Iris’s anxiety becomes my own as, on the screen, I see her splashing in a lake, and I realize that she’s the girl in all of Mom’s artwork. Shaking, I fast-forward through her childhood until she’s almost the age I am now. She’s standing on a stage, wearing the green beaded dress, the violin and bow in her hands. Behind her, a black man dressed in a tuxedo sits at a glossy piano. I use the remote to ease the volume up slightly as they begin to play.
The music drifts over me like a warm breeze, and despite everything that’s happened tonight, I gradually feel uplifted. At peace. I think of the change in Cookie after he heard me play this afternoon—the bolstering effect the music had on his mood.
“Oh, darling. I’m sorry,” Mom murmurs, and I drag my gaze from the television to look at her. She’s sitting up, a dark silhouette in the shadowed room, her voice distraught. My spirit tumbles again. Pushing from the chair, I go to her.
There are so many things I want to ask her. Why did she and Dad leave their old life behind? Why did they have me after Iris died? Was I just her substitute? A baby conceived to fill the void Iris’s death had left in their lives? If so, I failed. Mom said she loves me, but does she love me as much as she loved my sister?
Sitting beside Mom on the couch, I watch Iris on the screen and jealousy stabs me again and twists the knife. I take in her chic haircut, her poised posture, her grace and confidence. No wonder I don’t measure up to Iris in my mother’s eyes. I look exactly like my sister, but she was everything I’m not. When Mom looks at me, she must only notice what’s missing.
“Forgive me,” Mom whispers.
“Please don’t cry anymore,” I say. “I’m not mad at you or Dad. I just need to understand what’s happening.”
The light on the television screen flickers, illuminating her face, and I realize Mom’s watching Iris. She’s asking for my sister’s forgiveness, not mine.
Resentment fills my chest and hardens like concrete. But it just as quickly crumbles when I notice the deep creases of worry on Mom’s face and the sharp glitter of anxiety in her eyes. Encouraging her to lie down, I say, “You don’t have to worry anymore, Mom. Iris is happy.”
She clutches my arm, blinks up at me. “Is she, Lily?”
I focus in on the essence of my sister, aware of Iris’s distress. “Yes,” I tell Mom. It isn’t a complete lie. I know Iris has moments of happiness.
“How do you know?” Mom asks.
Measuring my words, I say, “I sense her feelings and hear what she’s thinking in my head. You said that she haunts me, but it isn’t like that. It’s—” I glance at the girl playing her soul out on the screen. “It’s like Iris is more than a ghost—like she’s a part of me.”
“But you said she’s in your head. That she won’t stop whispering. She must be so tormented.” Mom cups my cheek with her cold, trembling hand. “You both must be.”
“No, Mom. I was upset when I said that. Sometimes I do wish she’d let me have a minute to myself, but I would never want her to go away forever.”
The music ends. Applause erupts. On the television screen, Iris bows.
“She’s always been my friend,” I whisper. “I love her.”
In the video, my sister lifts her head and peers out at the audience. The applause intensifies. Iris looks directly into my eyes and smiles as a soft voice inside my mind says, I love you, too.
I sit on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, waiting for the sunrise. Iris hovers at the edge of my mind.
So many lost memories . . . , she says sadly. Why can’t I remember more than glimpses . . . the music . . . Jake?
Maybe it’s just going to take time for the rest. I sigh. The things in the tool chest are yours, aren’t they? Jake wrote the note to you.
Yes.
You loved each other.
Like crazy, Iris says.
I want to ask more, but she curls into that dark, silent place where I can’t reach her, as if she wants to be alone with her memories of Jake.
I pick apart all I know, piece by piece. For some reason, I