Page 76 of Iridescent
The air is cooler here, carrying the dry fragrance of herbs from Yiayia’s garden and that faint earthy smell of leaves settling into the soil. A breeze moves through the trees, sending a scatter of fallen leaves skittering across the path. I wheel my suitcase to the gate and lift the latch. The metal gives with a rusty squeal, and I step through, letting the gate swing shut behind me.
The stone path curving toward the back garden lies dappled in light and shadow. I follow it, my suitcase bumping over the uneven ground, taking in every detail like the place might vanish if I blink. There’s the window I used to sneak out of as a teenager, now swallowed in bougainvillea so thick I’d need a machete to get through. There’s the old fig tree I used to climb, pruned back now and braced with a post. And the garden is still gloriously unruly. Tomato vines and climbing beans knot themselves around homemade trellises. Rosemary, basil, and mint spill out of their beds. Roses and hibiscus blaze through the green.
The colors and scents engulf me in a rush, stirring old memories to the surface: summer afternoons weeding with Babá and Althea, Yiayia scolding us for trampling her herbs, Mamà setting up a picnic under the lemon tree with fresh bread and honey.
As I round the corner of the house, a crack rips through the stillness. I jolt to a stop, panic flaring so fast I forget where I am. Another blast rings out, followed by the metallic clatter of tin, and I remember exactly who would be firing a gun in the middle of her own backyard in broad daylight.
Sure enough, across the garden, my grandmother stands with her favorite shotgun braced against her hip, smoke curling from the barrel. A row of dented tin cans lines the stone wall at the far end of the yard, three of themfreshly knocked over. Yiayia tsks under her breath and mutters something in Greek—no doubt a litany of curses. A cigarette burns between her lips as she reloads the shotgun with brisk efficiency.
I go still, caught somewhere between laughter and tears at the sight of her. She is exactly as I remember and somehow more formidable than ever: tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in loose black trousers and a deep red blouse with the sleeves shoved to her elbows. Her silver hair is twisted up in a lazy knot, though several stubborn strands have broken free to flutter around her face. She should look older than this, softer maybe. Instead, she looks as indestructible as ever.
I want to run to her, throw myself into her arms the way I used to after a bad dream. But I don’t move or make a sound. The last time I stood in this yard, I was saying goodbye, and I still remember what she told me then:No tears, korítsi mou. Hold your head high.She hugged me, kissed both my cheeks, pressed a wad of euros into my palm for the trip, and sent me off with dry eyes. I was eighteen, and she understood I had to leave, even if it broke both our hearts.
Now I’m back, and I know one look at my face will tell her enough. I’m not ready for that. I need a second—just one—to gather myself, to patch the cracks in my armor.
The back door bangs open so hard it nearly flies off its hinges. I flinch and peek around in time to see my little sister burst onto the porch in a flurry of motion.
“Yiayiá!” Althea hollers, one hand cupped around her mouth. “Can you please stop shooting things for five minutes? Some of us are trying to have a quiet afternoon!”
I clamp a hand over my mouth, smothering an incredulous laugh. Althea. She’s a head taller than when I last saw her and infinitely more… blue. My twenty-two-year-old sister is barefoot, dressed in paint-splattered overalls cut off at the knee, absolutely drenched in vivid cobalt paint. It’s in her hair, streaked across her forehead and freckled cheeks, running down her forearms in sticky rivulets. She looks like she fell headfirst into a vat of dye. A dripping paintbrush hangs from one hand as she glares at our grandmother.
Yiayia lowers the shotgun a few inches and takes a long drag of her cigarette. Her eyes narrow to flinty slits. “What demon has gotten into you now? You come out here wailing like a banshee, and somehow I’m the problem?”
“Art requires peace, Yiayia.” Althea wails dramatically, flinging her free arm into the air. Blue droplets scatter off her and patter onto the flagstones. “I’m trying to work, and I can’t think with you playing cowboys and bandits out here. Honestly, how is anyone supposed to concentrate under these conditions—”
She never gets to finish. I see the exact moment she realizes her mistake: Yiayia’s gray eyebrow arches, and the shotgun tilts in her direction with terrifying ease.
"What did you just say, korítsi?"
Althea’s eyes go wide as dinner plates. I know Yiayia would never actually shoot her own granddaughter… probably. But Althea and I have both seen her fire warning shots at unwanted suitors, nosy neighbors, and one particularly foolish local politician who trespassed on her land. So Althea does the only sensible thing. She turns and runs.
“Ela, Yiayia! Don’t point that thing at me. I’m going, I’m going!” she yelps, dropping the paintbrush and sprinting barefoot across the yard. “I take it back. Don’t shoot!”
Yiayia barks out a laugh and tips the gun toward the sky, pleased with herself. I’m so caught between amusement and disbelief that I don’t move fast enough. Althea barrels straight toward my hiding spot and nearly crashes into me.
Her hand drops to her side as she stares at me. Beneath the streaks of blue paint, her face goes slack with shock.
Neither of us moves. Up close, I can see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, the faint white scar on her chin from a childhood fall. She’s so grown up, no longer the gangly eighteen-year-old who stood by my side at my wedding, nor the pixelated face I see on occasional video calls. She’s here, flesh and blood and paint, my sister. Joy hits me so hard it hurts.
“…Yara?” Althea whispers, as if saying my name too loud might scare the apparition away.
A shaky laugh breaks out of me, and I finally find my voice. “Hi, bug.” My eyes sting with tears. “Surprise.”
Althea shrieks and then she’s on me in two long strides. She slams into me so hard we nearly lose our footing. I barely manage to brace myself before I’m wrapping my arms around her.
The force of her hug knocks the breath out of me. She’s clutching me like I might disappear, and I hold on just as tightly. My little sister smells of turpentine, cheap acrylic paint, and the coconut shampoo she’s always loved. It’s the best smell in the world. I squeeze my eyes shut and press my face into her paint-smeared hair, not caring that blue is streaking onto my clothes. A sob breaks loose.
“You’re here,” she hiccups, her voice breaking on a laugh. “Oh my God, you’re really here. You made it.”
“I made it.” I stroke the back of her head. “I-I’m sorry I stayed away so long.”
Althea just shakes her head and clutches me tighter, like none of that matters. Hot tears slide onto my neck. She’s openly sobbing now, pulling in noisy gulps of air between cries. I rock her gently, the way I used to when she was little and came to me with skinned knees.
Except she’s not little anymore. She’s as tall as I am now, stronger too, and the years I missed hit me all at once. I left when she was thirteen. I missed high school, university dramas, her first art show. All of it. We video called. We texted. But I wasn’t here. I thought putting distance between us would protect them from my pain, keep me from weighing them down. Instead, all I really did was isolate myself when we probably needed each other most.
Althea pulls back just enough to look at my face, sniffling. Her cheeks are streaked with tears and blue paint, and her smile is so wide it hurts to look at. Her fingers tighten on my shoulders, like she needs to make sure I’m real.
Before either of us can say another word, a low, pointed cough interrupts us.
