Izzy’s still on the swings, but she’s going much slower now, not flying through the air like a kamikaze pilot. In the swing beside her is Xavier who’s being pushed by Chel. His little hands are clutched tight around the chains of his swing as his mom gently pushes him forward. He kicks his feet in the air and squeals. His attention is focused on Izzy, who is singing to herself—practicing for an upcoming choir performance most likely—while Chel’s only got eyes for Xavier. So she’s an attentive mom and about one step above being a crack whore. Doesn’t mean I have to like her.
“Sissy!” Izzy’s squeal makes my ears ring. I swear she has the same scream she did when she was just a baby. From the time she could talk, I was “Sissy.” It warms my cold, tired heart to know that even though she’s close to hitting double digits that I’m still Sissy—even if I’m a sucky sister. The crazy kid’s picking up speed and sailing up into the air now, pumping her legs, and pushing herself to go higher. I’ll give the kid credit where credit is due—she’s damn good at the swings. A real pro at getting good height with a minimum number of pumps. Dad and I may have been basically estranged before his death, but I know he’d be proud of her swinging skills too. I look around to find Barbara still at the picnic table but with her eyes glued to the swings. It’s got to be tearing her up to watch this shit.
Izzy jumps off the swing and flies through the air with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on her face. She’s so high up and so small that I get freaked out that she’s going to hurt herself trying to land her Olympic jump, and I move in to catch her. She lands in my arms with a thud that leaves me breathless and reminding myself to stay up-to-date with my birth control. Because if sweet little Izzy does crazy shit like this, then I want no fucking part in the baby making business. No wonder all the moms I know always look so tired and ready to jump off a cliff.
“Hey! I could have landed that!” she says and squirms in my arms. I set her down and force myself to shake it off.
“It’s like you’re trying to give me a heart attack,” I mutter and brush her dark brown hair away from her eyes.
“You want to swing with me? We don’t have to swing if you don’t want to. We could play with the squirt guns. Mom said Stephen has to share, and I want you to teach me how to shoot people,” she says while bouncing on the soles of her shoes. This crazy little girl in purple shorts and a hot pink shirt with a unicorn on it who can’t sit still and loves everything feminine wants to learn how to shoot. Shit. I can’t believe I was going to stay home and miss out on this all because I was way too into feeling sorry for myself.
“Why do you want to learn how to shoot?”
“Because Daddy taught you how to shoot, and you’re really good at it, and you help people. Mom says I can’t shoot a gun, but she also says I can’t eat candy before dinner and I don’t listen to that either.”
“I’ll talk to your mom about it,” I say and plop down on the grass and pull her into my lap. “But I think Dad would want you to wait until you’re older. Guns are serious business, and he didn’t teach me until I was sixteen.” Liar. I’m such a liar. He started me off on BB guns when I was younger than she is now. By the time I was a teenager, I had my own piece—that Dad kept safe for me—and I knew all the pressure points in the human body. But there’s no way in hell I’m telling my little sister that.
“Ugh,” she whines and throws her head against my chest. “Fine.”
“I want to stay and play with you, but I have something important to do for work. I have to help someone very important, and I have to go right now, but I wanted to make sure to tell you happy birthday before I go.”
“You’re not even staying for cake? Cake is one of the major food groups!” Her jaw is practically in the grass, and her eyes are as wide as saucers. Barbara is probably displeased that I’ve taught her daughter the importance of routine cake consumption for proper health.
“Save me a slice?”
“I can’t promise anything,” she says with her cute little nose in the air. Diesel is rubbing off on me in a seriously fucked way. I love Stephen and Izzy—always have—but I’m way happier in this moment with this kid than I ever have been.
My left hand finds its way to the thick silver chain around my neck that has a single silver feather hanging from it. The necklace was a gift from my father’s mother the only time I got to meet her. I love this necklace and almost never take it off.
“Did Dad ever tell you about his childhood?”
“I don’t know,” she says and shrugs her shoulders like she doesn’t care, but her eyes are fixed on me.