Outnumbered

I try to sort that out in my head but to no avail.

“Maybe you should tell me more about Iris as a child,” I say as I toss the butt of my cigarette into the fire. “Maybe I’ll understand better.”

“Iris was always damaged,” Netti says. “Even as a child, she had difficulty understanding why others were so good, and she was not.”

“Good? What do you mean?”

“Good in school, good at sports, good at games—just generally good at being people. Other children could throw and catch a ball, and Iris could not. They could read books with ease while Iris had difficulty figuring out the letters. Iris was envious even before Serenity got older. She was good at things, too.”

“But those things just require a little practice,” I say. “No one is good at them right away. You have to work at it.”

“Iris never saw it that way. She wanted to be perfect at everything right away. She would become very frustrated and angry when things didn’t work out for her. Seri was patient and took her time to learn new things.”

“So Iris was jealous of her sister?”

“Not exactly. Iris and Seri were very close. She loved her little sister. Iris was more frustrated with herself, but she didn’t like to show it. As she got older, Iris discovered the one thing she was really good at, and that was getting into trouble. She wasn’t just good at it; she reveled in it.”

“Iris liked being a teen rebel.”

“Initially, yes, but not after Seri was lost. Iris didn’t change her behavior, but the motivation was more self-destructive.”

“Why?”

“It was her fault, you know,” Netti says. “It was Iris’s fault that Seri died. She was supposed to take her little sister home after school, but she wanted to spend time with a boy. She could have given her sister money for the bus, but instead, Iris told Seri to walk home. That’s when it happened.”

A tight knot forms in my gut. Though the circumstances were completely different, I understood the level of guilt Iris must have felt. I felt the same when my mother said I had ruined her life.

“Iris was beyond devastated. Despite her troubles, she loved Seri. Seri was the only one Iris could really talk to—share her feelings with—and Seri was gone.

“After Seri’s funeral, Iris sat in the room that they shared and held the little green teddy bear she bought when Seri was sick, crying in silence. After a while, she began to talk to the bear, telling it how much she missed her little sister, Netti. I heard her crying, and I answered.”

A shudder runs through me. I want to take Iris in my arms and comfort her, but she isn’t here. Netti is so matter-of-fact, and I don’t think that she needs the comfort, but I still hurt for Iris. It’s a strange feeling and not one I am accustomed to experiencing.

I swallow hard and light another cigarette though I don’t really feel like smoking one. I just need something to do with my hands while I try to make sense of this.

“Every day after school, Iris sat in her room and talked to me. We talked about all the things she and Seri did when they were children, and I knew of these things because I was there, watching. We talked about what we would have done in the future.”

“You stopped being in the background,” I say.

“Yes. I was brought forth out of grief,” Netti says, “grief for a lost little sister.”

“But it wasn’t really Iris’s fault,” I say. “It was an accident. Sometimes accidents happen.”

“It was an accident, yes, but Iris knows it wouldn’t have happened if she had just driven her sister home like she was supposed to. She will never forgive herself for that.”

“So that’s when you came back and stayed? You weren’t silent anymore?”

“I was a constant presence for some time while Iris grieved. When she found other ways to cope—chemical ways—she did not always respond to me. When she established a relationship with Kyle, I was needed more often.”

“Because she was scared?”

“Because Kyle would hurt her. I would come and take the pain.”

The knot in my stomach turns into a burning sensation. Images of my father hitting my mother rush through my head, and I picture myself standing over Kyle with an axe in my hands.

I clear my throat and take another sip from my whiskey glass.

“Were there other times you came out?” I ask her.