“How did my sister die?” I ask.
“She had leukemia.”
“When did she die?”
“May nineteenth. The year before you were born. She turned seventeen on May sixth.”
“May sixth is my birthday,” I say.
“The two of you were born on the same day,” Mom explains, sounding wrung out and ancient. “Eighteen years apart.”
My mind stumbles over that freaky twist of fate. “What did Dad mean when he asked me to reassure him that the two of you had ‘done the right thing’?” I ask.
In a harsh whisper, she says, “I don’t know.” But I don’t believe her.
“He was going to tell me about Iris when we got home, wasn’t he? How can knowing about her protect me? That’s what Dad said to you that morning—that the truth is my only protection.”
No answer.
Trembling with anger, I say, “Did the two of you run away to Silver Lake?”
Her head jerks toward me. “Run away? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Stop lying! Did you even know how to play the violin or is that a lie, too?”
“I played,” Mom says. “When I was a girl. But not like Iris. Nobody could play like her.”
“I can,” I say. “I played today.” But I’m not sure she hears me.
Covering her face with her hands, Mom starts weeping again. “Iris helped me, but I couldn’t help her. So I did what I had to. I don’t regret it. You don’t know how it is to lose a child. I couldn’t just let her go. I couldn’t.”
Confused by what she’s saying, I cross to the couch and sit beside her. I push her hair back, still upset, but hurting for her, too.
“Your father and I—we loved her so much.” Mom lowers her hands, and her eyes meet mine. “We love you, too, Lily. I love you. But it’s been so difficult.” She cups my cheek. “How can I move on when I see her every time I look at you?”
Her comment stings like a slap, but she’s my mother, and I can’t stand to see her in so much pain. Taking her hands, I say, “You said you don’t regret what you did to help Iris. What do you mean?”
I can tell my words don’t reach her. She squeezes her eyes shut, caught in a landslide of mindless grief.
“I’m so sorry,” Mom whispers, gripping my fingers. “We never imagined that Iris would haunt you. In a way, she’s haunted all of us.”
I lie in bed next to Cookie for an hour listening to my iPod with the volume turned up so I won’t hear Mom’s crying or Iris’s frenzied pacing around in my mind. When the playlist ends, I pull the earbuds out. The house is quiet. Iris is, too.
I go downstairs again and find Mom asleep on the couch, tossing restlessly. On the coffee table beside her, her vial of sedatives sits next to a stack of books.
I pick up the VCR remote and turn on the television, muting the volume. After hitting rewind, I retreat to a corner chair. The tape makes a whirring noise as it scrolls back to the very start of the cassette, and when it finishes, I click play.
Over the next several minutes, my sister’s life unfolds before me, beginning just after her birth. I’m completely aware of Iris watching along with me, mesmerized by each image on the screen, as numb with shock as I am.
In the video, our parents are so young that I almost don’t recognize them. They’re all smiles and wonder as they wiggle Iris’s fingers and toes, their joy so overwhelming I can almost feel the warmth of it flowing from the television set.
On the couch, Mom murmurs disjointed sentences in her sleep as I watch Iris grow into a toddler, surrounded by my parents and other adoring people I don’t know. A young woman with frizzy brown bangs and squinty eyes behind funky glasses who resembles Dad. A tall, skinny man with big ears and a grin that covers half of his face. An older couple about the age my parents are now. I wonder if they might be my grandparents.
Yes, Iris says. I’m not sure about the other two. So much is still hazy.
Envy spears me. Iris knew our grandparents. Why haven’t I ever met them? Or these other people who were once important in my parents’ lives? Why weren’t they ever even mentioned?
What else do you remember? I ask.
We were happy. Then something bad happened. I was so scared.
You got sick.
Something else. Something they made