The sky is paper-mache gray when Lyra pulls into the driveway. The news has been predicting a storm all week and the air is heavy with anticipation.

I don’t even get a hello. Instead, Lyra drops a suitcase on my foot as she walks into the house. In the living room another suitcase, three coats, and a handbag are piled on the couch. I drop my case on the pile.

“I cleared out your bedroom upstairs,” I say, finding her in the kitchen. She’s already messing with the oven and a tray covered in tin foil is sitting on the counter.

“That’s fine,” she says. The oven fan turns on with a shuttering groan. “I’ll go up there later. Dinner will be ready in about 5 minutes. I assumed you hadn’t prepared anything.”

I’d been planning on ordering in but I’m not going to tell her that. “Did you bring the manuscript?”

She waves a hand in the direction of the kitchen table where a thick folder sits next to a tall birdcage.

“You brought the bird with you?”

“I wasn’t going to leave him at home on his own. I let him out in the living room.”

The oven beeps loudly. “Dinner time!” A parrot squawks from the top of the cupboard. A A burst of steam billows from the oven when Lyra opens it. “Crispy dinner,” the parrot says.

“Shut it, Larry,” Lyra snaps. “Dinner’s ready.”

“Why are you keeping the parrot around anyway?” I ask, grabbing a pair of plates from the cupboard. Larry watches my every movement, his nails clicking on the marble counter. “You hate it.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“You hate it,” Larry says. “Hate it, hate it, hate it.”

Lyra takes the plates from me and piles them with steaming lasagna. “Anyway. Mom’s last manuscript was never finished. Her agent emailed the other day and said if we can figure out the ending, she can get a ghost writer to finish it for her. We’ll get all the money from it.”

“And the parrot knows the end of the story?”

“Mom always used to talk to it. I figure if anyone’s going to know it, the bird’s as good a bet as any.”

“So you want the parrot for money?” I take the plates back from her and set them down on the table. “What happens to him after you’re done? And what happens to Mom’s book? She put everything she had into those stories. You want to ruin her legacy for a few bucks?”

Lyra shrugs. “I don’t care about the parrot. You can take it or I’ll give it to some pet store and let a little kid have him. And it’s more than a few bucks. Plus, aren’t ghostwriters supposed to make it sound like the original author? I’m sure they’ll get it close enough.” She grabs a glass from the cabinet. “Why do you even care, anyway? You’ve barely talked to Mom over the past few years. What difference is it to you what I do with her stories?”

“Her stories are all I have of her. Maybe we never talked about actual real-life stuff, but I have hundreds of emails over the past few years exchanging story ideas with her.”

Lyra pushes her chair back and grabs her plate. “Whatever. I’m going to finish this upstairs and go to bed before you can find something else to be dramatic about.”

“Crazy bitch,” Larry squawks as she passes him. She raises a finger over her shoulder. I’m not sure which one of us it meant for.

Mom got the parrot 20 years ago. I had moved out a few years before and Lyra was in her third last year of college. Mom liked to talk out loud when working on her stories, and she said her neighbors had been giving her weird looks when she was working on her back porch.

Now, as that bird struts around my kitchen, I wonder why she couldn’t have gotten a dog.

“Want some coffee, Larry?”

The bird clicks his beak at me and I swear he rolls his beady little eyes.

“I’ll take some.” Lyra walks into the kitchen and drops a glittery gold purse on the table. “Just throw it in a cup with a lid and I’ll drink it on the road.”

“Going somewhere?”

“Shopping. There’s a mall about 20 minutes away – I’m assuming you’ve never been there – and I need an outfit for the funeral tomorrow.” Before I can ask any questions, she grabs my coffee mug from the table, swings her purse over her shoulder, and walks out the front door.

“Larry,” I say, laying my head down on the table. “What are we going to do?”

Larry flutters to the table and lands next to my head. “Stories. Mama tells me stories.”

“Then you’re the only one.”

Larry dips his head and taps his beak against my nose.

“I only ever got her ideas,” I say. “Never the full stories, just her ideas before she realized they would take too much work to actually complete and scrapped them for something else.” I stand to get another cup of coffee. “Anyway, you’re my problem now. Mine and Lyra’s.”

“Crazy bitch,” Larry mutters. He lifts his wing and starts plucking at his feathers.

“We really shouldn’t call her that,” I tell him, but I can’t criticize him too harshly. “You want to come to the funeral tomorrow? I’m sure Mom would have loved for you to be there.”

“Nope. Yell at neighbors.”

“Of course. Well, at least I know Mom taught you something.”

Mom’s funeral is 1:30 the next afternoon. We hold it at the house, mostly because Mom  hated any kind of religious place and she was cremated, so there wasn’t a grave to gather around. I don’t bother listening as, one by one, adoring fans of Mom’s get up and talk about how her stories changed their lives. Lyra gets up at one point and tells a few stories about Mom, but I’m not paying attention. After she’s done talking, Lyra slides onto the couch next to me. Someone else goes up to talk but I don’t bother listening.

“I know you think I only want to finish Mom’s story to make some money, but it’s not just that,” Lyra says out of nowhere. “Look at all the people here, just to honor her. I just want to continue that legacy, give it a satisfying ending.”

“Plus you’ll make a little cash.”

“You can take all the cash if you want. Well, maybe not all of it, but –”

“Uh-huh.”

“You know what? I’m trying to make a fucking peace offering –” An old lady sitting in front of us whips her around and Lyra stops talking.

“A peace offering?” I say after the lady has turned back around.

“I was thinking about it and, well, you knew Mom’s writing the best. You knew all of her ideas. What if you finished Mom’s book?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You care more about her writing than anyone else. You’ll do it the justice it deserves. You can even keep the bird. We both know he hates me.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

Lyra turns and looks at me, taking my hand in hers. “So you’ll do it?”

I sigh. “I’ll think about it. For now, I think I’ll focus on Mom. Just for today, at least.”