It’s the same thing she’s said all my life: She can’t leave me. She’s watching over me, like the east peak watches over the west one. She’s waiting for someone, but she doesn’t know who. She needs to tell me something, but she doesn’t know what.
The way I see it? If anyone’s crazy, it’s Iris, not me. At least in the last few years she’s stopped bringing these things up so much. But sometimes I sense such sorrow in her, like she’s lost or lonely, and that makes me sad because I don’t know how to help. Like now, for instance, when a shift occurs inside of me, and I feel her retreat to a place I can’t reach.
The scent of coffee swirls in to fill the void Iris leaves. I reach for my phone on the nightstand to text my best friend, Wyatt, who lives two miles up the road with his grandmother, Addie. Maybe he’ll come with us this morning to give me moral support. This college thing is too important to mess up. If Dad says no, I’m screwed—doomed to spend the next two years at Silver Lake Community College.
I text: Sunrise @ lookout w/me & Dad. U In? Back b4 u have 2 go 2 school.
I wait, and a few seconds later my phone vibrates with his response: thx 4 scaring me shitless @ freakin qtr to dawn.
I laugh and text: Lazy ass. Will u go?
Happy b.day, but no. Must get beauty rest. 50% of big-rig truck wrecks caused by driver sleep deprivation.
I roll my eyes: Dork. Get up. Going 2 tell dad abt OU. Need backup.
Another few seconds pass. Another vibration. Whoa. Wish I cld. Have 2 go in early 4 make-up test.
I groan. 4 real?
Yep, Wyatt answers. Sorry. You’ll do fine. B strong.
I wish I was as confident. Thx. Go back to sleep.
Plan to. Sleep-starved teens twice as likely to smoke crack. Bring U cupcake after school. w/sprinkles.
Sighing, I punch in: Dbl sprinkles.
So much for moral support. I guess I’m on my own.
Cookie’s tail thumps the mattress as I put aside my phone. I laugh. “Thanks, boy. I appreciate the offer. I didn’t mean to leave you out. You can ride with Dad, okay?”
Mom’s voice drifts from downstairs as I’m getting up. “I dread today, Adam,” she says. “I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but I can’t help it.”
“Shhh,” Dad says. “Lily will hear you.”
“She’s asleep. Besides, she listens to music all night.”
Cookie pants and stirs. I pat his muzzle to quiet him. Slipping from the bed, I walk to the head of the stairs where I can hear my parents more clearly.
“Don’t cry, Myla,” Dad says wearily when Mom makes a sobbing sound.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I can’t stop remembering.”
My muscles tense. Remembering what? Why would my birthday make her cry? Mom is always so emotional. She can obsess over the weirdest things. Once, she burst into tears when I told her I don’t like strawberry ice cream—that I’d rather have vanilla. For a long time after that, I wouldn’t eat ice cream at all because I didn’t want to upset her. Sometimes Mom can be as fragile as glass.
“It’s Lily’s birthday, honey,” Dad says. “Can’t you just relax and enjoy it?”
“She’s seventeen,” says Mom. “How did it happen so fast?”
Dad sighs. “This should be a happy day.”
“Happiness doesn’t last, you know that.” Mom makes a huffing sound. “Everything can change in an instant.”
After a long silence, Dad says, “I’ve been thinking, and I want to tell her.”
“No! Adam, you can’t.”
“Lily is almost an adult,” Dad says. “We can’t keep her here for the rest of her life. We’re in our sixties—”
“That isn’t old.”
“Maybe not, but we won’t be around forever. Besides, she’ll want to strike out on her own soon, and I’m starting to think that might not be a bad idea.”
“You think she should leave?” Mom asks, radiating alarm. “But she’s so vulnerable.”
“The truth will protect Lily more than we can,” says Dad. “We have to think of what’s best for her.”
“We have. Since the day she was born. We gave up everything.”
Nervous energy bursts inside of me; Iris is suddenly as alert as I am. What are they talking about? I ask her. Iris doesn’t answer, and her silence causes my skin to prickle. I hold my breath and strain harder to hear over the sudden loud beating of my heart.
“Nothing we gave up was important,” Dad says, frustration coloring his tone. “I don’t miss any