From where I’m standing, I can see straight into her eyes. They used to be a vibrant blue, much like my own. I’ve always been told I look like her. Sandy blond hair that falls in loose waves down my back and large blue eyes. Now, we no longer look alike. Her blond hair has gone gray, and her eyes have lost their sparkle.
But at least they’re no longer blank. Staring at her, looking into her eyes, I can see recognition. I give her a tight smile, taking a step closer to her, and reach for her hand.
“I don’t know, Mom,” I answer, my voice low with uncertainty.
She pulls her hand from mine, lifting and running it through her disheveled hair. She pushes the strands around as if trying to tidy up and look presentable for him. If my father wasn’t such a prick, I would think it was cute. But unfortunately, he is, and she deserves better.
She deserves to be someone’s everything.
“I saw him before. He was here . . . angry.” Her voice dips on the last word.
My eyebrow lifts. I didn’t see him, but he probably was here. I don’t doubt it.
It would make sense; he comes and goes as he pleases without a care in the world. He gives no shits of the havoc he causes Mom. Especially when he is angry. And he has been furious recently.
On edge.
Another reason I stay here. Her being alone here is not an option.
Just in case.
I don’t trust my father. It’s not that I think he’d hurt her, but something is off with him. I’ve often wondered if Trent realizes something is up. I’d ask him, but he’s too busy running around the city, and we don’t catch up that often.
No two siblings could be further apart or more different.
I’m a homebody. I like the simple things in life. I live at home and tend my garden and work part-time as a florist.
He’s all about the money and prestige. The nightlife. Living fast and hard. He’s so cliché.
The paps love him.
He’s their favorite “billionaire trust fund boy.” Although by the looks of the house I live in, I’m not sure the title fits anymore.
Listen, I don’t judge him. If he wants to party and play the field, that’s fine for him. I want none of that, but that doesn’t make me miss him less.
“Are the flowers blooming?” My mother’s voice pulls me out of my faraway thoughts. It’s nice to hear. It sounds so crisp, reminding me of good times. When Dad was here, and the madness hadn’t taken root in her mind yet. It reminds me of when the backyard is speckled pink and lush and vibrant.
There is hope in her voice. Reaching my hand out once again, I take her frail one in mine. “Not yet, Mom. But soon.”
She nods her head, and then like a channel changing on a TV, she’s no longer here with me. She’s gone somewhere else. Somewhere far in her mind. A heavy sadness weighs down on me, filling my veins slowly. The sound of her footsteps leaving the room makes me take action, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m back outside.
The first flowers won’t bloom in our garden for another few months. But I still welcome the balmy winter day. Because days like today bring her back, even if only for a short time.
With my knees back on the hard, weathered grass, I pull again, lifting the earth with my hands. Loose soil sifts through my fingers like grains of sand passing the time.
A noise coming from in front of where I am, has me looking up to see who’s there. “Trent?” I say, lifting my hand up to cover the sunlight. My older brother steps out from the shadows. “What are you doing here?”
“Can’t I come to check on my sister?” He tries to say this in a joking manner, but his tone doesn’t match his words.
I lift a brow in speculation. “You could, but then you wouldn’t be my brother.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” He halts his steps and then stares at me.
With the bright light gleaming down on me, I can’t see him well. I place my shovel on the ground, and then I stand before making my way to him. When he’s directly in front of me, I look at him closely and then shake my head.
He looks like shit.
Normally handsome, he seems rundown and tired. Large dark circles and dull eyes make it appear as though he hasn’t slept in days.
“Did you come here straight from the bar?” I incline my head to get a better look before narrowing my eyes. On top of his appearance, Trent is acting strange. He’s bouncing from foot to foot, almost as though he’s high or in withdrawal from drugs. “Why are you acting like this?”
“Like what?”
“Cagey,” I respond. “Are you high?”
“No, Ivy.” His voice is stern, not even trying to mask his annoyance at my question. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it, though? You show up out of nowhere, and you look like . . . shit,” I deadpan.
He takes a deep breath, then shakes his head. His signature smirk appears on his handsome face, and a glimmer of his normally playful personality pops through. It reminds me of when we were kids, and we used to play in the dirt together. Trent would grab Mom’s watering hose and sprinkle us like it was raining. After playing for hours, we would both be drenched, and Mom would watch us as she gardened, laughing. “You’re not being very nice, sis.”
“And you are being shady as fuck.” I place my hands on my hips and purse my lips. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I told you.” He stops talking and starts to pace back and forth on the patio in the backyard. His short-lived good mood fading faster than a mirage in a desert.
What’s going on with him?
This is odd behavior, even for Trent. I watch as he walks, his mouth moving as if he’s talking to himself, but no words come out, and then he’s pulling out his phone from his pocket. His shoulder tense as he reads what I assume is a text message.
“Everything okay?” I ask him.
He looks exhausted and beat as he lifts his free hand and runs it through his light brown hair.
“It will be,” he says before letting out a sigh. Whatever the text was about is obviously not good because he looks worse off than when he first got here.
“You’re worrying me. Are you sure? If you need help—”
He raises his hand to stop me from talking, and I do. Normally, I would fire back a witty comment about how rude it is to butt in, but something tells me I shouldn’t. Maybe it’s the circles under his eyes or the way his brow furrows, but I decide to shut my mouth instead and hear what he has to say.
“I’m not using drugs, Ivy, but I appreciate the concern. Can’t I just be here to see my baby sister?”
I opt for a joke, trying to cut the tension hovering in the air between us. “Yes. If that brother is anyone but you.” He chuckles, and then I begin to laugh too. I love the sound of his laughter. He places his hand against his chest in mock disbelief. “Just keeping it real, bro.” I miss this version of my brother.
We both go quiet after our momentary reprieve from the tension. It’s once again awkward and uncomfortable, and although I’m not close with my brother anymore, it feels wrong. With his shoulders slumped forward, he kicks the dirt with his shoe before looking up and meeting my stare.
“Is Mom okay?” He finally breaks the silence.