Iridian had nowhere to be, so she got up last.
On this particular Sunday, which she hoped would be the same as every other Sunday, Iridian got dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen. After pouring some cereal—chocolate puffs, her favorite—she hopped up on the counter so she could have a better view of Rosa, who was sitting on a wooden chair in the middle of the backyard, facing away from the house. When Rosa wasn’t outside, her long hair was the blandest shade of tree-bark brown, but in the sun, especially the morning sun, it was an array of earth tones: pecan, rust, russet.
Rosa’s hands were resting on her lap. Her palms were facing up. The light morning breezes tugged at the folds of her faded red dress and the gleaming strands of her hair.
Next door, Mrs. Moreno was out watering the cherry tree she’d just planted. She was frowning at Rosa but also at the Torreses’ backyard. It had always been more dirt than grass, and in a corner close to the alley was a pile of mangled metal—the bent carcass of a swing set, the remains of a trampoline, and the rusted frame of a trundle bed. Eventually, Mrs. Moreno realized that Iridian was spying on her spying. Their gazes caught, and Iridian raised her hand to give the older woman a wave. Mrs. Moreno’s upper lip stuck on dry teeth in her attempt to smile. As she turned away, the arc of water from her hose swung from the cherry tree to a sorry-looking rosebush that was losing its battle against summer.
Iridian watched as Rosa’s shoulders lifted, then lowered. It was a tiny, almost imperceptible movement: a sigh. Iridian saw that little sigh every Sunday morning, and every Sunday morning, it killed her. The day had just started, but already Rosa was disappointed. She woke up full of hope only to have that hope punctured.
Iridian was shoveling in another spoonful of cereal when Rosa stood, dragged her chair back to the porch, and came inside.
“Any luck?” Iridian asked, as the screen door bounced in its frame.
Rosa shook her head and ran her hands over her dress to try to smooth out the creases. She may have been the youngest Torres sister, but Rosa dressed as if she were older—older, like from another century. She wore the same thing every day: a thrift-store dress and bulky brown oxfords. The dresses were short-sleeved, with hems that went at least to her calves, and were buttoned all the way down the front. They reminded Iridian of the kind of clothes that women in Depression-era photographs wore, more fit for standing in a bread line than going to church.
“There was nothing,” Rosa replied. “For a second I thought there might have been something, but . . .”
Out in front of the house, a car honked its horn.
“Tell Walter and Mrs. Mata hello,” Iridian said.
The Matas had been Rosa’s ride to church every Sunday for a year. Walter was a year and a half older than Rosa, and they’d gone all through elementary school and junior high together. The Torres sisters’ neighbors and parents of classmates had all taken on various roles—there were bringers of casseroles and mowers of lawns. Mrs. Mata had become transporter to church. The rest of the Torres family stopped going to regular mass soon after Ana died, but Rosa’s faith remained big enough for all of them. At Ana’s vigil, their old priest Father Canty told Rosa she was special—“full of God” or “touched by God,” something like that. He’d insisted Rosa had a purer heart than most people. It was a gift that needed to be nurtured, honed, and then put to use. According to the old priest, if Rosa tried very hard and was very patient, she could see into the hearts of God’s creatures, especially those that were small and in need of care. He said her purpose in this life was to soothe the suffering of others.
Father Canty died in his sleep exactly two weeks after Ana’s funeral, so he was never able to guide Rosa any further down her spiritual path than that. His replacement was a much younger man, Father Mendoza, who, shortly after arriving to town, got in a fistfight with the still grief-stricken Rafe Torres in the produce section of the grocery store and swore he’d never come near the family again. Iridian was fine with that—she’d fallen asleep during mass for as long as she could remember; the droning words of the sermon softly bounced off her head, never finding their way in—and Jessica had never liked priests because she’d always hated old men telling her what to do. Jessica thought Father Canty’s message to Rosa meant that she should volunteer at the children’s hospital or the food pantry. Rosa, though, interpreted creatures “small and in need of care” as the animals around the neighborhood, and her sisters eventually just went with it.
“Dad’s not in his room,” Jessica declared, entering the kitchen and pinning her name tag to her shirt. “Mrs. Mata’s outside, Rosa.”
The horn sounded again, and Rosa blinked, like she’d briefly forgotten where she was.
“I can’t find my keys,” Rosa said. “But you’ll be here all day, right, Iridian?”
“That’s the plan.”
Rosa fluttered away, out of the kitchen and through the living room. Once the front screen door clicked shut, Iridian turned to her older sister. Jessica’s work uniform consisted of a blue collared shirt and khakis, and it was obvious she’d gone the extra mile that morning to try to offset the unflattering clothes she was forced to wear. Long, loose curls fell down past her shoulders. She smelled like burned hair and aerosol. Her eyes were rimmed with black pencil, and her lips were painted a deep plum color.
“There’s cereal if you want some,” Iridian said.
“Did you hear me? Dad’s not in his room. He won’t answer his phone, either.” Jessica paused. “I’m worried about him—because of today.”
Because of today.
Iridian knew, despite how hard she might hope, that this Sunday wouldn’t be like all the other Sundays. That was because this Sunday was June ninth, a year to the day her sister Ana had fallen to her death from her window. Iridian had woken up sick in her sadness—even if sadness didn’t come close to describing the deep, persistent gnawing that she felt. Emotions were hard for Iridian. She liked to read about them in books, but hated when they crept and settled in her own bones. They made her edgy. They made her sweat. Over the course of the last year, she’d convinced herself she’d gotten really good at ignoring them, brushing them aside, dodging them like a car swerving around a dead animal in the road.
“Dad stayed out.” Iridian swallowed a mouthful of now-soggy chocolate globes. “He probably met some fine lady last night and—”
“Stop.” Jessica put up her hand and then snatched her car keys off the kitchen table. “I get it. Just let me know when you hear from him, alright?”
Once Jessica was gone, Iridian finished the last of her breakfast, drank the milky dregs, and put the bowl in the sink. Upstairs in her room, she climbed under the covers, then reached under her pillow for her favorite book, The Witching Hour by Anne Rice, which she was just starting again even though she’d already read it over a dozen times. The paper cover had fallen off and was now rubber-banded to the rest of the pages. Iridian could practically recite entire paragraphs by memory, especially the sexy parts between Rowan and Lasher, the ghost that, for centuries, had plagued the women of the Mayfair family, women who also just so happened to be witches.