically going just as she expected it would. "I'll get it."

About thirty seconds later, Robin returns, holding dad's guitar by the neck.

I can't help but wonder if she is still in tune. Dad's guitar was his most prized possession. He bought her twenty-five years ago. He named her Lillian, and then named his daughter after her. She wasn't the best guitar on the market, but Dad loved her, and he treated her like a precious artifact. He would be devastated to know that nobody could even bother to tune her after he died.

I reach out for her and Robin hands her over with the grace of someone who has never held a guitar before. I settle her under my arm and run my hand gently along her neck. There is something so right, yet so wrong in holding her.

"I really think this will be good for you," Robin says. She's standing too close, eyeing me way too expectedly.

Pressing down on a few strings, I strum a chord. It sounds empty and ugly. I was right, they haven’t kept her in tune. Nausea creeps into my stomach. I could tune Lillian, but maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe she needs time to mourn the loss of her father.

“It will really help you cope,” Mom says.

Jaw clenched, I adjust one of the tuning pegs and try again.

I don’t need help coping. I just need time. I’m not ready to pretend I’m okay, to go about my life like nothing has happened. Yeah, the world continues spinning just as it always has when we die, but Dad’s life meant something to me. The rest of the world can go screw itself, because I am not going to go on just as I was before.

One of Lillian’s strings snaps and whips my hand. I yank my arm away and she falls to the floor. It’s not a hard fall, she doesn’t even get a dent, but in my mind it’s a sign.

“Just pick it up and try again,” Robin says, still too close to me.

But Lillian doesn’t want anyone to pick her up. Dad is gone and, like me, she’s not going to simply move on. She wants to be broken and left alone.

That’s the thing. I want to be broken. I want to remember and I want to feel the pain of my father’s loss, because if I don’t, I’m not sure who will.

So, I pick up Lillian. I lock eyes with Robin. She grins. I wrap my hands around Lillian’s neck. In one fluid motion, I hoist her over my shoulder and bring her back down to hit the floor, like I’m swinging an ax. I’m sure Mom and Robin are both startled and terrified. I’m sure they gasp or shout at me, but I can’t hear it. I smash Lillian against the floor again and again until she’s nothing but broken wood and snapped strings, a pile of music that will never be heard again.

Mom doesn’t understand because she stopped loving Dad years ago. Robin doesn’t understand because Dad wasn’t her real father. Nobody gets it because they didn’t love dad the way I did. But Lillian did. Lillian and I are the same.

Once Dad was gone, so was the music.