Chapter 9: Lilies

Livia was kneeling on the wet grass at Mama's grave when we came over the rise.

It was a quarter to seven.

The sky over Archer Avenue was the color of dishwater.

Marisa was beside me, still in her scrubs, and her cousin was ten yards back with his leaf blower switched off.

He'd called us at six. "She's here."

Livia wore a black wool coat and no hat.

Her hair was wet with mist.

There was no stone yet, just the little metal marker with Mama's name typed on a card.

Livia had laid a bundle of white lilies across the fresh sod.

Her lips were moving.

I stopped behind her.

She didn't hear me.

She was humming.

It was the song Mama hummed with pins in her mouth.

An old Neapolitan tune, flat in the middle, the same eight bars over and over.

I'd fallen asleep to it under a sewing table a thousand times.

"Stop that," I said.

Livia went still.

She didn't turn around right away.

She finished laying the lilies straight, stem by stem, before she stood up and brushed off her knees.

"Good morning, Mira."

"Why are you here?"

"Paying my respects."

"Every day? For two weeks?" Marisa said. "Her own daughter doesn't come every day. She works."

Livia looked at Marisa.

"Your mother is a very loud woman," she said. "She hit Santino with a towel."

"She'll hit you with the pot," Marisa said.

I took a step closer.

"How do you know that song?"

Livia smiled a little. "Everyone at the house knew it. She hummed when she pinned a hem."

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