The Death of Us

  Her mom bursts into tears. She says, “I couldn’t call you, Callie. Last night she died.”

  Callie

  For a moment I’m confused, remembering Ivy’s story about Isabel. Then I realize with a sickening lurch that Mom’s talking about my granny. Granny’s dead. My mouth tastes bitter.

  “No,” I say.

  “What were you doing with Ivy? I forbade you to see her. Whose car is that?” She pulls me into the house. Her grip is tight. The house is too warm. She says, “Where did you go? Who was driving that car? Why didn’t you answer when I called?”

  “The battery doesn’t last long on this. I’ve been telling you I need a new phone.”

  Her eyes brim and she looks like a young child. “I called Rebecca’s house. Woke them all up.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. And I didn’t mean to say that about the phone. I should have charged it before I left. I’m sorry I lied. I went to a party with Ivy. I didn’t mean to lie to you, I just knew you’d never let me go if I asked and I didn’t know we were spending the night and now I wasn’t here when Granny died—” It hits me. It seems impossible that Granny’s not here anymore. Her whole life, all the moments that made it, all of it over. I start to cry.

  Mom softens, tells me it’s okay, hugs me, but I know she’s upset about the party, about Ivy. Worse—she’s disappointed.

  I whisper into her hair, “I wish I hadn’t gone, Mom. I’m sorry.”

  It’s enough for the moment. There are things to organize. Mom draws me into the house and we are swept into a blur of family visits, and the endless details of a funeral, which is rapidly arranged for three days later, on Sunday. We discuss flowers and music, who will speak, the order of service. Mom and I select the coffin.

  I’m helpful, sweet, and Mom doesn’t mention the party, Ivy, my disobedience, her disappointment. Grief is like the ocean. It rushes over me in waves, sometimes knocking all the air out of my body with the force of memories, and then there are lulls when I feel fine, like nothing is wrong.

  As the days hurtle by, Ivy calls loads, being supportive and endlessly kind, offering to come over, offering to help. But I don’t see her. I don’t see Rebecca either. She texts and calls. At least we’re not annoying each other anymore. I don’t go to work and Ana is understanding. I cocoon with my family until the funeral, which is held in a bleak room with a photograph of my grandmother at the centre, surrounded by heaps of roses. The smell is intense, sickly even. I can’t believe a life ends like this, ushered out by strangers in dark suits. Rebecca’s there. Ivy’s there, wearing a black dress.

  It’s the first time since she returned that I’ve seen her in anything other than white and the first time with no makeup. Her eyelashes are pale and her skin is blotchy. She waves at me.

  Granny is far away from me, her voice difficult to recall. Bouquets of roses, roses stacked up all over the place. I breathe in. Now the air smells like her and for a too-brief moment it’s as if she’s talking to me. Careful, Callie.

  After the service, Ivy comes up to me and takes my hand. But I don’t get to talk to her because one of my great-uncles is pulling me into an overfriendly hug and telling me what a lovely young woman I have become. Ergh. Old people kiss me on the cheek and tell me stories about my grandmother, stories that I hardly hear.

  It’s the day after the funeral, four days since the party. My relatives have left and I’m feeling empty and sad when Ivy texts and asks me to go for ice cream. I go to my mom’s office and say, “Mom, can I, um, could I go out with Ivy, please?”

  Mom raises her gaze and regards me steadily. “I saw her at the funeral.”

  “She’s important to me, Mom.”

  “We haven’t talked yet about the party. About you seeing her when I asked you not to.”

  “I know.”

  “You lied to me, Callie.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want you to lie to me again.”

  “I’m really sorry.” Tears spill from my eyes. “I couldn’t tell Ivy that you wouldn’t let me see her.”

  She spins her office chair slightly from side to side. “I know I should be more open-minded.”

  Embarrassment seizes me. “Do we have to talk about this?”

  “Callie, I should be … I just don’t want to see you hurt again.”

  “Mom, I really don’t want to talk about this. Really.”

  “It’s fine to—”

  “Can we stop now? Please?”

  She opens up her laptop and we both wait in excruciating silence. She says, eventually, “If she’s your friend then I should try again with her. I know I should, so tell me, where do you guys want to go?”

  “Just for a walk. We might get ice cream, something.”

  Mom takes another moment. “Okay,” she says finally. “But no more lies.”

  “I promise,” I say.

  When I get to the ice cream parlour, Ivy gives me a huge hug, then says, “Ice cream. It’s the only thing.”

  “Sure.”

  “Not mint-chocolate though.”

  “But it’s my favourite.”

  “It always was.” She buys us pistachio and mango ice cream. Sounds disgusting, but tastes delicious. I think about my granny and the quiet determination in her pale eyes, the way she circled her thumbs one over the other.

  Ivy puts her arm around me and says, “I know how hard it is.”

  I lean in to be comforted. Ivy smells good, like she always does, that vanilla perfume.

  She murmurs into my hair, squeezing me tightly.

  She says, “I wish I could make it better,” and I hear a note of regret in her voice.

  I assume she must be thinking of her own loss, of her friend Isabel. I feel like I’m suddenly an adult, grown up in a way I don’t want to be, and I long to be a kid again, free and easy.

  We sit on the wall outside the ice cream place and swing our legs. Two spoons. One tub. That kid-feeling I just longed for rising up through me.

  Ivy says, “Mom’s being … Christ, I’m sorry to bring this up. You’ve got your own stuff … going on.”

  “No, I could do with something else to think about.”

  “I had a rough morning.”

  “With her?”

  “Yeah. She was, you know, drunk again.” Ivy pauses. “Why did you tell your granny about that day by the river?”

  “I just said your mother was … I didn’t go into details. Not about that. I was upset. It was pretty awful.”

  “Mom freaked out. Told me we were leaving and I didn’t even have time to get my clothes, let alone think. She wouldn’t let me call you or see you, say goodbye, nothing.”

  Our ice cream is melting. I lick mine quickly.

  She says, “It was … after that living with her was … at first, well, it was day to day. Mom stopped drinking. I honestly thought she was done. You know. She’d gone further than before. I mean, trying to kill herself. The drinking didn’t seem so normal anymore. Does that even make sense? She really tried. She did. She still had stacks of money from her inheritance.

  “We lived in a tiny place called Plato for a while—I told you, remember, about Riley? The son of her boyfriend—the one who wanted me to strip for him? Then we lived with some developer guy in San Francisco. Then she met Mark. Found a new place to live: Kansas City. It’s fricking horrible there, but whatever.

  “Six months after we arrived I found her passed out in the bedroom. I tried to hide it from everyone because she insisted she’d stop drinking for good. Next time. Next time. She’s really really good at hiding it. But, eventually, Mark found out.” Ivy stares off at a distant, invisible point. “I’ve been to so many different schools I can’t count them, but she won’t stop drinking. She can’t stop. Nothing works. Mark told her to get the hell out. Then, I found her on the bed. You know. Again. She was hospitalized. I was the only one who visited her. Things got a little out of control … For me, I mean.”

  “God, Ivy.”

  ??
?Mom decided we had to leave Kansas City and she connected with Kevin so we came back here …” She pauses. “The worst of it? I just keep wondering if I’m going to end up like her.”

  “Of course not. No way.”

  “Alcoholism runs in the blood. I even look like her.” She says, “I’m just really grateful you’re here for me.”

  “I … I care about you, Ivy.”

  “Me too.”

  I have to go into work in the afternoon. I so don’t feel like it, but I missed the last two shifts because of the funeral. When I arrive in the main gallery, Kurt’s staring at the painting that’s black all over, with the woman in white collapsed in the bottom corner, the one that reminds me of Ivy’s mom.

  Kurt’s shoulders are hunched up like he’s having a bad day too.

  He must sense me beside him because he turns and says, “Haven’t seen you around.”

  “I thought you might have heard.”

  He furrows his brow. “No, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s just … My granny died the night of the party.” The words are sticky.

  “I had no idea. Sorry.”

  “Thanks. Ivy didn’t tell you?”

  “No. I haven’t seen her.” He steps back from the painting. “I—yeah. Forget it. I’m no good at this stuff. Maybe you want to work on that piece for Flat Earth Theory on the Surrealists.” He quickly begins to backtrack, “Not if it’s too soon, but—”

  “No, I will.”

  “I always find working on something makes it … yeah … makes things easier.”

  “You know what? Remember the profile on my granny? Maybe I could do a series of those too, like, do some more interviews with other grandparents.”

  I hear my boss, Ana, coughing, um, not so discreetly. “Callie, whenever you’re ready … I’ve got a zoo in here.”

  The next morning, I lie around in bed, toying with a line in my head: Light bursts like juice from a dropped carton, light splatters, stains, seeps into the cracks. I hear Ivy yelling from the street.

  “COOOO-EEEEEEEEE, CAAAAAAALIIIIIIEEEE. TIME TO GO JOGGING.”

  I put the pillow over my head.

  “CAAAALLLLLIIIIIEEEE!”

  I shove the pillow away, lurch up and look out the window. She’s standing outside, yelling.

  “Come down!”

  “It’s too early.”

  She stops, takes out her phone. A text pops up: Never too early!

  I yell down, “Okay, okay. I’m coming.”

  I go to grab Mom’s Zumba pants. Mom, Cosmo and Dad are all piled up in my parents’ bed. I look at the three of them together. Mom wakes and blurrily lets me borrow the pants, telling me we should get some new ones for me to wear if I’m going to keep up with jogging.

  —Down in 2 mins. Don’t sing!

  When I get outside, it’s already warm. Golden light intercuts the street with bright stripes. There’s something in the air, which I can only describe as the smell of green. I jog over to Ivy, who is bouncing foot to foot in a Lycra all-in-one short suit.

  “How you doing?”

  “All right.”

  Ivy says, “A jog will wake you up.” She bounds off. I try to catch up, but she’s too fast. She keeps going and looks back at me over her shoulder. “Race you to the river.”

  I run with determination, thinking about my granny, missing her. Ivy might be naturally faster and fitter, but I pummel the street, ignoring the ache in my chest and the burning sensation in my lungs. I soon hear Ivy puffing with her own effort.

  Still, she beats me. We stop at the point where the road meets the riverbank. She’s laughing, high, and already no longer breathless. I feel like I might actually die. I collapse on the grass and spread out my arms, looking up at the sky. I suck in air and pant, sweat making me wet and disgusting. Ivy lies down next to me. She takes a shuddering breath and says, “Sometimes it seems really bad.”

  I turn to her. “I knew she was old, I mean, I knew one day we’d lose her, but I thought it would be later. Not … just like that,” I say.

  “Look, Callie, I don’t know if it might make you feel better, but I have these podcasts that are really great.”

  “Podcasts? Like what?”

  “You know, spiritual stuff. Uplifting. I was in a pretty dark place myself not so long ago.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m …” She props herself on one arm so we’re facing each other. She says, “What would you think if I told you I tried to end it.” She puffs out a breath. “I mean, like Mom. On purpose.”

  “You tried to kill yourself?”

  Ivy flops back to stare at the sky and I stare at her. She says, “See—I told you it was dark. It’s been really hard.”

  “Ivy, you should have called me.”

  She’s not looking at me. “What? Out of the blue after so many years? Anyway, I’m much better now.”

  “Not so many years.” I pause. “You were really important to me. I really missed you.” I want to ask her how she did it, what happened, but I realize she’s starting to cry. I say, “Poor you.”

  “No way. I’m not going there. Not poor me. Strong me. Powerful me. Everything-is-possible me.” She jumps up, brushes away her tears and bounces from foot to foot. “Wanna race back?”

  EIGHT

  JULY 31ST

  Kurt

  I drum my fingers on the arm of the sofa. Regret is a strong drink. Whisky. Seeping through my veins. I’m drunk on it. The first night, Ivy whispered to me, “You make me feel safe.”

  What’s a guy supposed to do with that? Her hair smelled good. Her hands were swift, light over my chest. She had that look of the Little Match Girl—that story of the kid dying to sell her last match. Desperate. Feisty. But it wasn’t hard to shake any interest I had in her—all I had to think about was my birth-mom, her friends, that life.

  Callie’s friend from school hustles along the hospital corridor and rushes up to Xander, who rubs his face hard, sits up, acts like he was awake the whole time. She’s small and muscular, with blue hair. Her makeup is smudged like she just got out of bed.

  “I’m Rebecca Lane, remember me?” she says. “It doesn’t matter. How can we find out stuff? Surely someone will tell us something. Where’s everyone else? I just saw the car online and figured to come here. This is insane, Callie and I are fighting, it’s all my fault, I was so jealous of Ivy. And now this. I can’t believe it. I was so stupid … I wouldn’t even listen to her.”

  “It’s okay,” Xander says.

  “It’s so far from okay. I have to find out what’s going on.” She leaves the way she came.

  TWO DAYS EARLIER

  Ivy

  It’s still dark when I wake. Mom and Kevin are shouting at each other. Their voices angry. I drift off, eventually. In my memory I’m three years old. In New York. Plush apartment. Dad yelling at Mom. She wears white: heels, dress, pearls. Her hair is gorgeous pretty. She’s shrieking.

  I put my hands over my ears. Please stop crying.

  I hear Mom simpering, “I’m sorry, Kevin. It won’t happen again.”

  Kevin seems placated because soon I can hear him grunting against her. I pull the pillow over my head. Fall back into a restless sleep.

  I wake thinking about Callie. It was a good idea to tell her what I tried to do. I was sharing my pain, and pain shared is pain relieved. Once I’ve done my exercises, I call her.

  “Want to meet at Toxique?”

  “Morning. Wow, you really do get up early.”

  “So, wanna come shopping?”

  “Sure. The place on Pine Hill? Next to the cupcake store?” Callie says.

  “Yeah. You walk past it all the time! So, I need a dress for BEneath tonight. You coming?”

  “I can’t. Mom won’t let me.”

  What is it with her mom? I’ve always been so polite to her, sweet, interested in her books. “I have a question.”

  “What?”

  “Does your mom still not like me?”

>   “It’s not that, Ivy.”

  “What then? She’s always been weird with me.”

  Callie pauses before saying, “She saw us—”

  “What?”

  “Um, when we were kids.”

  “So? Kids experiment.”

  “It wasn’t …” Callie says softly. “It meant more than that. Anyway, she doesn’t hate you.”

  “If you say so.” Her mom makes out she’s so in touch with young people, so sensitive, artistic, generous. “Thinking about her hating me makes me feel bad.”

  Callie says, “You shouldn’t feel bad. It’s Mom’s problem, not yours. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. And I’m sure I can figure out some way to get her to like me.”

  “Just give it time. I’ve been thinking about what you told me … about what happened. When you—”

  “That’s behind me now, Callie.”

  “Just, well, just promise me if you’re feeling, I dunno, bad, you’ll tell me.”

  “I’m feeling great. Remember, new town, new life.”

  “Okay. Well … I’ll see you at noon.”

  “See you soon,” I say.

  I sit in front of my mirror. My face looking back at me is tight, my jaws tense, my cheeks flushed. What is with Callie’s mom? What’s her fricking problem? It’s not like it was all my fault, but of course it couldn’t be that her perfect daughter did anything—right? It couldn’t be that her perfect daughter was the one to kiss me first. I release my jaw. I think of a bath draining, the dirty water swirling away. I say again and again, I’m beautiful, I’m worthy. Slowly I believe it.

  Callie

  Ivy and I arrange to meet at the clothing store. I get off the phone and lie back on my bed. I’m only just waking up. I play with the idea of actually writing down a poem but the lines are slippery and they swim away before I can catch them.

  Mom and Dad ask me if I’d mind babysitting for the morning. I haven’t really done that for them before, except for the day when Granny fell, and they seem nervous, instructing me not to use my phone, not to leave Cosmo unattended. When they’re gone, I give him a bottle. He gobbles it down, then spits up so I put him in the bath, and he coos when I lightly splash him with water. After his bath, I dry and dress him again, and he settles in my arms and falls asleep while I tell him a made-up story about a girl who can fly.