Recovery / / h.s

Chapter Forty-Nine.

Lillian stared at the closed door for awhile, her eyes narrowed. Maybe she was waiting for he father to com back in. Maybe she wanted another argument. I didn't know for sure. The only thing I knew for sure was that was the most intense argument that I'd ever witnessed and Lillian was pissed.

"He was right, you know," I shrugged as seconds of silence seemed to turn into minutes of nothing. "This... This is kind of all my fault."

She snapped her head towards me and if looks could kill I swear I'd be done. "Are you actually going to listen to him? He's an asshole, Harry, that wanted nothing more than to get under your skin."

"No," I shook my head. "It's not that. I've thought the same thing since I got back, you know? Maybe if I would have been home then I could have done something."

Her face softened, all the rage gone and suddenly turned into hurt and confusion. She patted the bed next to her and I plopped down beside her, craning down to rest my head on her bony chest.

"Baby," she started and I felt her chest tighten as she sucked in a deep breath. She didn't start again for a few moments. "This isn't your fault, okay? There's absolutely nothing you could have done to prevent this from happening."

I sighed, a deep sigh because I knew she was only saying that to make me feel like a less shitty person. I was a shitty person though, and nothing she could say would change the way I felt about that.

"I know, but if I was there I could have gotten to you sooner," I mumbled, picking at her hospital gown that was at least three sizes too big for her.

"Don't talk like that, Harry," she sighed. "There's always the 'what-if's' and you don't need to think this is your fault, okay? I'm the one who made you go."

I only nodded, afraid that if I kept pressing then she'd blow up on me the way she blew up on her father. It was silent for what seemed like way too long. I felt the rise and fall of her chest as she took raspy breaths.

"He didn't always used to be like this, you know," she sighed, running her hands through my curls. I would never be able to describe the serenity I felt when she did that.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," she started, taking a sharp breath and dropping her grip on my curl. "Before mom.. died... He was actually tolerable."

I sat quietly, my lips pursed, waiting for her to continue. She'd never talked to me about her mother before. Well, that wasn't completely true. When I had first met her- and we had that weird "only friends sometimes" relationship then- I had made some offensive remark about her being bipolar and she snapped. She told me her mother was bipolar and thought I might be, too.

"I don't think I've ever told you this," she breathed, her tone serious. I peeled away from her and sat up straight. She wouldn't look at me, just stared at the blank television screen. Blank. Just like her expression. "But when I was twelve, my uh- my mom committed suicide, Hazz."

She didn't blink. She didn't cry. I didn't dare breathe or even move even though my heart literally shattered. "Lily-"

She held her hands up and finally turned to face me, the blue of her eyes sullen. "My dad wouldn't talk about it. He still won't, really. That's why you didn't see any pictures of her in the house. She, uh," she stopped then, trying to collect herself presumably before continuing "she was bipolar and was so depressed that she wouldn't get out of bed for days. I came home from school one day and she just wasn't here anymore. No note. Nothing."

"I think that's what upset him the most, that she didn't leave him with any explanation, you know? He used to be really nice, but I guess something like that just changes you. Ever since then everything with him had to be perfect. Perfect wife- or replacement, whatever. Perfect house. Perfect daughters."