“Lilies and Balances” by Ananda Pinheiro Mehta

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Lilies and Balances

"Dorothy, I'm going to need you to cooperate." His deep voice sounded in her ears like a

distant echo, trying to break through the barrier she had so carefully constructed. Her eyes did

not budge; they fixed upon the beige carpet, analyzing a petal on the flowery design. "Dorothy?"

Her brows furrowed. "Why lilies?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why lilies?" Her eyes darted up to meet his. "On the carpet."

He grinned maniacally. Or perhaps she simply hadn't seen bared teeth in a while. Is that

what a smile is meant to look like?

"I'm not really sure... I didn't even know they were lilies. How did you know?"

A pause. "You're tricking me," she muttered.

"How am I tricking you?"

"You're getting me to talk by asking about lilies."

"You brought up the lilies."

She scoffed. "That's a lie."

"Dorothy..." She heard a gulp. Him shifting in his seat. Uncrossing his legs, then

crossing them again.

"You seem uncomfortable." Her voice was monotonous. Unfeeling.

"Interesting. Why do you think that?" His hand was poised, pen ready to meet the small

yellow notebook on his lap.

She squinted her eyes. She hated when they did that. Were their memories so frail they

had to write every meaningless detail down? "How should I know what makes you

uncomfortable? I thought I was the one in therapy."

"Dorothy, did you bring up the lilies?" His voice softened, like speaking to a child. She

was no child. A 30-year-old woman was definitely no child.

She crossed her arms over her chest and looked back down at the carpet. "No."

"Didn't you ask why the carpet was filled with lilies?"

She paused. "Yes."

"And then I asked you how you knew the flowers were lilies."

"Yes."

"If I didn't know they were lilies, how could I have been the one to mention them?"

"How should I know?"

He sighed. "I need you to admit you brought up the lilies."

"Why?"

"It's important."

"How are lilies important?"

"They aren't."

She leapt from the gray cushioned chair. "Then why must I admit it?" she screamed.

He cleared his throat, considering every possible response. "You know why."

"No, I don't." She paced across the room—her arms once more crossed over her chest.

She turned brusquely towards him, freeing them. "Will you just tell me?" she cried.

"Fine. If you sit down."

She hesitated, looking to the white door, calling to her, to run, to flee. Then to that drab

gray chair which, like a prison, would never let her leave.

"Dorothy, sit down."

His eyes followed hers, darting from door to chair to door to chair. He adjusted his black

rimmed glasses and rested his hand on the notebook. Not poised to write. Not anymore.

"Please?" That soft voice again, like Dorothy was a mere child.

She sat down. "So? Why must I admit it?"

"The trial."

She shuddered, like a shock rang through her veins. But it only lasted a second. She

cleared her throat. "What about it?"

"You know why you're here, Dorothy. You didn't admit it."

"How can I admit to something I didn't do?"

"Ha!" he scoffed. Her eyes widened. "I apologize, Dorothy. That was not an appropriate

response."

"Yeah, no kidding, Jeremy."

"You really should call me Dr. Daniels."

"And you really shouldn't be scoffing at me, should you? Should I request court for

another "therapist"?"

"Now, the air quotes are just insulting."

"Good."

He grinned again. "I apologize, Dorothy. Let's start over."

"Should I mention the lilies again?"

"Aha!" He leapt up, pointing at her. "You did it! You admitted it!"

She pursed her lips, crossed her arms once more. "No."

"Yes!" he cried in ecstasy, laughing at the ceiling.

"Look who's being inappropriate again."

He sat back down, took a sip of water and a deep breath. "You're right, Dorothy."

"Stop saying my name," she muttered.

"Why?"

"They kept saying my name. All the time, "Miss Dorothy", "Miss Dorothy", I'm sick of

it!"

"Who? When?"

Her mouth opened to respond, but she silenced herself.

"Ah." Dr. Daniels sighed, with an all knowing tone. "At the trial."

She didn't respond, returning her eyes to the petal. It reminded her of that symbol of

justice, carved into the marble door of the courthouse. A balance.

She had been wearing white—and she hated white. The pretense of innocence nauseated

her, yet she had no choice. Her lawyer threatened to drop the case. If you're going to plead

innocent, you have to act the part, she said.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Dr. Daniels."

He shook his head and sighed. "Didn't you just admit that this therapy is court-ordered?"

"I said no such thin—"

"Cut the crap, Dorothy. You have been convicted of—"

"Don't you dare say it," she barked, eyes widened as they pierced into Dr. Daniels'.

Dr. Daniels put down the pen. He uncrossed his legs and rested his elbows on his knees.

"Why. Not."

Dorothy grinned, shaking her head repeatedly. "It's all lies! Lies!"

"Why won't you admit it now? You did in court."

Her jaw dropped. Had she admitted to anything in court? She couldn't have.

She remembered the judge was hungry on that last day; it was past noon. He mentioned

something about yearning for a sandwich just before he called the court into session. She

remembered how stuffy it felt: no windows and harsh lighting. It made her dizzy; she rested her

forehead on her hands to keep the room from spinning. She remembered the way her sister's

husband scowled at her from across the room as she shook her leg up and down at the same pace

as her deafening heart beat.

But she didn't remember ever saying she was guilty.

"I—I—I didn't," she stammered. She furrowed her brow at the therapist, who ran his

hands through his hair in despair.

"Enough, Dorothy! We've been here for months! Have you truly forgotten that day in

court or are you lying to me?"

"I—I—I—I..." Her cheeks blushed as she shook her head. Tears welled in her eyes,

building up slowly but finally overflowing when she threw her head into her hands. After

minutes had passed, she caught her breath and whispered, "Dr. Daniels?"

"Yes?"

"I—I don't understand," she wept. "When did I admit to anything?"

"You were on the stand."

She was on the stand. Those incredulous faces stared at her. One woman with bright red

lips she vaguely recalled as a distant cousin, one older man with a dark wooden cane whose face

seemed familiar but she simply couldn't place. Her entire family was there—yet they looked at

her in disgust. She stuttered with each response, unsure. Unsure of everything.

The prosecutor paced back and forth as she sat on the stand, hunched over and fiddling

with her fingers. "Miss Dorothy, were you at your sister's house on the night of October 9th?"

She opened her mouth to speak but couldn't decide. Yes? No? Maybe?

"I should remind you that you're under oath, Miss Dorothy."

"I—I—"

"Maybe this will refresh your memory. According to this security footage, wasn't your car

in your sister's driveway that night?"

"I—I—I guess?"

"What's there to guess, Miss Dorothy? Yes. Or no." He stopped pacing, and stared deeply

into her confused eyes.

"Yes," she muttered.

"And were you or were you not there to kill your sister?" he asked, matter-of-factly.

She furrowed her brow and leapt up from the stand, "That is outrageous! Who do you

think you are?"

"Order, Miss Dorothy," said the Judge.

"Well, isn't it true that you had been having an affair with Lily's husband? Your sister's

husband?"

"I—I—"

"And that you planned to start a life with him? But Lily would have gotten in the way of

that, wouldn't she?"

"I—I—"

"There's evidence of that, too, Miss Dorothy, so I suggest you stop the act."

She buried her head in her hands, shaking it furiously.

"I—I—I guess?"

"Once again, you guess? Well, one last question, Miss Dorothy. Do you remember how

you felt after your sister was murdered?"

A silence rang through the room, louder than even Miss Dorothy's deafening heart beat.

Louder than the friction between her pant legs as she shook them up and down. Louder than the

withheld breaths of each of those distant relatives. She looked around the room and noticed not

one face that did not wish her dead.

She sighed. "Guilty. I felt guilty."

They gasped. A gavel banging, people shuffling, the judge calling a recess. She was taken

away.

"Yes, I was on the stand," she muttered at Dr. Daniels. "But I never said I was guilty."

"You said you felt guilty. Right?"

"Right."

"Why? What for?"

"I thought it was obvious."

"Well?"

She sighed. "The last I saw of my sister, alive, her face was red, puffy, she cursed at me,

lunged at me wanting to show me just how much I hurt her."

"So it was self-defense?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying. If anything I deserved to be hurt by her. It's not like she

would have done anything serious, she just wanted me to see."

"Then... what are you saying?"

"I cheated with my sister's husband. And the last I saw of her was her reaction. She was

so hurt she couldn't even remember that I was the one she held hands with when she was scared

of the monster under the bed, that I was the one she giggled with about embarrassing romance

moments and period stories. She didn't even know who I was anymore."

"Yes..."

"I had an affair with my sister's husband. And that's all she could think about when she

died."

"Are you still saying you didn't kill her, Dorothy? Really? Then why were you so guilty?"

"I felt guilty because I betrayed her! Her trust. Her love. Her last few moments..." She

gulped. "And because I am indeed the one who killed her."

"Finally!" Dr. Daniels screamed at the ceiling again, jumping up to celebrate.

But she continued. "I didn't wield the knife, but I killed her." She brought her hand to her

mouth and started shaking. Weeping. So loud a nurse came in.

The doctor stood still, mouth agape, breath caught in his throat.

"Is there a problem here, Dr. Daniels?" the nurse asked.

"Yes," he said. "I can't be her doctor anymore, take her back to her room."

"But, Dr.—"

"Take her back to her room!" he barked.

She took Dorothy by the arms, raised her from the gray cushioned chair. Dorothy fell to

her knees, limp. The room spun around her—stuffy, like that day in court.

Strong arms carried her out at some point; suddenly she was in her room, staring at the

white ceiling above.

Then she noticed a design she hadn't before. And then she laughed.

Lilies.

She grinned, as a tear trickled down her right temple.

"I will find you, Lily."

Ananda Pinheiro Mehta is a freshman studying Business and minoring in Creative Writing. She aims to make a difference in the areas of business sustainability and innovation, and hopes to keep writing about everything that fascinates her. In her free time, she enjoys spending time with friends and family and rewatching Gilmore Girls.