Wildflower (3 page)

Camden had told Iris that Mercury was in retrograde.  In astrology, that meant things were about to go haywire.  It was definitely wreaking havoc in Iris’ life.  Certainly, the most devastating blow was the death of her mother, Jolene.  But she had neither the time nor the inclination to cry about it. As a matter of fact, she thought she’d be relieved, that she’d feel the burden of her mother lifted from her.  She thought she’d finally feel free. Instead, there was a dull aching in her heart like a menacing bout of indigestion. Like a pocket of gas that lingered in one spot refusing to move.  She’d suffered at the hands of her mother nearly all of her life and, now that she was gone, the suffering continued — but in the form of regret, remorse, and guilt.

It had been seven years since Iris had been back to Cicero where her mother lived — where Iris and her brother spent the latter part of their childhood.  Nothing had changed.  The house was exactly the way it had been when she left — every broken board, missing brick, chipped mortar, and patch of dirt where grass might have grown had it been tended. It was all the same, and it sickened her.

Mrs. Taliafero from across the street saw Iris standing in front of the house and ran out to greet her, along with her great grandson who toted a large bin.  She’d been collecting Jolene’s newspapers and mail since the ‘For Sale’ sign was staked in the yard several months ago, shortly after Idris moved Jolene into the nursing home.  The stack of mail had accumulated so long that Mrs. Taliafero packed it into a Rubbermaid bin.  The newspapers, well… she read them then threw them out.  The news would’ve been old by then, anyway.

Iris chitchatted with the neighbor and thanked her for the mail.  She had no idea that Idris had put Jolene in a nursing home, or that he’d put the house for sale.  She hadn’t learned any of this until she arrived in Chicago… just in time to watch her mother breathe her last breath.  She would have preferred that Idris demolish the eyesore — burying mom, the house, and all its memories at the same time.

Once the elderly woman made it back home with the aid of her great grandson, Iris rifled through the bin of mail. The note she’d mailed to her mother was buried in the middle. The pink and yellow envelope with the gold foil seal stood out among the sales flyers, bills, and magazines. She retrieved it from the bin, ripped open the envelope and unfolded the note card inside. It read:

She balled the card as tightly as she could and held it close to her heart. She was angry the day she wrote that note and was glad her mother was too ill to receive it.  She had written it after she’d received a rather nasty phone call from Jolene, who reminded her that she was useless.  If Iris could’ve seen past her own pain, she might’ve known that Jolene was just lashing out at her because she was scared and alone. Iris loved her mother, but hated what she became. Nonetheless, she was grateful her mother hadn’t left this world feeling the sorrow that such a note might have evoked.

Inside the house, she climbed the old creaky stairs that rose to the second floor where all of the bedrooms were located. Rooms where she and Idris spent most of their time. The memories crowded her mind as the familiar smells drew them forward.

Walking the short corridor, she opened the door to each of the rooms as she passed, where a musty depression escaped and lingered in the air.  She stopped at the small closet outside of the bathroom. Most people kept their linen there, but not her mother, though. She used the linen closet to house her many pairs of shoes.

Iris remembered when she was a child she used to play with her mother’s high heels and would slide her tiny feet into shoes that swallowed them.  She’d drag-clip, drag-click, and stumble while trying to strut in the stiletto heels. Her mother frowned on it saying that only bad women wore high-heeled shoes, which baffled Iris because her mother owned them.

Iris shuddered at the realtor’s touch — she had startled her — closed the closet, and turned her attention to the realtor.

“If you want, I can give the new owners the keys now, but you can stay as long as you need to,” the realtor offered.

Iris looked around at the sunlight beaming through the bedroom doors, converging in the hallway.  She looked up at the water stained ceiling then around the door frames that had separated from the wall.  She gave some attention to the dull, warped wood floors then turned towards the outdated bathroom where she and Idris were often forced to bathe together… to conserve water.

She walked to the master bedroom, which was only a few feet away — the house was quite small. Two-stories made it seem larger than it actually was.  She peered through the door into the room that her mother had once shared with her stepfather.  A lump formed in her throat. Her stomach churned. Her hands trembled.  Flashes of her stepfather, who she and Idris called Pops, rushed through her mind. She saw his face so clearly, as if he was standing right in front of her, screaming, his putrid breath assaulting her.  Frozen in time, her body reacted as if she had traveled in time back to those moments – her heart raced, knees knocked, armpits perspired.  The voice of the realtor snapped her out of what felt like a hypnotic state.

“Iris? Are you okay?”

She nodded while staring into the master bedroom where her mother’s bed once stood. She couldn’t help envisioning her mother lying there in her cluttered bedroom with the drapes drawn, blocking out the daylight and the rest of the world.  What kind of loneliness must it have been lying helplessly in a drafty dark room, hearing the sounds, laughter, and voices of the world going on without her?  How many times had her angry weeping penetrated the walls, scratching and clawing to get out?

Her mother had become irrelevant and the pain and knowledge of it must’ve been unbearable.  Tears spilled down Iris’ cheeks, but the misty beads of sweat masked them. 
“I hate you. Sometimes I wish you weren’t my child,”
she remembered her mother shouting because Iris reminded her too much of the man who’d abandoned her — Idris’ and Iris’ biological father. Iris had been ten years old when her mother told her she hated her. Idris, however, was the favored one. Jolene had always been kind and accommodating to him. Iris closed the master bedroom door and looked at the realtor with troubled eyes.

“I know this must be hard for you,” the realtor said.

Iris took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m sure my brother asked you to allow me to come before the new owners arrived.  Actually, I’m not quite sure why I came.”

“Maybe you wanted to have one last look, say goodbye.”

“I said my goodbyes a long time ago. This house has no value to me,” Iris said.  But it wasn’t the monetary value of the house she referred to, it was the weight of the memories associated with the house that vexed her.

As Iris handed the duplicate keys to the realtor, her cell phone buzzed.  Looking at the screen, she saw that it was a text message from the attorney letting her and Idris know that the transaction had been completed. That meant the money from closing escrow had been deposited into the account the attorney created on her and Idris’ behalf.

The realtor made some conciliatory remark but Iris was already walking down the stairs, making a quick exit from the house. Once outside, she exhaled as if she’d held her breath the entire time she’d been in that house. That house, the setting where most of her nightmares took place, would finally haunt someone else.

She tossed and turned for hours until she gave up on sleeping.  Iris had been dreaming of the old family house again.  She had seen her mother’s emaciated face with her hollow mouth dropped open and terror in her black eyes.  Even now, in this quiet room, she felt the chill that had carried over from the dream. For a moment, she couldn’t shake the feeling of seeing her mother like that. She could almost hear her mother’s voice and Pops’ feet stomping on the floor. It was clear as day. Vivid. As if they’d been standing in the room with her.

She looked at her clock. It was three in the morning.  She sat on the edge of her bed for a moment, trying to detract herself from her thoughts and ignore her throbbing headache. Slipping into her house shoes, she made her way to the bathroom where she filled a glass with water. She retrieved a bottle of aspirin from the medicine cabinet and popped two pills in her mouth, swallowing them down with the water.

She fingered her curly hair until it was somewhat smooth then plaited it into a French braid. Staring into the mirror at herself, she saw her mother’s face. She’d always been told that she was the spitting image of her mother. Iris hated it, too.  Not that Jolene wasn’t beautiful — she was.  Still, she hated that she looked like her mother.  As she looked in the mirror at her olive skin, Greek nose, and silky curly hair, she clearly saw Jolene’s face — or what Jolene had looked like before the alcohol ravaged her and before her husband beat her until her face became deformed.  Most people told Iris she looked like Jessica Biel, and she certainly preferred the comparison to Jessica Biel over the comparison to her mother.

She tiptoed into the living room to watch TV, but there was nothing on but infomercials. She turned off the TV then searched Idris’ bookcase for something to read. Memoirs, biographies, self-help, business… Idris did not own one book of fiction, just the serious stuff.  No wonder he was wound so tight.  She walked down the hall and peered into his room through the cracked door. She whispered his name, hoping he’d be awake, too.  Cautiously, she walked into the darkened room, slowly climbing onto the bed and lying beside him, like she did when she was a child after bad dreams.

There weren’t many boundaries between Iris and Idris. Growing up, they shared nearly everything. Perhaps that was the bond of twins. She’d often climb into his bed when they were kids.  Even when their mother gave them separate rooms, one would inevitably end up in the other’s room.  They were each other’s comfort in their dysfunctional, alcoholic, abusive family. While Idris was close to their mother, he hated Pops. Iris liked neither their mom nor their stepdad.  They were toxic people, and Iris resented both of them. But now they were gone. Their stepfather had died many years earlier, leaving Jolene alone, wallowing in pity and self-loathing.

Idris touched Iris’ hand that rested on his shoulder. “What’s up, Iris?” he said without turning over or opening his eyes.

“I didn’t know it would hurt like this,” she said, her throat quivering.

Idris reached for the lamp and turned it on.  He positioned himself to face Iris, who was clearly distraught.

“I mean, I thought I’d feel relieved once she was gone. But I don’t.  I feel so awful. I can’t find the words to describe it accurately. It’s an emptiness I’ve never experienced before.”

“You miss the fight,” he said, trying to lighten the moment.

“Remember that fight we had when Pops put his hands on me and Mom defended him instead of me?”

“Yeah. You were like a little pit bull. It took a small army to get you off his drunk ass.”

“Oh, the fond memories of our joyous childhood,” she said sarcastically.

“I used to think you got away with murder. But now I know you did what you did to protect yourself.”

“I resented mom for not standing up for me. She never did. Ever. And I couldn’t wait for the day that she left this world. Now that she’s gone, I feel worse than I felt when she was alive. Will I always be haunted by that woman?”

“She loved you, Iris. She just didn’t know how to show you.”

She moved closer and rested her head on his chest.  His cotton pajama top was soft against her skin.  He wrapped his arm around her and she snuggled closer.  She was silent for a long while. They simply comforted each other in the stillness of the moment.

He slapped her butt.  “Go get in your bed. You’ll be fine. We’ll both be fine. Mom is no longer in her misery. She’s finally free. We should both find some peace in that.”

“Maybe.”

They were quiet a little while longer. Iris hadn’t budged from her position, cradled in her brother’s arm, resting her head on his chest.

“I’m thinking of staying in Chicago indefinitely.  If I did, could I stay with you until I got on my feet?”

“Of course. I’d love that. What’s the deciding factor?”

“Well, I kinda already made the decision, I’m just figuring out how to make it work.”

“Don’t worry about money if that’s an issue.”

“I’d be starting over from scratch. Chicago will be my ground zero. I’d have to go back to Houston for my car and clothes but that’s about it.”

“Then do it,” he said, kissing the top of her head.  “Can I go back to sleep? Please?”

“Okay.” She kissed Idris on the lips and went back to her room.

***

Iris sat on her bed and grabbed her phone.  She sent a text to Camden to tell him about her plans.  She was excited that she’d have a new beginning.  She would live with Idris for a little while and get reacquainted with Chicago. 
Exhilarating
!  Until she noticed a missed call and voicemail message from Peter.  The date stamp was from a week ago — the same day she’d seen him in front of the cleaners. She wasn’t sure how she’d missed it until now.

She already suspected that he’d want to spill the beans about Sara. Surely Sara wouldn’t have the guts to tell Iris herself.  Judging from the looks of things, Sara’d be giving birth soon enough. Did Iris really need him to confess to her — even though she’d seen the truth for herself?  Would hearing him say the words give her any sense of relief from the betrayal she felt? For months, she wondered what she had done to make him leave. Had she nagged too much about wanting to start a family? Had she not kept herself sexy enough, young enough, relevant enough?

After she decidedly moved on with her life, he resurfaced.  What the hell did he want, calling as if she’d drop everything for him like she used to? Who the hell did he think he was? Did he think she was so forgiving that he could throw her away and she’d be okay about it?

She didn’t bother listening to the message.  She deleted it, then went into her contacts and deleted Peter from her phone.  There was a sense of finality in doing that.  She’d not been able to delete him before now.  She lay her head on the pillow and stretched out on the bed.  She grabbed the other pillow, placed it on her face, and screamed into it.  No tears though.  Just a release of dreadful pain.