Chapter 7 — Lily[]
“Forty-five years ago,” Arthur explained softly, “Julian was a master tailor in Chicago.
One of the finest in the city.
He lived a quiet, happy life with his first wife, and his five-year-old twin children.
A boy named Caleb, and a girl named Lily.”
My heart gave a sudden, painful lurch.
Julian had never mentioned a family.
Not once.
He had presented himself, to the hospital and to me, as a man completely alone, without a soul in the world.
And now I was learning that he had once had a wife, and twins, and a whole full life.
“Lily’s favorite thing in the world,” Arthur went on, “was that red dress.
Julian made it for her, with his own hands, for her fifth birthday.” He paused, gathering himself.
“But that winter, a tragedy struck the family.
A fire, caused by a faulty heating unit, swept through their home in the night.
Julian got his wife out.
He got his son, Caleb, out.
And then he went back in for Lily.” Arthur’s voice caught, and he cleared his throat.
“He was too late.
The only thing he was able to save from her room was that dress.” I will not describe more of it than that, because some griefs are too sacred to render in detail, and a father losing a five-year-old child is one of them.
I only sat there, holding the small red dress, and let the tears come, and felt my own grief for my mother reach out across the years and touch the ancient, agonizing sorrow that had been sewn, I now understood, into every single thread of the garment in my hands.
Julian had carried this dress for forty-five years.
It was all he had left of his daughter.
And he had left it, at the end, to me.[]
