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Lilly stands stock-still on the sidewalk, attempting to steel herself. The house isn't ostentatiously big, but it's got the biggest yard on the block, and the neighborhood it's nestled in is nice, clean, the kind of scenery on Derry's tourist pamphlets. It does nothing to negate the feeling of eyes following her every move; whether it's someone who recognizes her or the storm drain at the corner, Lilly couldn't say, but she lets it propel her toward the door.
In the shadow of the porch roof, she finds herself faltering again, smoothing anxious hands down the front of her coat. She misses the weight of her charm bracelet keenly, can't remember why she ever stopped wearing it. People were going to whisper about her no matter what, why worry that they might think she's childish on top of crazy?
And what if that's the response she gets now? That she's really gone crazy this time, and not even Marge believes her.
But it's happening again. Lilly knows it's happening again, the way she knows her name is Lillian Bainbridge, the way she knows Marge Truman was her best friend from first to twelfth grade. That has to count for something, even if it's been years since they exchanged more than mindless pleasantries. That they lived through it before…it has to mean something.
She takes a breath and lets it out slowly. Squaring her shoulders, she knocks.
It should have occurred to her as a possibility—it's late on a Wednesday afternoon, school's been out for hours now—but the door opening to reveal a teenage boy shocks her into stillness again.
He looks so much like Marge. Just swap the black hair for blonde and the ugly patterned shirt for a flowered cardigan, and the magnified eyes staring up at her could send her right back to 1962 if she's not careful.
"Are you selling something?" he asks, a skeptical yet hopeful look on his face. "Because my dad says I'm allowed to scare off salespeople with as many impressions as I can get in before they get back to the sidewalk."
"Richie," an anxious voice calls from further inside, and that one is as familiar as Lilly's own. Marge materializes with a towel in her hands, glances at Lilly, and gently flaps the towel against the back of Richie's shoulder. He jerks forward like he's been shot, a cry of agony that gets cut off when Marge raises an eyebrow at him.
"Fine," Richie says and stalks back into the house.
Marge watches him stomp up a set of stairs and then finally looks at Lilly. Her smile is polite. Distant. "Lilly. What brings you all the way out here?"
This was a mistake, something whispers. Loony Lilly, Loony Lilly.
"I need to talk to you," Lilly says, too loud. She clenches her teeth and refuses to shrink away from Marge's hesitation.
"Okay," Marge says. She steps to the side, gestures Lilly forward with the towel. "Come in."
"Thank you," Lilly says and follows her through the house—a little messier on the inside, boy-sized shoes and stacks of school books and empty cassette cases and a yo-yo balancing precariously on the corner of a table which Lilly nudges to safety as she passes. They stop in the kitchen, where Marge has started making dinner. Something on the stove is burning, and Lilly winces as Marge yanks the pot off the heat. "Sorry."
Marge waves, either at Lilly or the first curls of smoke. "It was inevitable," she says. "Went usually cooks, but he's got a late appointment tonight, and it turns out everything you hear about teen boys eating you out of house and home is true."
Her next smile is tense, but it's more familiar. Letting Lilly in on this little bit of her life like a peace offering. She drops the pot in the sink and leans against the counter, arms crossed over her chest. Lilly curls her fingers together and gives a tense smile back.
"Marge, I—"
"Maggie," Marge interrupts. Lilly blinks at her. Marge's shoulders have crept up. "I prefer Maggie."
"Oh," Lilly says. "Sorry, I didn't—" Except she did, didn't she? Isn't that how she's heard people refer to her since she moved back? Maybe this was a mistake. "Old habits, I guess."
"Yeah," Maggie says. "It's okay."
Lilly should apologize again, make an excuse to leave, and carry on on her own, like she's been doing. Maybe she should start taking her meds again.
"It's happening again," she says.
Maggie's eyebrows furrow. It's weird to see the whole expression, Lilly thinks as she watches it shift deeper into confusion, no glasses to shield or distort any part of her face.
"What's happening again?" Maggie asks.
"It," Lilly says. She takes a step closer, and Maggie stands taller. Lilly stops short but can't help leaning in, lowering her voice. "That thing. It's back, Margie. It's taking kids again."
Fear overtakes Maggie's face for a second—a second where she's undoubtedly Marge—but it's only a second.
"Lilly," she says, her voice gratingly gentle.
"No," Lilly says, fighting the constriction of her throat, the burning of her eyes. "Don't do that. Don't you do that."
"Do what?" Maggie asks.
"Treat me like I'm crazy," Lilly says.
"That's not—"
"It is. I know, I know there's something that happens when people leave," Lilly says, a book's-worth of unanswered letters to Marge, to Ronnie twisting the hurt deeper, "but you're the only other one who was there," Will and Jessica's funeral, a harder blow, "you have to remember. Please. Please remember."
Through her tears, she thinks she sees Marge tearing up, too, as she moves closer to put her hands on Lilly's shoulders. Hope claws through the dread that's been building since Zack and Sharon Denbrough's youngest son was found dead in the street. Lilly grips Marge's elbows, searching her face for any sign, any hint, that her memories of that spring are shared.
"Matty Clements," she says, the ever-present guilt clanging dully against her ribs. Marge stares up at her, pale, her right eye still not opening quite as wide as her left. Lilly holds her tighter, nodding encouragement. "Teddy Uris and the Malkins, Phil and Susie. All the kids that went missing that year."
"I—I remember the missing kids," Marge says. "But that was—Matty ran away, and Hatchet Hank—"
"No," Lilly says.
Marge tugs her arms back, away. "Lilly, you're hurting me."
"What about Rich?" Lilly asks, inches from Marge's face, close enough to see her eyes go blank. "Rich Santos. I knowyou remember him. I know you do. He was part of it, he helped us."
"I—No, I—"
"You told me you loved him," Lilly says. Marge is trying to pry her fingers off, but not yet, not until she remembers, not until she admits it. "You named your son after him! For God's sake, Marge, he died for you, and you're telling me you don't remember him?!"
"Stop!" Marge yells, shoving Lilly so hard she stumbles back into the table. Something crashes. Neither of them look, both breathing hard. Marge's cheeks are wet.
"Mom?"
Marge's gaze snaps behind Lilly; Lilly turns to see Richie Tozier standing in the doorway with a bat in one hand, looking from his mother to Lilly like he's ready to jump between them.
"Richie, for Christ's sake, put that down," Marge says, choked, and brushes past Lilly to snatch the bat out of Richie's hand. She glances over her shoulder, hurt-fear-hurt in every inch of her expression. "Miss Bainbridge was just leaving."
It's a shock—like someone just threw a toaster in her bath. Lilly swallows, cold, and says, "Marge—"
"No," Maggie says. She puts a hand on Richie's shoulder, turns so she's between him and Lilly. Bat gripped in her other hand. Like Lilly is something to protect him from. "You should go. Now."
"I—" Lilly starts. An apology? A refusal? She doesn't know. Maggie doesn't let her figure it out.
"Please, Lil," she says, softer. Gentle. Crazy-person talk. "I can't help you."
That's true enough. Lilly thinks she can see the past in her eyes, but maybe that's crazy-person talk, too. Desperate-person talk, at the very least. Richie, peering out from behind Maggie, looks unbelievably like Marge, something about him so familiar.
Collecting herself as much as she can, Lilly smoothes down her coat, wipes the tears from her cheeks. She leaves the nice house with the big yard, sees Wentworth Tozier driving down the street to reunite with his family. She makes it three blocks before the voices under the street get loud enough (Loony Lilly, Loony Lilly, Juniper Hill is so lovely this time of year, and Mrs. Kersh is just dying to see you again) to make her cover her ears and scream. Nobody gives her a second glance.