The young astronomer is speaking again, her voice the practiced diction of a professor. “The star cluster Cassiopeia was named after the mythological Greek queen. She was characterized as so vain that she once taunted Poseidon that her daughter was more beautiful than the sea nymphs. Her punishment was being turned into a constellation and forced to rotate around the north celestial pole constantly. At some points Cassiopeia is completely upside down, left hanging from her throne for hours.”
“Are you sure it was them?” I ask Lily. I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips.
“Yes,” she says. “I’m sure.”
I want to ask more questions—where were they? Is she certain it was a date? When would they even have the opportunity to have met? Through the real estate office? Is it because I asked her to break the lease? I suppose I can’t technically be mad because I never told Josie about my past with Tommy, and I can’t be angry at Tommy because I’m with William now. The same way I shouldn’t really be mad at Lottie either.
Still, the thought of all of it makes me want to hide in the bushes behind us and never come back out.
The line moves up, and soon enough, Lily and I are standing together around the edges of the circular dome. The guide tells me it’s my turn, and I take robotic steps, walking up a rickety metal standing ladder—“It’ll stop wobbling once you settle onto it!” the astronomer promises—and place my left eye against the instrument.
I do it because it’s expected, because it’s what the line needs to happen in order to keep moving forward. At first, it’s hard to make anything out: a scattering of white dots in the midst of deep black. As I stare out at them, all I can see is Tommy. Tommy and Josie together. Tommy and Josie kissing, holding hands.
I think about the legend of poor Cassiopeia, spinning and spinning and spinning. Punished for her vanity, her poor decisions, forced forever to circle the same limitless point.
Spinning, and spinning, and spinning.
Chapter Twenty-SevenLily
July 19
I’m in the middle of painting when my father confronts me. He knocks on my bedroom door, and I have to find a towel to wipe the paint from my hands before I can answer. I’m wearing old jeans and an oxford shirt, both of which are covered in paint splatters from various projects over the years.
Mom is out today, preparing for the mental health gala next weekend.
“Lily, you have to stop ignoring me,” he says as soon as we’re face-to-face.
I have the door only half-open, but he must catch a glimpse of my setup. I’ve thrown an old set of linens on the ground and covered the floor with canvases, palette knives, and brushes. It’s an absolute mess, and for a second, I wonder if he’ll yell at me the way a father would in a TV show.
Instead, he just says, “Wow,” because I suppose he has never acted the way a dad should act, and it’s not his place, anyway. “What is all of this?” He nudges the door open so he can see more of my work.
I’ve refined the original two portraits and added three more. They’re all of Rose and Lottie, except I included one of Jade back in our city apartment. In the image, she’s eating popcorn on our old shabby tan couch. Her pink-streaked hair is lit up in the yellow glow of the television, and her mouth is full with laughter.
I’m not sure what the common theme is yet, except that it’s an ode to all of the women I love. Portraits—such as the one of the captain—are often formal, like images you see of people when the camera was first invented and everyone had to sit still so that the picture didn’t turn out blurry. I wanted something more casual but still grand: a celebration of the everyday. I’ve been getting up early in the mornings to work on them before my shifts. This is a major change from my usual habit of sleeping until noon on my days off, and it makes me feel strangely proud.
“Lily, these are incredible,” says my father as he walks in the room, careful to avoid stepping on anything. “How long have you been working on these?”
“Just a few weeks,” I respond, all of a sudden shy. He’s not who I had in mind when I imagined showing them to someone for the first time, and under his gaze, I worry the magic won’t hold.
He leans down to look closer at the one of Lottie in the garden. “It’s incredible,” he repeats. “You really captured her essence.” He smiles, looking at Lottie’s stubborn concentration. “You know, she once threw that turquoise coffeepot at me.”
“She did?” I’ve never heard this story before.
He laughs, and I remember how he got away with his addiction for so many years. He has always been too charming for his own good. People let him off the hook. Except, I suppose, Lottie.
“It was after she found out Rose was breaking up with me.” He shakes his head. “She was livid about the affair.”
“She had a right to be,” I remind him.
“She did,” he agrees. He turns his gaze away from the painting. “Lily, I’m so sorry. I know you’re angry at me, but you have to know that I hate how strained our relationship is.”
I don’t do anything except stand there, which he takes as a sign to continue.
“I’m a flawed, messed-up person. I haven’t been a good father, or a good partner for that matter. But I do love you. I came here to do right by you.”
I keep my arms crossed and stand at the opposite end of the room. “Then why didn’t you answer my email? When I wrote you back, you didn’t even respond after weeks of begging me to talk to you.”
My father runs his hands through his hair so aggressively that I worry he’ll pull out the remaining strands. It’s already thinning. “I fucked up,” he says. “I had just gotten sober. I was in a good headspace, so I reached out. And then the funding for the project I was working on fell through, and…” He starts to pace. “I panicked. I relapsed. I didn’t want you to see me like that.”
