Page 88 of We All Live Here
Lila pulls a face. “She’s never really been a doll person.” The dolls Violet had inherited from Celie had tended to end up with punk haircuts and amputations. When Violet had seemed half-hearted at theprospect of having the doll’s house, Lila had not pushed her. She did not want the intricate little home ending up as Barbie’s Crack Den.
“Well, it’s just a doll’s house, right? I mean not everyone likes them,” Gene murmurs. He is peering into one of his boxes. “Not everyone wants to play house.”
“Lots of children love playing house,” Bill says, moving a stack of family albums. “Lila loved it when she was a little girl.”
“Sure. But she liked other things as well. It’s fine for kids to do something a little wilder and more adventurous.”
“But not everyone wants to be wild. Lila very much relished her little house when she was growing up.”
“How about we leave it up here and start on some other boxes?” says Lila, briskly.
She stands, a little stooped to accommodate the roof beams, and makes her way carefully toward some boxes near the water tank. She pulls one toward her and prizes open the lid. Immediately something gives inside her. It is one of Francesca’s boxes. She stares at the familiar handwriting on the letters, at her mother’s jewelry box, and has to let out a small breath. “It’s Mum’s stuff,” she says, to nobody in particular.
There is a short silence. Bill straightens behind her.
“Do we want to do this now?” she says, turning to him.
Bill puts his hand gently on her arm. “I think we should. It’s been long enough.”
“I’ll just take a look at these boxes Jane brought over,” says Gene from the other end of the attic. “I’ve got a load of memorabilia and my agent says there’s a fan convention coming up that’s contemplating includingStar Squadron Zero.” Lila is not sure whether this is said from a position of diplomacy, or whether he is actually only interested in his oldStar Squadron Zerojunk, but either way she’s grateful.
She and Bill spend a quiet twenty minutes sorting through the first box. There are certificates and school reports Francesca had kept fromher own childhood and from Lila’s. There are old passports and defunct bank books, costume jewelry and unfashionable scarves. She tries to be ruthless, telling herself she should keep only the things she would be happy to have on show. She tries to think of how Francesca would handle it.Lila darling, it’s just stuff. Keep a few beautiful things and try to focus on the future.
They pause when they get to the letters. There is one from Lila, on a school trip, telling her mother in childish, rounded handwriting how much she misses her, which makes her well up. There is a batch of love letters from Bill, wrapped in a dark velvet ribbon, which Bill holds to his chest briefly, then puts safely to one side. And then they are down to the detritus of the box, letters Francesca had sent to her own parents, or long-forgotten pen friends, a couple of old boyfriends from her teenage years declaring love from long distances.
Lila finds a letter from Francesca’s oldest friend, Dorothy, and starts reading about Francesca’s trip to Dublin. “People don’t write letters any more, but they should. These are so lovely. It’s like hearing Mum’s voice,” she says, scanning the text. “Oh, sweet, she talks about Mum buying Celie a dress while she was there. I think I still have that dress somewhere. It was white with blue checks. Violet would never wear it.”
Bill shifts to see what she is reading. He frowns. “Are you sure she said Dublin? She told me she’d only been to Ireland once, as a child. She can’t have gone again.” He takes the letter from Lila’s hand, examining it. “What date is the letter?”
Lila sees the date before he does. And blinks.
“Why would she be writing about Francesca going to Dublin? We never went there.”
“This is dated 2006?”
“I’m sure it was lovely to be in Dublin. Of course Gene met you at the Temple Bar—of course he did. I can imagine the riotous atmosphere once he got everyone going…”
Lila makes to snatch the letter from Bill, but he has seen it too. He stares at Dorothy’s writing, then looks up at Gene. “Francesca was in Dublin…with you?”
“Uhh…she—she—Say, can I have that?” Gene has come over, and is holding out his hand.
The atmosphere in the attic has stilled. It is as if a monstrous vacuum has swept in and sucked out all the air. Gene’s glance flickers between them. “I was filming over there. She just…came to hang out for a few days.”
When nobody speaks, Gene rubs at the back of his head. “It was just a short trip. Look, pal…we go back a long way.”
Bill stares at Gene, taking in what is implicit in Gene’s few words, his unusually awkward manner. Gene looks at Bill and then at Lila. “It didn’t mean anything,” he says.
“To you! It didn’t mean anything to you! It meant everything to me!”
“It was only that one time…”
“Oh. Well, that’s all right, then.”
“It was…” Gene clears his throat. “We were both feeling a bit down. I was with Jane at the time and it was a little tricky. The whole menopause thing. She was really emotional about everything. And your mother she…well, she—”
“She what?”
“Oh, you don’t need to go into the details.”
