A Broken Kind of Beautiful (30 page)

“Go to your room. I’m going to get your mother.”
And then he left.

Every bone in Ivy’s body wanted to chase them both down the stairs.
Because what if James gave up before he found her and Ivy was left all alone? Instead, she obeyed her father. She ran to her bedroom closet and shut the door, wondering if eight-year-olds could have heart attacks. Ivy scooted to the very back—until her thin shoulder blades met the cool wall—and buried her face in her knees. She rocked back and forth, back and forth, counting backward from ten a hundred times over.

Nobody came for her until the next morning.

The closet door opened and there stood Mom, all the light snuffed from her eyes, as if her insides and her outsides had gotten separated when she ran out of the condo, and James had returned with her outsides but had forgotten all about her insides.

After that day, he never came back to Chicago.

And Mom’s insides stayed away for good.

There were no more late-night kitchen dances or rainy-day puddle stomping. This new version of her mother didn’t like to sing in the shower or paint toenails. Some days she didn’t even like to get out of bed. And when the bottles in the locked cupboard no longer satisfied, she started giving herself shots in her arms until she wasted away to skin and bone. Ivy spent five long years taking care of her mother’s shell until the Department of Children and Family Services showed up and took her to Greenbrier.

Ivy had promised herself she would never let James destroy her the way he had destroyed Mom. Nobody would. When it came to men, she would be the one in control. She held the cards. They were at her mercy. She was taking from them. And as long as she took from them, they couldn’t touch her.

But it was all a lie.

Every man Ivy had taken from left a stain that couldn’t be scrubbed away. The long line started with James, then Bruce, then Raymond, and every one after. Each had stripped a piece of flesh from her heart until all that remained was a cold, hard stone.

Shuddering, Ivy tore herself from the memories. She rose from the floor and set both hands on the dresser, taking in deep breaths until her knees
stopped shaking. She flipped open the box, removed Sara’s card, and brushed a finger over the words.

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.” Isaiah 43:1. God wrote these words for you, Ivy
.

Love, Sara
.

When she closed her eyes, she didn’t see her mother’s tear-streaked face as she watched a television preacher, but two butterflies swooping over sparkling water. Maybe James wasn’t all bad. But he wasn’t a butterfly. He hadn’t pursued her mother. He hadn’t pursued Ivy either. Nobody had. She slipped the card inside with the pictures and slid the box beside the mirror, beneath a bouquet of dead flowers.

Marilyn watched as Ivy reversed the car out of the driveway and drove down the street. Earlier, Ivy had rebuffed her invitation to church before asking to borrow the car. Marilyn didn’t know where Ivy was headed, nor did she know what repelled Ivy more—going to church or spending time together. Probably both. Once again, Marilyn had no clue what to do—push Ivy to open up and risk widening the chasm between them or give her space and risk appearing as though she didn’t care, when that was far from the truth.

Lord, what am I supposed to do?

The question was met with silence and the memory of Ivy’s hurt face from the night before. Marilyn had gone to bed wanting to strangle her husband. Only James was dead, leaving her alone with a handful of conflicting emotions and nowhere to sling them. Sighing, she turned away from the large window and headed up the stairs toward Sara’s bedroom. Last night, a cold had put Sara to bed early, which meant she had missed yesterday’s confrontation.

Marilyn stopped in front of the open door and placed her hand on the doorframe. Sara stood in front of her dresser, combing tangles out of her hair with quick, jerky strokes before setting to work on a french braid. Unnoticed in the doorway, Marilyn watched. After Sara’s accident, so many well-intentioned people had offered her words of hope—that God would heal her, that she would see again—as if that was a given. It was the same hope people had offered Marilyn all those years ago. Story upon story of women who had struggled through infertility and ended up with a child on the other side.

“God is good. It’ll happen,”
they had told her.

As if God’s goodness depended upon whether or not He answered prayers the way people wanted Him to answer. The hard truth was that sometimes He didn’t. He hadn’t rescued Marilyn from her infertility, and He hadn’t rescued Sara from her blindness. But that didn’t negate His goodness. It just meant He had different plans.

Sara wrapped a hair band around the end of her braid, then unzipped a cosmetic bag sitting on top of her dresser. She removed a CoverGirl compact, flipped it open, and brought it beneath her nose, as if breathing in the scent. Marilyn cocked her head. Sara used to wear a touch of makeup before the accident—a hint of blush and a thin layer of mascara on her long, pale lashes. Afterward, however, she hadn’t bothered with it at all.

Slowly, meticulously, Sara brushed powder onto her cheeks. She pulled a stick of mascara from the bag, twisted it open, and touched the tip of the wand as if feeling for moisture. Using her fingers to find her eyelashes, she brushed the applicator over them. A bit of black smudged her lid. Marilyn stepped forward, wondering if she should offer to help. But then, without warning, Sara heaved the applicator across the room.

It clattered against the wall and fell.

“Good arm.”

Sara spun around.

Marilyn walked inside and picked up the mascara, unsure if Sara’s puffy eyes were a result of crying or her cold. “Would you like some help?”

“I’m fine,” she snapped.

Marilyn drew back at the sharp words.

Sara moved to the bed, her shoulders sagging. She sat on the edge and tucked her hands between her knees.

That’s when Marilyn noticed it—a photo album splayed atop Sara’s pillow. Marilyn joined Sara on the bed and ran her finger over one of the photographs. A picture of Jordan and Sara at a church picnic, Jordan’s arm draped over Sara’s shoulder as they squinted happily at the camera. Marilyn remembered the day. It was several years ago, one of Sara and Jordan’s first dates. Her niece hadn’t been able to stop smiling. “You don’t see very many photo albums anymore. Everyone’s pictures are on their phones.”

“I don’t even know why I still have it. They’re nothing but glossy pieces of paper to me now.”

Marilyn frowned. Sara had come a long way these past two years. She had forgiven Davis. She was learning to handle her blindness. She was even learning to be thankful in the midst of it. But that didn’t mean her longing to see had disappeared. Or that she didn’t have bad days like everybody else.

“Sorry for snapping,” she said.

“It’s okay.”

“Being sick makes everything else feel worse. Especially this blind thing.”

“You know what I’ve learned?”

“What?”

“Anytime I’m sick or overtired, I don’t let myself think too much about my circumstances. Feeling rotten has a way of making the whole world seem darker, you know? Better to let bad days be bad days and trust that they’ll pass.” Marilyn placed the mascara into Sara’s palm. “Why the makeup? I haven’t seen you wear it since before …”

“The accident?”

“Yeah.”

Sara turned the mascara over in her hand. “If life would have turned out differently, today would have marked my four-year anniversary with Jordan.” Sara closed her fist around the mascara and shook her head. “I guess I wanted to feel like a girl again. Not a blind girl, but a girl. If that makes any sense.”

Marilyn set her hand on Sara’s knee.

“I keep waiting for life to get easier.”

Marilyn laughed. The sound escaped as nothing more than a puff of breath.
Easy
was not a word that described their lives. “Here, face me.”

Sara turned and sat cross legged on the bed.

Marilyn gently wiped the smudge of black away with the pad of her thumb, took the mascara from Sara, and twisted it open. “Look up.”

“Aunt Mare, do you ever wish you’d had a different life? Something not so … hard?”

Marilyn finished Sara’s right upper lashes and paused before moving on to the left. “Sometimes. But then the hard is what makes us who we are. The hard is usually what God uses to draw us closer.” And what if God came down and offered her a different life? If she’d never walked the path of infertility or knew about her husband’s infidelity and had three grown children with grandchildren on the way—what would have become of Ivy? “If I have to choose between what’s easy or what will bring me closer to Him, I pray my choice will be Him.”

“That’s a scary prayer.”

“Tell me about it.”

A hint of a smile pulled up the corner of Sara’s mouth. “But you pray it anyway.”

“On my brave days. Not so much my bad ones. Now look up.”

Sara pointed her gaze back up at the ceiling.

Marilyn finished Sara’s other eye, then leaned back to examine her handiwork. “You know what else I’ve learned?”

Sara blinked a few times as if getting used to the feel of mascara on her eyelashes again.

She twisted the mascara shut and looked at her niece. “God’s not in the business of pampering His children. He’s in the business of perfecting them.”

26

A woman in white greeted Ivy at the counter. “May I help you, ma’am?”

Ma’am?
The name made Ivy feel ancient, something she didn’t need to feel. Not when she already felt like she’d lived a million lifetimes. This morning when Marilyn invited her to church, Ivy declined and instead came to visit the place her father helped build—the children’s wing of the Beaufort County Hospital. For whatever reason, she needed to see it. “My name’s Ivy Clark.” She wiped her hands down the thighs of her jeans. “I’m … I’m Mr. Olsen’s daughter.”

The woman’s face brightened, then dimmed. “I was so sorry to hear about his passing. He was a wonderful man.”

So she’d heard. “Is it okay if I look around? I mean, is that allowed in a hospital?”

The nurse smiled. “We have a plaque at the end of the hall with your father’s name on it.”

“Great. Thanks.” Ivy turned from the counter and shuffled down the corridor. Except for the muted television chatter and an elderly doctor reviewing a chart, the hall was quiet and empty. She wandered to the plaque at the end of the hall, but the sound of laughter floating from one of the rooms made her pause.

Ivy peeked inside the room. A young girl—maybe eleven or twelve—with no hair and large dark eyes nestled inside a painfully thin face lay in bed, smiling at Jordan Ludd.

“Jordan?” His name escaped before she could take it back.

He looked up from the girl’s bed and spotted Ivy, his cheeks blushing
their usual shade of crimson. He took off his hat and wrung it in his hands. “Mornin’, Ivy.”

No “What are you doing here?” Just a simple hello. Ivy tried to look at him, but her attention kept pulling toward the little girl. She sat up in bed, swimming in a hospital gown, surrounded by flowers and stuffed animals and balloons. Despite her ill health, there was a brightness to her that spread throughout the room.

“Hi,” the girl said.

Ivy was struck by a sudden inexplicable bout of shyness. “Hello.”

“My name’s Twila.” The girl sat up straighter, the bed squeaking beneath her, her eyes growing bigger the longer she stared. “What’s your name?”

“Ivy.”

“Are you a model?” Twila brought her fingers to her scalp, where her hair should have been.

“Yes.” Ivy flicked a glance at Jordan. “What are you doing here?”

He stood in the corner with his brown hair matted against his head. “Twila’s a member of my granddad’s church. The two of us like to keep company on Sundays.”

“My dad helped build this wing.” Ivy had no idea why she blurted the words. Jordan hadn’t asked. She looked at the girl. Did Twila know her father? Did he visit her before he died like he’d visited the mayor’s daughter? She shook the questions away and asked the one that mattered far more than the others. “Are you okay?”