Free Mirage by Tracy Clark Page B

ice of death.
    â€œPancakes,” she says, flinging her head up, which startles the ever-loving snot out of me. “I want pancakes.”
    â€œWe just had breakfast, Gran.” Every atom in my body vibrates faster.
    â€œWhat difference does that make?”
    Since I can’t think of a difference, I don’t answer. Sometimes you want what you want. I, of all people, should understand that. “Are you going to play something?” I ask.
    Gran nods solemnly, places her fingers on the keys, and begins. A flash of memory pops in, that this is
her
song and that I was supposed to be listening for mine. My fingers twitch as I watch her play. I place my hands on the keys. There is a song in me, written on translucent vellum. It feels like it’s been tied to a rock under a cold stream, but when my fingers touch the keys, it is freed, floating to the surface. I tap out the melody on the smooth keys. The song flows through me, stronger now; it moves my fingers without effort.
    Gran snatches her hands back as if the piano has burned her. I keep playing, wishing she would watch my hands instead of staring at me with blind eyes. It’s my hands and heart that are making music for her, not my bandaged face. But I’m glad that I’ve found a way to connect with her again.
    â€œThat’s a hymn,” she says when I finish. “ ‘Just a Closer Walk with Thee.’”
    There is no pleasure in her voice. It’s something more like flabbergasted. This is not the reaction I expected. I thought she’d be delighted. “So?”
    Papery hands caress both sides of my face. I cringe against the sting from her searching fingers over my wounded cheek, the bridge of my nose, my mouth. “So,” she finally responds, “as far back as my feeble old mind can remember, you’ve never played the piano.” She scoots off the bench, the piano clanging loudly as she uses it for balance to stand upright.
    I’m stunned. I can’t explain what happened. “I know I seem different, Gran​—”
    â€œYou
are
different, child. I don’t need eyes to see that. I can feel it. You’re wearing yourself like an ill-fitting coat.”
    Tears cloud my vision. Her wide back is still turned toward me, and it feels like a wall.
    â€œIt’s true. Since the . . .
episode,
I’ve been struggling to feel normal. Do you know what it’s like to play tug of war with yourself every day? I see things that I’ll never be able to explain. I’ve become afraid of everything. Afraid of life, even, because I know how easily it can be taken away. I don’t want to live in fear. I hate it.”
    This burst of truth surprises me, and I wish I could reel the words back in before they’re scrutinized.
    The admission makes her turn to face me, and she sighs. “Everybody’s got to clutch to their breast the things they’re afraid to lose. You’re smothering yourself. You used to be the wildfire​—​destructive, sure, sometimes, but
alive
. Now your fire has gone cold.”
    I hang my head. “That’s sad.”
    â€œCertainly it is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to read on the toilet.”
    I stare after Gran’s retreating form. She is both wise and wiseass. She’s also right on the money. I want to carry my fire proudly, like the girl I was before, because right now I’m a tiny bulb plugged into a socket with too much voltage.
    Per the note my mother left me, I go to the backyard to water the plants tucked into the bright orange ceramic containers that hang from the white stucco walls. Birds flit to the ground to splash in the puddles I’ve created. I like the peace back here, but I’m itching to hang out at the drop zone​—​to absorb the vibrant energy there. My dad probably isn’t ready to be around me, though.
    Dom has left two messages on our home machine,