“So this life we’re living is really enough for you?”
“Lily’s enough,” he answers, bringing tears to my eyes.
“Of course she is,” Mom says more softly. “I’d leave it all again in a second. You know I would.”
Questions collide in my mind. What truth could Dad want to tell me? Why do they think I need protection? What did my parents give up for me?
I start to go down the stairs to ask, but Iris’s urgent whisper stops me. Wait. Listen. I hold back.
“When do you want to tell her?” Mom asks.
“After we get back from our ride this morning. You and I should do it together.”
“Something’s happened, hasn’t it? You’ve been tied up in knots ever since you came home from the coffee shop on Monday.”
“Nothing’s happened. Everything’s fine.” Despite his assurance, Dad’s voice stretches tight. “It’s just time. We have a responsibility to prepare Lily. Just in case.”
“But what if she hates us?”
“Myla . . . don’t you know your own daughter? Lily could never hate us.”
Cookie whines, then barks once, short and sharp, calling me back to bed. Mom and Dad must hear him because they stop talking. Dishes start clinking. The television comes on, the volume low. A weatherman predicts more snow later today.
Iris stirs beneath the surface of my skin. Do you understand any of this? I ask.
There’s something, she says. Like mist . . . too faint to grasp.
Confused by her vague comment, I calm Cookie, then head for the bathroom, still trying to sort out my parents’ conversation. A few minutes later, I emerge again with my face washed and my hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. Cookie inches to the edge of the mattress as I throw on some jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and a pair of wool socks. I help him hop down onto the rug, and he walks stiffly to the head of the stairs and sits, waiting while I lace my boots. “Come on, boy,” I say, and together we take the steps down to the cabin’s first floor.
Our living area and kitchen are one big room, connected to my parents’ bedroom, the guest room, and the downstairs bath by a short hallway. Dad sits at the kitchen table and he glances up when he hears me, his brown eyes twinkling beneath his bushy gray brows. “Good morning, Doodlebug. Happy birthday.”
I smile, but I’m too nervous to hold his gaze. His face shows no sign of the strain I sensed when he and Mom were talking. He’s shoving his feet into his boots, yesterday’s newspaper folded beside the placemat in front of him.
“Happy birthday, darling,” says Mom.
“Thanks.” I let Cookie outside, then look across at her. She moves slowly from the table to the sink and back again, her arms crossed tightly. She has on a baggy wool sweater, black sweat pants, and sheepskin slippers. Deep lines I’ve never really noticed etch the skin around her mouth. Mom looks tired and old this morning.
“Are you feeling okay?” I ask her, wondering if her lupus has flared up again. That led to her rheumatoid arthritis, and now the knuckles on her fingers bulge like knots on a branch. During a flare-up the symptoms are worse.
“I’m fine,” she says. “Just a little tired.” Her weak smile suddenly widens into a real one. “And excited,” she says playfully.
“Excited about what?” I follow her gaze to the floor beneath the coffee table, where I see a box wrapped in white paper and topped with a big yellow bow. “What’s that?” I ask, stooping to reach for it.
“Hands off!” says Dad in a teasing tone. “You’ll find out later.”
Grinning, I stand and walk toward them. I kiss the top of Dad’s head, then wrap my arms around Mom. She hugs me a little too tightly as I stare over her shoulder at the framed sketch of a violin that hangs on the wall above the table. Mom did it before her arthritis made sketching and painting too painful. That was her violin in the sketch. She used to play when she was young, but she stopped before I was born to concentrate on her artwork.
“What’s for breakfast?” I ask, stepping out of her embrace.
Mom tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Blueberry muffins. They’ll be ready when you and Dad get back from your ride. I’ll fry bacon, too, and scramble some eggs.” Turning, she straightens the tablecloth, then rearranges the silverware already laid out for three. Without looking at me