Disclaimer: I own nothing at all!
"Dammit," I mutter under my breath. It is a phrase I'm using with increasing frequency as Iris continues to grow and as she becomes more capable. Unfortunately for Peeta and me, her becoming more capable doesn't mean we get a tiny, helping hand around the house. It means wondering how a bowl is suddenly broken, why the flowers that Peeta carefully planted lay bruised and uprooted in our backyard, why there's a dead squirrel missing from the myriad of game hooks in our pantry, and why Haymitch's geese are honking indignantly across the green in the Victor's Village. Peeta sighs a long-suffering sigh.
All this mayhem is the direct cause of two events. First, Iris learns to walk on her own. Peeta and I cheerfully watch her toddle her first steps by herself across our kitchen. The walking gives way to running in only a few weeks. I'm not sure whether it's because she's small enough to dart around corners, or she's tiny enough to fit in small spaces and hide from me, or whether she really is that fast, but after Iris learns to run, she's damn-near impossible to catch. It's like trying to outrun and ensnare a slippery little fox. The second problem: Iris learns to climb. The first thing she does is climb out of her crib and deposit herself on our bed in the middle of the night. I wake up to Peeta's hushed giggling.
"Katniss?"
I grunt at him because I know it isn't morning and I'm exhausted from trying to keep up with my unruly child.
"Katniss?"
I scowl.
"What?"
"Look."
"Peeta, this better be good-"
I open my eyes to find two little blue ones staring right back at me, and two tiny teeth glinting from a wobbly, drooling, infant grin.
"Mama!"
I scowl further.
"Peeta, why did you bring her in here?"
"I didn't."
"Then how did she get out of her crib and in here?"
"I don't know."
"I thought I had a year before this started happening," I growl. Iris continues to grin, unperturbed by my frustration. I snatch her up and march her back to her room, plunking her down in her crib. I walk back out, not quite shutting the door. I watch through the crack, trying to figure out how she got out. She stands in her crib, hands clutching the wooden slats. She doesn't move for a few minutes. Then, in only a few moves, she shimmies up the bars, over the edge, and lets herself drop, landing with a thud on the floor. She toddles over to the door, climbs on a box she's put under the door, twists the door knob, and opens it.
"Mama!"
I groan and pick her up, heading back into our room.
"Good news! She climbs now!" I snipe sarcastically. Peeta looks as if he's not sure if he wants to smile or despair. He settles on a smile when she chirps, "Daddy!"
"You can sleep in here tonight because I'm too tired to figure out how to barricade you in your room," I tell her. "But tomorrow you're sleeping in your room."
I put her in the middle, sandwiched between the two of us. She giggles and drools happily. Peeta smiles wider as she grins up at him.
"It isn't so bad, her being in here. She could stay a few nights. She slept in here when she was just born, right?"
I sigh.
"Peeta, it isn't that I don't want her. It's that I don't want to scare her. My nightmares were alright when she was a baby because half the time she started crying before I did and I woke up before the screaming started. The few times she heard me, she forgot about it because she was too little to remember it for more than a few seconds. She didn't understand it the way she will now. We can't. It's bad enough that she probably hears it from across the hall."
Peeta nods grudgingly. I sigh when she grabs my hand in both of her tiny, pudgy ones and smiles.
"I'm sorry, little duck." She grins, happily oblivious. Soon, she drifts off, one hand in Peeta's, the other tangled in my braid. I follow soon after, hoping with everything I have that I don't have a nightmare tonight.
I don't have a nightmare. I wake up to Iris chirping happily with Peeta. Peeta grins at me.
"You didn't have a nightmare."
"No. And that's an exception to the rule."
Peeta hesitates before speaking again.
"Maybe...maybe you didn't because she was in here."
"Maybe. It's not a theory I want to test, though."
But it doesn't matter what we do. Iris has learned to climb and to run and she breaks out of her room every night without fail. That isn't the worst of our worries, though. It's everything else she gets into during the day that is the problem. Iris is terribly unruly. None of it is malicious. She doesn't cause trouble intentionally. But cause trouble she does, just in her day-to-day exploring. It is extremely difficult to keep track of her. Of course Peeta and I try our best to make sure she is in our line of sight at all times. But my child is wicked fast. I'm staring at her as she climbs one of our kitchen chairs. I look down for a second at my skinning knife, and when I look back, she's disappeared. Peeta seems just as nonplussed as I am.
"She was-"
"Right there. I know. Dammit."
Fortunately, Iris may be fast, but she is not quiet by any stretch of the imagination. All we have to do is listen for a moment and we soon figure out what general direction she's gone off to and, often, what she's gotten into. Sometimes it's a crash from the second floor. Peeta gathers up the broom and dust bin and marches tiredly upstairs. Sometimes it's a thud in the next room. Peeta sighs and moves in that direction to see what piece of furniture she's knocked over. We have a system worked out. If she's inside, Peeta deals with her. If she's outside, it's my job, because if she's managed to get loose, I'm the only one with any hope of catching her. So, on the day that we hear the geese honking outside, and notice the bruised flowers and the missing squirrel, I sprint out the door immediately in hopes of catching her before she wreaks more havoc. I'm at Haymitch's in a flash.
"Iris!" I bark when I see him clutching her, squirming. She wilts a little at my tone, ducking her head.
"I believe this belongs to you," he growls, holding her out towards me. If I weren't so exasperated with her, I might laugh. She's dangling unceremoniously in his arms, covered in brown dirt clods, holding that dead squirrel's tail in her fist.
"Haymishh!" she squeaks. She can't pronounce the last part of his name yet, but she knows who he is.
"It knows me and it knows where I live. Super," he hisses.
"She just likes you," I huff, snatching my dirt-covered child from him. "I bet this was for Haymitch, wasn't it?" I ask her, prying the squirrel's tail from her clenched fist. In truth, I have no idea why Iris has decided to make off with one of my squirrels. I just know that suggesting that she was going to deposit it on Haymitch's front step will annoy him.
"Still want it?" I dangle it near him. He scowls darkly and swats my hand away.
"You need to figure out how to keep that kid in line," he snaps.
"You think I don't know that? She's slowly destroying the house! You should see it! We can't even keep her in her room!"
"Kid needs to be kept on a leash-"
"Haymitch," I growl back, warning him. I'm not oblivious. I know that I'm having trouble controlling my child. But I'll be damned if I'm going to let Haymitch talk about her like that, either.
"Mad," Iris peeps tentatively. I grit my teeth, deflating a bit. She's worried because we're obviously peeved with her. Haymitch doesn't seem bothered.
"Just figure it out and figure it out soon, sweetheart, before she gets herself into real trouble."
I turn on my heel and stride briskly across to my house without another word, Iris in tow. She stares at me, eyes wide, obviously intimidated by my frustration.
"Bad?"
I look down to see a little finger pointing clumsily at her chest. I wilt further. Iris is learning more words and, unfortunately, due to her curious escapades, 'mad,' and 'bad' are two of them. My child is asking me if she's bad.
"No, little duck. Not you. This," I hold the squirrel up, "was bad." I round the corner behind the house and grimace. The yard is a mess of wilting flowers and dirt. "This was bad. What you did was pretty bad. But you are not bad. Not you," I point at her, shaking my head. "This," I point out at the flowers and at the squirrel. "Do you understand?"
She nods clumsily. I have no way of knowing if she really gets it. I can only fervently hope that she doesn't think that she's bad. Of course, I also fervently hope she understands that tearing through Peeta's garden and dashing off to Haymitch's with one of my squirrels to terrorize his geese was not something to repeat. I trudge back inside with her.
"How bad is the garden?" Peeta asks warily.
"Remember what it looked like before you started taking care of it?"
"There wasn't a garden before I started taking care of it."
"Exactly."
Peeta groans. I sigh and sit Iris down on the little wooden high chair Peeta brought home before she was born.
"We've got to do something about this," I tell him as I put the bedraggled squirrel back on its game hook.
"I was thinking that. But she's not quite old enough to understand rules, is she?"
"I'm don't know. We can make them, and we should, but I'm never sure how much she understands. But this," I nod sharply towards the scarred garden, "can't keep happening."
Peeta nods. He crosses the kitchen to kneel in front of Iris's chair.
"Iris, what's going on? You've always been active, but not destructive. What's making you act out like this?" he asks, half to her, half to himself. She whimpers a little at him, tiny eyebrows furrowed.
"Your kid is bored."
I turn to see Haymitch staggering through our kitchen door.
"If you're here to tell me more about how we need to keep her in line, you can turn around and walk right back out that door," I snap. Haymitch laughs a rough, grating laugh, unfazed.
"Well, you do need to keep her in line. But she's acting out because she's bored."
Peeta scowls lightly. "How do you know?"
Haymitch rolls his eyes at our suspicion.
"Boy, no kid who is occupied goes and destroys a garden and bludgeons my geese with a dead squirrel."
"Well, if you're going to complain and tell me what you think is wrong with her, why don't you tell me how to fix it?" I mutter, hostile.
"Find other kids for her to play with?" Haymitch suggests, staring at me as if I'm slow.
"Haymitch, if you haven't noticed, District 12 has a population of about eight hundred. Maybe a third of them have children. And none of them live near us. We don't know anyone with a baby her age."
"Then you occupy her. Figure. It. Out," he insists, still staring at me as if I'm stupid. I eye my skinning knife, tempted.
"We do try to occupy her, Haymitch," Peeta sighs.
"Try harder."
"Peeta tries harder than you ever would," I bark. "And what made you the expert on babies? What makes you think you know everything?"
Haymitch brushes off my question with a final roll of his eyes.
"I don't know everything, I just know more than you."
With that, he staggers back out our kitchen door. I sit back down and pick up where I left off with my skinning knife. I say nothing. All I can think about is how I wish District 12 were as large as it used to be. I remember tearing through the Seam when I was very small, playing around with neighbor children. At least, I did before my father died. When I still smiled at home. There was always a rag-tag bunch of olive-skinned, grey-eyed, wild-haired, grimy children to dart around with. We'd hide under rickety front porches, roll around in the grass in the meadow, chase squirrels and butterflies, come home covered in a layer of dirt, grass-stains, and coal dust, bringing weedy, wilted wildflowers for our parents. I was quiet and very serious even then. But I did still smile and play and have people to play with. And my daughter doesn't. I know there are children here, and maybe even a few her age. But I don't know who they are. I can't very well go around the District, knocking on peoples' doors and sizing up their families. Peeta simply and eloquently murmurs exactly what I would say to her if I had the same way with words.
"I'm sorry, little one. It's not fair. I wish you had a hundred other babies to play with. You should be able to have so many friends when you get a little older. But where we live, there's just so few people. There aren't many children. And that's part of why babies like you are so precious to us. But it doesn't make it easier. It looks like you're stuck with just mama and me. We'll try harder to play with you more. We're new at this, so we're going to mess up a little bit. But I know nothing we do will fix it completely and I'm sorry."
I don't know how much Iris understands, but she seems to know that Peeta is saying kind and important things to her. She soberly murmurs, "Daddy." He kisses her forehead. I keep looking down at my knife.
We try, as time goes on, to keep Iris as occupied as possible, incorporating her into our everyday tasks. Peeta starts letting her "help" him with orders. If he's baking cookies, he gives her a little section of the dough and lets her knead it and play around with it. He always bakes whatever amorphous blob she turns out and splits the blob cookie with her. If he's icing a cake, he lets her "ice" a little section, guiding her clumsy hands as she grasps a blunt, flat icing knife in both fists. He goes and smoothes it back out later when she's not looking. She paints with him, now, too. He keeps making those edible paints, although thankfully she doesn't attempt to eat them much anymore like she did on her birthday. Peeta's studio is littered with her smeared, colorful finger painting.
I try to figure out how to get her back out to the woods with me. She seems like a restless sort of person. She's probably as fed up of being cooped up inside as I was when I was housebound. She's really too big and too heavy for me to wear on my front anymore, so I start trying to figure out how to wear her on my back. The wrap is too small now. I stitch something together out of buck hide, fur lining the inside of it so it's soft and warm. I build it so there's lacing on the sides that can be tightened and loosened, so it'll grow with her. If I have it my way, this'll have her coming outside with me until she's old enough that she can pick through the woods next to me without any danger or trouble. When I think it's finished, I get Peeta to help me test it out. I swing it onto my back, the two leathery straps crisscrossing across my chest, the thick, reinforced pouch against my spine.
"Peeta, put her in here. I want to see if it works."
"Is it safe?" he asks tentatively, eyeing it warily. I roll my eyes.
"I don't know, that's why we're testing it."
"But, what if it doesn't hold?"
"That's why you're there, so you can catch her."
Peeta doesn't look happy, but he obliges. He scoops her up out of her chair, and eases her into the pack on my back. Her little legs stick out of two holes at the bottom and she curls them close to me, feet resting on my hips.
"Tighten the laces if there's too much space."
Peeta does as I ask, still supporting her weight. Once he's adjusted the thing, he cautiously moves his hand away and I feel her weight settle on my back. The thing holds, strong. I bounce around a little bit, I walk in a few circles around the lower level of our house, testing it further. When I get back to the kitchen, I smile over my shoulder at her.
"You want to go outside, Iris?"
Little blue eyes light up.
"Woods!"
"That's right. You want to go?"
She nods her shaky little nod and with that, we're both out the door, Iris resting her cheek between my shoulder blades.
We watch her grow, watch her little arms and legs steady a bit, watch her eyes sharpen with understanding, listen to her begin to string sentences together and ask questions. The questions are constant. Her thirst to know things keeps growing. Every trip into the woods is a lesson to her. She wants to know every plant, every tree, every animal. She wants to know what they're called, what they're like, where they live. I watch her progress from pointing and squeaking at things to being able to ask in her halting, toddler voice, "What's that?" She shocks me with how quickly and thoroughly she memorizes things. I point out plants and she repeats their names from over my shoulder, little voice right by my ear.
"Lily!" she squeaks when I point to the lilypads in the shallows of the lake. I move on, always silently pointing, Iris following with the plant's name, with fuzzy, toddler pronunciation.
"Laurel. Foxtail. Violet. Groundnut."
"Can you eat that one?"
She pauses for a moment.
"Yes!" she exclaims gleefully when she remembers.
"That's right. What about that one?"
"Wild onion. Yes!"
"Good. What about those?"
I point over to a bush with dark, crimson red berries. Nightlock. Iris shakes her head vigorously.
"No, bad!"
"That's right. And what's this one?" I point to a leafy, green one with pointed leaves. Iris grins brightly.
"Mama!"
"Well, that's not what it's called, but you're right," I laugh. "Do you remember what it's called?"
"Katniss. Your name," she points at me with tiny, pudgy fingers.
"Very good. And where are you?"
She points to long, blade-shaped leaves that don't currently harbor flowers.
"Iris. By mama," she smiles widely, noticing that the two plants are right next to each other. I smile softly back for a moment.
"That's right, little duck."
Once we're done gathering and naming plants, we go hunting. Iris is old enough now that she usually stays quiet when I tell her to. Of course, if she's too tired, she'll melt down, but the tantrums are relatively few.
"Okay, we're hunting now. What does that mean?"
Iris puts a finger to her lips.
"Shh."
"That's right. We have to be very quiet."
Today, Iris is silent. The only way I know she's still there is the warm weight of her on my back and her quiet, small breath on my neck.
I take down a small handful of squirrels pretty easily, check my traps for rabbits. Then we spot a little trail of disturbed leaves and broken brush, and some shallow footprints in the soil under the cover of leaves.
"Aminal!" Iris whispers to me. I nod. I turn around and she's pointing off in the direction the little trail leads. I nod again, silently and vigorously, smiling mutedly. She's good.
Lucky for Peeta, it's a turkey. I bring it down easily, as turkeys aren't all that quick. It's deer that'll run off if the wind changes too much. I manage to stuff the massive bird in my game bag, and heft it onto my shoulder.
"Alright, little duck, we're done for today."
"Found a turkey. Go to town."
"You got it," I chuckle.
People in town expect Iris with me now. She's with me nearly every trip. She likes to see everyone. She always chirps a cheerful, "Hi!" to every person we visit. She has definitely inherited Peeta's brightness. Sometimes I marvel how, at almost two, she manages to be more sociable than me. People often give her small things when we come by. Flowers, little pieces of sweets. Sae always has a small piece of candy for her. I do ask Sae to keep it small. Iris's penchant for hyperactivity doesn't mix well with sugar. Peeta and I figured that out giving her cake the day after her first birthday. It's not an experience we remember with much enthusiasm. Iris is always impossibly excited with whatever people have for her. There's always a light, enthusiastic "Thank you!" from her, and a wide grin. My child is a joyful little thing. So much so that it hurts sometimes to watch her. But it is infectious. Even I can't help but smile my muted, close-mouthed smile when she grins.
Her second birthday comes even faster than the first. Her dark hair that was once stick-straight now has a very subtle wave in it, a little whisper of Peeta's curls. It hangs just below her chin. She's big enough to run around the meadow by the fence on her own while we sit in the tall grass and watch her. Sometimes she climbs halfway up the fence before Peeta panics and plucks her off, planting her back on solid ground. After her second birthday, though, things get a little more rocky. We expect the tantrums that often crop up when children turn two and Iris is no exception. If anything, her tantrums are particularly fierce. She can be a vengeful, angry thing if she wants to be. Another unfortunate trait she's inherited from me. Her fits are violent, but they pass quickly. As long as she's not throwing anything, Peeta and I stubbornly ignore her until she quiets. If she starts getting destructive, I snatch her up, deposit her outside in the green in the Victor's Village, and sit on the front porch until she's kicked and squealed and ripped out grass to her satisfaction. I say nothing to her; I just stare, hard, at her until she realizes that she'll get nowhere continuing like this. This is one thing I seem to be good at with her. I am just as obstinate as she is and it doesn't take long for me to quiet her when she's having a fit. She can't out-stubborn me.
Things get even more interesting when toilet training comes into the mix. Peeta handles that. I realize the first time I try to get her to use a real toilet that I am doomed to fail from the start. I am not the most patient teacher, although I try my best. I stammer and shrug and don't understand what she doesn't understand. Peeta, on the other hand, is flawless. He has her pretty much toilet trained in a week. I have no idea what the norm is and probably do not give Peeta half credit he's due, because Sage seems to think it's some sort of miracle. All I know is that I'm glad to be free of all the diapers.
But these things are hardly an issue compared to the questions. Iris keeps asking questions and they get more difficult as she gets older and understands more. It is the questions that I flounder with. Some are just things we didn't anticipate her wondering about. These are just a matter of figuring out what to tell her. There is one afternoon that Haymitch is with us for lunch. Iris turns her little blue gaze on me and asks me, "Haymitch is your daddy?"
All of us freeze and eye each other, gazes flitting from one person to another. No one is really sure how to proceed. Iris thinks that Haymitch is her grandfather. Peeta has just explained the concept of grandparents to her the day before. She thinks he's family which, in a lot of ways, he is. But we haven't thought about what to tell her. What should she call him? How should she relate to him? Should we just tell her he is family, or make the distinction that he's a close friend of mine and Peeta's? We're all scrambling to figure it out without openly discussing it in front of her. Peeta is the one who recovers first.
"I think this one is your prerogative, Haymitch," he murmurs. Iris doesn't seem to hear. "Tell her whatever you're comfortable with."
Haymitch reverts back to an alcohol-aided nonchalance.
"Nah, I'm not your mama's daddy, sweetheart. I'm-" he swirls the contents of his bottle around a few times, thinking. "Her uncle," he finishes, shrugging apathetically. I huff a little at his made-up relation to me, but since it does make it simpler to explain to her, I don't make much of a fuss.
"Uncle Haymitch?" she asks, looking at us to confirm it.
"Sure, kid," he growls before taking a swig from the quickly emptying bottle.
Some questions, though, are much harder to answer, especially when she learns to ask "why?" The day she stares at both of Peeta's legs and pipes, "Different. Why?" we stare at each other, silent. Peeta nods once, determined, and speaks.
"Well this one," he gestures to the prosthetic, "is a fake one-"
"Why?"
"Hold on, I'm getting to that," he chuckles. "My real one got hurt pretty badly. So, I had to get a new one." He smiles at her. Iris mulls this over and seems to accept his simplified version of the story. She nods once and continues making a mess of the section of cookie dough Peeta has put in front of her. I exhale, temporarily relieved. It is already difficult to know how much to simplify things, how much to tell her. It is a guessing game with no correct answer. I just quietly watch Peeta work and hope that when she starts asking me questions, I'll have a good answer.
It doesn't take long for her to make me stumble as well. I'm in the woods with her and I'm lucky enough to bring down a doe. I start walking towards the animal when Iris speaks in my ear.
"Dead."
I nod, thinking the simplicity of the statement is almost funny. That is, until she continues.
"You kill it."
I pause for a long while, wondering what she's working through in that little brain of hers.
"Yes. I did kill it."
"Kill things is bad?" she asks haltingly. I can feel my stomach clench. My child has just figured out that I kill things for a living. And I have to explain it to her.
"It's not bad if you do it for food. To survive. You shouldn't kill things for no reason. Do you understand?"
She doesn't speak for a minute. Then she nods.
"For food. Deers and squirrels for food."
"That's right."
She nods and looks ahead for a minute. But I know she's going to continue and I know I'll probably be just as blindsided by the next questions as I was by the previous ones.
"Can't kill people."
I can feel my throat close up a little.
"No. You should never kill another person."
She pauses once more.
"You never killed people?" she asks, matter-of-fact, pointing to me. I stop moving. My two-year-old child has just asked me if I've ever killed anyone. She is confident that I haven't. My mouth is desert-dry. What do I tell her? I can't scare her. More importantly, I have to make sure she knows how grievous a crime it really is. How can I do that if I tell her the truth? How will she ever realize that it's not alright if she knows her mother has done it? Can I really lie to her, either? But I realize there is no way to explain the intricacies of the circumstances in which I killed people. Not as young as she is. She will not understand. Or maybe, she understands too well. The circumstances hardly seem like they matter in this moment. She will either be frightened, or she will think it's acceptable. Maybe both. I can't think of anything to say but, "No."
That night, after Iris is asleep, I cry into Peeta's shoulder and choke and tremble so hard I'm nearly vibrating. The only thing Peeta's panicked questions get from me is, "She asked me if I've ever killed anyone." He closes his eyes and clutches me tighter and I think I feel some stray tears from him on the top of my head. I barely sleep that night. I am awoken nearly every hour by unremitting nightmares. I dream of everyone I've ever killed. I see the blood everywhere. So much blood. And Iris is there, strapped to my back like she always is. She watches from over my shoulder. I wake up and bite the bedsheet and continue my choking sobs, thankful that Iris sleeps in her own room now. Peeta doesn't sleep either. He just stays awake, holding me together as he always has.
It is even worse the first time she really notices Peeta have one of his hallucinations. They never completely go away, so of course they've been happening intermittently since she was born. But since she was old enough to grasp the concept of was happening, she's either not noticed or not realized that this fairly common occurrence is not something that happens to most people. But there's a day that Peeta freezes in the middle of mixing up icing. The bowl and whisk clatter to the tabletop and Peeta's hands clutch the back of a chair. He doesn't say anything, just clenches his teeth and grips the back of the chair. I've got my arms looped around him like always when I notice Iris staring at him.
"What's wrong?" she pipes.
"Nothing's wrong," I tell her calmly. And really, it's true. Peeta's spells are few and far between and they're usually like this. Just a few minutes quiet strain and then they pass. "This just happens to daddy sometimes. And when it does, we just have to be quiet and calm and it'll go away pretty soon."
"Why?"
That's the question that is difficult. Explaining that nothing's wrong is one thing, but explaining where Peeta's hallucinations come from is different. Just another thing I have to explain part-way so as not to frighten her.
"It usually happens if he's stressed. Daddy went through a lot when he was younger, and sometimes when he remembers it, this happens. But most of the time it's over in just a minute or two."
"He's okay?" she asks, concerned.
"Yeah, little duck. He's okay."
Peeta's face relaxes after a moment. Iris comes over and wraps her arms around his leg, hugging him. Peeta smiles, calmer than he usually is after one of his spells, and picks her up. She burrows into his shoulder, content.
The most difficult question she asks me happens on that day of the year. I do not try to stay in bed anymore. Not after she was so worried about me that first year. It is a fight to go about my day as normally as I can. This day is always a bitter fight, whether I'm asleep, in bed, or walking around like I am now. I sit stock-still in the kitchen with Peeta while he makes breakfast, trying to pull myself together before he wakes Iris and brings her downstairs. He puts something in front of me, but I don't look at it or touch it. He sits right next to me, instead of across from me like he usually does. I lean towards him just a little, glad for the closeness. He doesn't say anything for a while, until I push my plate away and plant my elbows on the table, holding my head in my hands. I am not crying, but I am trying to fight it.
"Katniss, you don't have to do this. That was two years ago, she's almost three, she'd probably be fine now."
I shake my head, eyes still closed.
"No. I can't just leave her every time I feel bad."
Peeta sighs, conflicted. I think he knows I'm right, but his need to try and protect me is putting up a fight. I see him nod out of my periphery. He kisses me lightly on the back of my neck as my head hangs.
"Just, go easy on yourself, Katniss. Please?"
"I'm trying," I murmur.
Peeta hangs around for a bit before waking Iris. I can tell he's still hesitant, unsure if he should try and make me go back to bed or not. In the end, he stays silent. He knows that if I've said no, there'll be no arguing with me. He goes upstairs and returns a few minutes later with a bleary-eyed, sleepy Iris. Her hair is sticking up in the back like it always does. I wordlessly go fetch the small brush I use to tame her hair. Her hair is quite thick, even at almost three. I'm relieved that it only has a slight wave in it. If it were as curly as Peeta's, and as thick as mine, it would be utterly unmanageable. Iris eyes me warily as I approach her with the brush. She sits quietly as I work tangles out of it and smooth it down. I set the brush down and Iris frowns. She turns and grasps the end of my braid, whimpering a bit.
"Braid?"
I pause.
"You want me to braid it?"
She nods vigorously. It's the first time she's asked me to do anything with her hair other than brush it. I swallow hard. Even something as small as braiding my daughter's hair stops me in my tracks today. I remember putting braids in Prim's hair from the time my hands were steady enough to do it. But Iris doesn't know that everything she does today will remind me of my sister and it wouldn't be fair to her to keep stalling and breaking down every time she so much as looks at me. I steel myself and part her hair down the middle, hands automatically weaving two intricate braids in her dark hair. I go fetch a small hand mirror of my mother's so she can see it. To my surprise, she scowls when she sees it.
"No."
I see Peeta over by the oven trying not to laugh at how adamant she is.
"What's wrong with it? I braided it like you wanted," I ask, a bit defensive.
"No. Like you," she points at me.
"What?"
"She wants you to do it like yours," Peeta smiles.
"Oh." I did two braids, since both my sister and I wore it like that when we were young. But Iris obviously has other plans.
"Like you!" she repeats, obstinate.
"Okay, okay, I'll do it again!"
I shake out the two braids I've just completed and start again. This time, it's just the one braid, although it is in the same intricate style my mother taught us. The flood of memories is stemmed a little now. I don't see nearly as much of Prim. The dark hair and the one braid looks too eerily like me. When I've finished, I let her see the second one. She grins.
"Is this one to your satisfaction?" I joke at her. She nods.
"Thank you!" she chirps. A very muted smile creeps its way onto my face.
"You're welcome."
After Iris has finished her breakfast, she watches me, as if expecting something. I am sitting by the fire again, watching my untouched breakfast plate that Peeta has kept in front of me in hopes that I'll actually eat breakfast. When it gets cold, he eyes me sadly and quietly pulls it away from me, heading towards the sink with it. Iris keeps watching me. After a half an hour she finally speaks.
"Go outside today?"
I shake my head at her.
"No, not today, little one."
"Why?"
"I...we're going to stay inside and help daddy today."
Iris eyes me suspiciously. She takes my explanation without protest, but she seems to know that something is up. Peeta tries valiantly for the rest of the day to keep her entertained. Thankfully, he's got a little rush of orders, a bunch of small projects. He doesn't normally have terribly elaborate things to do just because the District is that small. But people do like to order small things here and there, and Peeta of course always bakes for us. Watching the mundane task of them working on Peeta's orders helps drag me through the day. I just sit, silent, and watch. Peeta letting her crack eggs to put in batter. Iris helping him with color schemes as she points to different food colorings. A little handful of Peeta's sugar flowers, Iris's giggles. They hold me together as I fight my way through the day, just sitting by the fire. I am glad when night falls and it's time to go to sleep. I have done nearly nothing all day, but just staying composed and functioning even slightly have exhausted me. I do not cry all day until I'm huddling in bed, pressed up to Peeta. He holds me to him, lips pressed to the top of my head, talking me through it. Telling me how well I did today. My tears are interrupted by our door squeaking open. I hear Peeta's sigh.
"Iris, what are you doing up? Come on, back to bed."
I feel the bed dip as Peeta moves to usher her back into her room. I watch as he reaches for her hand and she deftly ducks under him, and scampers over to the bed, clambering up right beside me. I sit up and hope my tears aren't obvious.
"Iris, go with daddy. It's bed time."
Iris just stares at me, blatantly ignoring both of us. Her little eyes widen after a moment.
"Sad," she reaches up and puts a chubby little hand on my cheek. She seems to mull something over for a minute before continuing. "Sad all day."
I sigh.
"Yeah, little duck. You're right."
As expected, she pipes,"why?"
I don't know what makes me tell her. Whether I'm tired of giving half-truths, or I think she can handle this, or I'm just too tired to resist. But I swallow hard and tell her the truth, the full truth, for the first time.
"I lost someone on this day. A long time ago."
"Lost?" I can tell she's not sure what I mean.
"Yeah. Someone I loved died today, many years ago. And I miss her."
Iris sobers considerably. She understands death somewhat now.
"Who?"
"My little sister."
Iris quiets even more. I'm not sure, but I think she understands the gravity of it. She nods slowly.
"Very sad," she confirms, agreeing with me. She sits there for a moment before silently climbing in my lap and latching onto my neck. She doesn't leave. I clutch her for dear life.
"Not sad anymore," she commands. I smile a little.
"I'll try."
I don't make Iris leave. I don't want her to. She's holding me together right now. Her and Peeta both. I don't worry tonight about nightmares, about her being worried about me. I can't change it. She's going to worry about us, and she's going to find out that her parents are troubled people. She already is. I can either worry myself to death about it, or accept it. After watching her take everything in stride, coping better than I ever have, I choose to accept it. I even let her help. I fall asleep with her curled up at my front, Peeta pressed up against my back and feel truly safe for the first time in almost eighteen years.
Hope everyone enjoyed! Thank you for all the awesome reviews last chapter. I loved reading them. :) And, as always, if you have any thoughts about this one, do pop by and leave a review! Until next time!
~Belmione