I Am Iris

Chapter Eleven: Out of Reach, Out of Reality

My apartment was still spotted with cardboard boxes. Most of them were emptied then thrown into the trash (I don't know what the elderly have against recycling), but a few remained. Moth’s old couch was gone and replaced with another in better condition. Brand new, wooden picture frames lined every table and counter and were mounted on the walls. The abstract flower case I had given Moth for her birthday one year, the one with the quirky curves and polka dots was gone and replaced with one that was a boring brown. The yellow hand prints still remained on the walls, and I was honestly glad. After everything that was taken away, these still remained. I knew they would be painted over soon, but hopefully by then maybe I won’t care.

"Hey, it's Iris," I heard a gruff voice say as I entered.

My grandfather sat in his favorite black arm chair with his neck twisted around so he could smile at me. His white hair was practically gone, he was covered in wrinkles and weird spots, and he was an absolute twig.

"Hello," I greeted him soberly.

I hadn't noticed it before, but my grandmother was kneeling on the blue carpet, scrubbing it viciously. "Look at all these yellow stains! You practically destroyed this home," she scolded.

Gran slowly rose to her feet, gripping her back as she did so. "What’s that you're wearing? What on Earth is that?" She shook her head before looking at her silver watch. "Oh, darn. Look at the time. Hmm, well, I suppose we better get going."

Grand threw her sponge in the sink, then led Grandpa and I out the door. The elevator ride seemed horrendously long, which means it probably lasted a minute or two. After that awkward silence was over, we were rushed into an old, beat up, grey car that I couldn't identify if I tried. As I got in, I could have sworn I saw a dark haired boy watch from an apartment window.

Grandpa was humming along to the jazz music playing on the radio as he drove. Gran was sitting beside him, frantically fixing her hair. Then, she shot a glance at me and where I lay in the back seat.

"Oh, gosh! Gosh. Put your seat belt on, honey! You weren't raised by raccoons, now were you? Now were you? Iris, sweetie, were you?" Gran just kept on babbling on and on, until I had reached the breaking point. I put on the stupid seat belt with a groan.

"Your hair is a rightful mess. Absolutely horrid. No offense, dear," Gran said in an annoyingly sweet voice.

"Oh, c'mon. Leave Iris alone," Grandpa exhaled. “I’m sure she doesn’t even mind looking like a zombie, so why should we?” A zombie? I slept all day, and now I looked like a zombie, too? I was becoming Moth.

"I do! She's my granddaughter, and I think I deserve the right to calmly speak to her and just try to be honest!”

I simply rolled my eyes because I was too drained to start verbally attacking anyone this early in the morning.

She looked at me once again, this time with a genuine frown. "Oh, I'm sorry. I know this is a tough time for you and that it really isn't your fault you look like a zombie," she apologized. I honestly think she was trying to be sincere.

Then, the scream.

"Your shoes! Where are your shoes?"

"Aw, fudgesicle. I guess I forgot to put some on," I admitted. "But whatever! No one will even notice."

I watched as Gran clenched her jaw and Grandpa gave the slightest smile.

"I don't know how your mother managed. You are a handful, and that's a fact," Gran remarked.

"You're a fact," I retorted smugly.

"That doesn't even- ugh. Now, enough nonsense. I want this car turned around. Iris is not showing up at a funeral barefoot along with everything else!"