Page 55 of Iron Heart
Turns out, that’s the last time I’ll ever see Cyndi alive.
22
Tori
The next day, I wake up with my face smushed against a pillow that’s soaked through with my tears. My whole body feels like a washrag that’s had the last drops of moisture wrung from it.
It takes me a supreme effort to drag myself up into a sitting position and put my two feet on the cold wooden floor. I feel like I have the flu, but I know I’m not sick. I’m just…
I don’t know what I am.
But it’s like I’ve had all of the life sucked out of me.
I dress in some clothes I find piled on a chair, and slump down the stairs to the first floor. I open the front door.
Dante’s tool box is still there.
I can’t stand the thought of staying here today. I know if I stay in my house, I’ll spend the whole day hoping and waiting for Dante to come back for his tools.
I can’t do that to myself. I’ll go crazy. And I can’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I’ve been waiting around for him.
I have to get out of here. I have to get out of Ironwood.
Dimly, I realize it’s Saturday. The ghost of an idea comes to me through the miserable fog in my brain. I text Savannah and tell her I’m leaving town for the weekend.
Then I call my mom, and tell her I’m finally coming for that visit I promised.
On the road, I phone my dad. He’s thrilled when I tell him I’ll be “home” for the weekend. My dad has absorbed so much of my mom’s anger and the guilt since my diagnosis, he sometimes acts almost like he doesn’t have the right to be my parent anymore. He tentatively suggests maybe we could go out for a nice dinner that night. When I tell him that sounds great, he sounds so elated that a knife edge of remorse cuts through me. I tell him how much I’m looking forward to seeing him, and resolve to be a better, more attentive daughter going forward.
The drive from Ironwood to my mom’s house in the northern suburbs of Columbus takes just under two and a half hours. I get there just before noon, while my mom is still at her Saturday morning shift at her receptionist job for a real estate agency. I find the spare key under the decorative rock next to the attached garage, let myself in, and trudge up the stairs to my old bedroom.
It’s still pretty much the same as I left it when I used to live here. My mom lives here by herself now, but she keeps my room more or less the way it used to be when we were all together. My dad lives in a sparse one-bedroom apartment closer to downtown.
I set down my weekend bag on my bed and look around my room. All the mementos from my teen years stare back at me. The boy band posters. The decorative postcards from far-away places I used to pin on my wall, like a visual bucket list. A standing bookshelf is in one corner, housing everything from my first picture books, to the Babysitters Club series, to a dozen or so dog-eared romance novels. I know there are more books still in my closet — at least one full box of them, piled in with the other boxes of toys, diaries, and other trinkets and treasures.
All these reminders of my past. All the souvenirs of a girl who had dreams and hopes for the future that would never come to pass.
I wonder whether Dante’s got a pile of boxes from his childhood packed away somewhere. I know his parents are both dead, so there’s no family home anymore. There are no boxes of mementos stacked up in his mother’s attic. But maybe they’re somewhere, all the same. I wonder what’s in those boxes, if they exist.
The thought of Dante opens up a fresh rash of rawness. I shake the idea of him from my head and leave the room, going back downstairs.
The house is silent as I pad through it in my stocking feet. Mom has always had a strict rule about taking our shoes off when we come in the front door. It’s so silent that I can easily hear the muffled thud as our giant orange tabby, Schroeder, jumps down off of some counter and comes out to greet me with a low, rusty meow.
“Hey, Schroeder-Woder,” I croon, bending down to pick him up. “Oof, I forgot how heavy you are.”
He starts to purr loudly as I carry him into the living room and sit down on the overstuffed couch. I sit there with him on my lap for a few minutes and pet him absentmindedly, once again struck by the feeling that I’m in a time warp. My ten-year-old self, my nineteen-year-old self and my twenty-four-year-old self all coalesce here on the couch, all of us petting Schroeder. All of us contemplating the hundreds of times we’ve sat right here in this spot. Bored, or sad, or happy, or angry. Dreaming, or fuming, or just lazing around.
And right now, none of us knows what the hell we’re doing with our life.
When my mom comes home a couple of hours later, I’ve fallen asleep and I’m thoroughly covered in cat hair. Schroeder is nowhere to be seen. Mom gives me a hug, but holds herself back at a distance from me, because she’s wearing her work clothes.
“How was your trip, sweetie?” she asks as she motions for me to follow her up the stairs to her bedroom so she can change.
“It was fine. Uneventful.” I’m not going to tell my mom the reason I decided to come. The last thing I need is for her to ask me all sorts of prying questions about Dante. Especially because she would be less than thrilled to find out he’s a biker. And that I’ve been on his motorcycle, God forbid.
I lean against the doorjamb as she peels off her dark pants and sweater set, and pulls on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. When she’s finished, she bends down and peers into her makeup mirror, then combs her fingers through her short, blond hair, just a shade darker than mine.
“Well, I hope you’re staying until at least through Sunday afternoon. Sandra is having a group of us over for brunch tomorrow morning, and she wants you to come.”