Elvis Takes a Back Seat (16 page)

“Thank you,” I say, with her arms wrapped around me. “Your kindness will not be forgotten.”

“You help them, okay?” Her gaze pierces me.

Even though some part of me flinches and I want to withdraw, how can I not help? I love them both. Yet how
can I promise such a thing? What will it demand of me? Will

I even have anything to give them?

“You have much to give,” she says, then hugs me again.

Then Myrtle moves on to Rae, saying to her, “You have wisdom to share. Hard earned. Share it now, you hear?”

Finally Myrtle enfolds Ivy in her arms, whispers maternal things in her ear. The girl crumples into her, tears staining the thin white material on the older woman's shoulder. “You're gonna be just fine. Just fine. You keep in touch with us, all right?”

“Yes ma'am.”

Myrtle laughs and hugs Ivy close again. “I like a girl with manners.”

Turning to Ben, she opens her arms. “All right, Daddy-o.”

Surprising to me, Ben almost falls into her arms, hugging her close. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you for giving my baby back to me.”

She pats his shoulder. “Oh, fiddle. We do like happy endings. Everything is going to be all right. You just keep remembering that.”

He nods, his throat working up and down.

The silence on the way back to the hotel throbs. How can I argue with Ivy's sense of rightness, the desire to do the opposite of her own mother? I felt that in my early years. My mother acted stiff and undemonstrative, self-righteous. I yearned for more. Did I choose Stu, a very physical male who liked to touch and hold, to help me be the opposite of my mother? Or was it something I yearned for deep inside? Was I looking for some kind of fulfillment? Did I depend
on Stu the way Ben leans on God? The way Stu held to his beliefs no matter what?

Piled into the Cadillac, I'm halfway back to the hotel when I realize I forgot to ask Guy or Myrtle about the shrine to Elvis and if it's missing a bust. I flip off the stereo as I've had all I can stand of the King. The thrum of the engine sounds like a lion purring.

I park at the back of the hotel. I grit my teeth at the sound of Elvis singing some rockabilly song that surrounds the hotel. It's another reminder of what I haven't yet accomplished with the bust.

Together we troop upstairs. None of us slept the night before, and the strain and fatigue show in our faces. I wonder how families survive when a child disappears for years or is never found. For the first time in a long while I have something to thank God for, and I offer a silent, hesitant prayer of gratitude.

Since none of us is hungry, and Myrtle fed Ivy earlier, we separate to our own rooms, our own thoughts. Ivy closes her door first. Ben settles on the sofa with a pillow and blanket I found in a closet. With his head and feet sticking off the ends of the sofa, he looks like one of those pigs in a blanket my mother used to fix on Sunday mornings before church.

“Maybe you should sleep in my bed,” I suggest, then realize how that sounds. “I'll sleep here.”

“No way. I'm not going to put you out any more than I already have. I'll get a room tomorrow.”

I pat his shoulder. “You'll stay here with us.”

“Thanks,” he whispers.

Tears fill my eyes and I swallow hard, then sniff, “It's going to be okay.”

“I know. Although it doesn't feel that way now.” He leans back into his pillow and closes his eyes.

I don't understand his unwavering faith. Stu had the same, but it didn't work out for him. It wasn't all right.

Ivy's door opens then. Ben practically leaps off the couch. “What is it? Are you okay?”

She stands in the middle of the sitting room, her hands on her hips. “Where is my mother? I want to see her. I don't care what
she
wants. I need to see her, to talk to her.”

Ben steps toward his daughter. “Come here.” His voice is gruff but tender. He takes her into the sitting area. “I should have told you a long time ago.”

Ivy stares up at him, a mixture of defiance and aching need. She crosses her arms over her chest. “So, where is she? If she wants—”

“We'll just …” I back away, knowing this needs to be between father and daughter. But the nearest bedroom is Rae's, so I take her arm and move in that direction.

“Stay,” Ben says.

“Tell me where my mother is! Do you even know? Do you care?”

“She's dead, Ivy.” Ben pauses but holds his daughter's shocked glare. “She—”

“You're lying!” Ivy's outburst shatters the room.

Rae squeezes my arm.

Ben looks stunned, hurt, as if she slapped him. “No, Ivy. I'm not. Your mother died the year after she left us.”

“I don't believe you! It's not true.”

“That's your choice.”

“But …” Tears choke Ivy's words. She looks at Rae and me then back to her father. “How? Why?”

“I don't know why, Ivy. I wish to God I did.”

Ivy's shoulders begin to shake. Her whole body trembles. I know that feeling so well. I reach out to her but stop when she says, “How? How did she die?”

Ben looks away.

“You can tell me. I'm not a baby.”

He nods, his mouth a pencil-thin line. “I know. It's …” He looks down at the floor, his face reddening, tightening with emotion, then back at his daughter. “She killed herself, baby. I don't know why. But she did.”

Ivy starts to back away, bumps into the corner of the wall, then wheels around and stumbles toward her room. The door slams shut. Through the thin hotel walls I can hear her choking sobs.

Ben sits down hard on the coffee table. I go to him, put a hand on his shoulder. His cotton shirt is damp with sweat.

“You did the right thing,” Rae says. “She'll mourn, but she will heal.”

“Did I?” Ben looks up at me, his eyes rimmed red, the green irises darkened with unshed tears.

“Yes,” I say. “Let me go to her. Okay?”

He nods, unable to speak. I embrace him, putting my arms around his shoulders. In spite of the painful moments, he feels sturdy and strong.

* * *

“IVY?” I KNOCK on her door. “I'm coming in, okay?” I can hear muffled weeping, and I open the door and enter the darkness of her room.

She's sprawled across the bed as if she simply collapsed there. She clutches a pillow to her, has buried her face in it. Her whole body jerks and shakes with sobs.

I put a hand on her back as I sit next to her. I can feel her trembling. Slowly I smooth my hand along her black hair, down her back, over and over, the action comforting me probably more than her. Her snuffling, congested sounds fill the room. Her grief consumes her, penetrates the defenses I've built. Suddenly I taste my own tears. I cry for Ivy, for her pain, her loss of never knowing her mother, and for Gwen who will never know the beauty of her own daughter.

I'm not sure how long I sit there beside Ivy, but eventually there's a shift in the grief tide. She reaches out a hand to me. Then suddenly this young woman is in my arms and I'm holding her, rocking her, feeling her tears and grief pour out. I mutter useless, senseless words, knowing nothing can ease her pain. The tears will bring acceptance and eventually healing. Or so I hope. Over the past year I've grieved not only Stu but also our dreams. Ivy is now grieving her little girl dreams, dreams so basic—the need for a mother. Her cries claw at the wounds in my own heart.

When she finally collapses back onto the bed, I hand her tissues as I blow my own nose. There's a washrag on the bedside table, probably the one I brought her when her stomach was upset, and I use it now to wipe the tears off her face.

Suddenly she sits up, stares wide-eyed. “I'm gonna barf!”

“Okay.” I grab a trash can and hold it with one hand in front of her as she heaves up her grief. With my other hand I pull back her hair. “It's okay. Don't worry. You're okay.”

When she slumps back onto the bed, I set the trash can near the door, my nose pinched from the rancid odor. “I'll get you some water and be right back.”

Out in the hallway, the lights are off but suddenly Ben is there. “Is she—”

“She's fine. I'll stay with her tonight. In case she needs anything.”

“Did she … ?” He looks at the trash can.

“It's okay, Ben. She'll be okay.” I empty the trash can into the toilet. Then I gather more tissues, a glass of water, a wet washrag.

Back in Ivy's room, she sips a little water then falls back on the bed, exhausted and spent. I bathe her face and neck. She whimpers some, tears seeping from her closed eyes. But eventually even that stops and she sleeps. Folding back a corner of the comforter, I cover her. Then I move Ivy's iPod and backpack out of the armchair beside the bed and curl myself into it.

It's lumpy and too small, but exhaustion eventually overwhelms me and I sleep, waking periodically through the night to check on Ivy.

* * *

THE DREAM COMES in waves, like the foamy surf creeping onto a sandy beach, filling my subconscious from I don't
know where. I wonder if dreams are a figment of our imaginations or if those who've died before us visit us through dreams.

My mother sweeps into mine. She wears a swirly blue dress that ripples about her like sea grasses rolling with the gentle sway of the ocean. We simply look at each other as underwater divers might through masks. When she begins to fade, drifting off, slowly, slowly, slowly, I feel my insides rocking like the wake of a boat. It's then I realize she carries a baby with her, curled against her shoulder. Is it mine? Or hers?

I awaken crying.

I lie in the darkness, listening to the hum of the air conditioner and the snuffled breathing of Ivy as tears run down the sides of my face into my hair. I remember the hope, confidence, and joy of knowing a baby was growing inside me. Does this young girl feel that now? Or is she naive about the changes, the great responsibility? Or overwhelmed and frightened? Despite the burping and the bloating as my body began to change, accommodating a new life, I was delirious.

Stu acted more like a opossum out for its nightly stroll along a Texas highway, seeing the light bursts of a car and freezing, eyes locked on the headlights of change. Would he be a good daddy? He'd asked, “What about our lives? How can we pay for college? What if the baby's a girl? Then we'll have to pay for a wedding, too.”

“Yes,” I told him. “Our life is going to change. For the better.”

After all, we'd seen Ben in action as a father, changing diapers, rushing home from work, rarely working late,
buying baby paraphernalia and formula by the truckload. Then watched him as a single father, shouldering the burden of parenthood alone, taking Ivy's temperature, burping, consoling, loving his little girl. We'd marveled at his abilities, seen his joy and sorrow, all made richer and deeper by the sheer existence of his daughter. Were we ready for that roller coaster?

I was. But I was never sure about Stu. Oh, I figured by the time the baby arrived, he'd come around. After all, we'd planned the pregnancy. We'd read books on when to conceive, how to prepare, how to conceive a boy or a girl.

Stu always joked he wanted to name his son Elvis. At least, I'd hoped he was joking. He'd finally said, “Let's call the baby Elvis … or Priscilla, whichever is appropriate when we find out if it's a boy or a girl.”

“But everyone will think—”

“Exactly.” He winked and grinned. “Then we'll surprise them with the real name when he or she arrives.”

Relief had washed through me. “And what is that real name going to be?”

“Elvis.” He laughed. “Kidding. Only kidding.”

Remembering the hope swelling within me when the baby began to grow, I could never have given up my baby voluntarily. It amazed me that Rae survived that. Not in a condemning way but in awe of her strength. Knowing my own weakness, I can't suggest that Ivy give up hers. After learning about her mother, I have no idea what she will do.

* * *

THE HOTEL ROOM seems as quiet as Elvis's grave site when I venture out of Ivy's room. With everyone else still
sleeping, I pace along the end of the bed in my own room. My limbs are stiff and sore, my neck aching from sleeping in the chair all night. I look at the ads in the yellow pages left on the bedside table. The sky outside my window remains dark with heavy clouds. I can't get the image of my mother and the sleeping baby out of my mind. I can't escape the memory of Ivy's weeping.

I thought I'd mourned our baby. The miscarriage happened years ago. I'd had other things to mourn since then. But maybe Ivy's pregnancy, maybe the drama of learning about her mother, exhumed the pain within my own soul.

“Why?” I whisper. “Why?”

I realize I'm asking this of God. It's not the first time I've asked that question. Still there's no reply. No answer.

With my insides unsettled, my mind restless, I finally venture out into the joining area. Ben's awake, sitting at the table. At first I think he's talking to Elvis, who is still but ever alert and watchful. Then I realize Ben has his cell phone to his ear. I laugh at my own foolishness, and he turns.

“How's Ivy?” he asks as he clicks off his phone.

“I think she'll be okay, but it's going to take time. Was that about work?”

“I'm trying to figure out how much of a donation I can make to Faithland … as a thank-you for all they did for Ivy.”

I remember the sign in front of the chapel saying their services were free but they accepted donations. “I'm sure anything you could give would be appreciated.” Then an idea occurs to me. “Why don't we hook up your nonprofit with theirs in an effort to help families in need in the Memphis area.”

“It's a thought. When we get back to Dallas, let's work on it. I'll put you in charge.” He pushes against his knees and stands. “Now, I'm starving.”

“I could probably eat. How long will the others sleep?”

“Rae's up,” he says. “She's getting dressed.” He looks toward his daughter's closed door. “I can wake Ivy. She needs to eat, too.”

But before he can, the bathroom door clicks, then the shower spray swooshes.

“Thanks,” Ben says, “for helping her.”

“I didn't do anything—”

“Yes, you did.”

A warmth spreads through my limbs. It feels good to be useful. “She's going to be fine.”

* * *

THIRTY MINUTES LATER we take the elevator down to the lobby, only to learn that breakfast in the Jungle Room ended twenty minutes earlier. So we pile into the Cadillac and go in search of a café. Ivy wants an omelet and pancakes. Ben is determined to get it for her. She seems somber this morning, quiet but rested. Mostly hungry, which is a good sign.

When we're settled in a large round booth, we study the menu. Ben pulls the Elvis spectacles out of his shirt pocket. I hide a laugh.

“What are you doing?” Ivy asks.

Ben looks up. “Reading the menu.”

“But where did you get those?” His daughter's nose wrinkles with disgust.

“Oh these?” He tugs off the glasses, then puts them back on and grins. “Great, aren't they?”

“Uh, no.” She shrinks down in her seat.

After a few moments we greedily order coffee and fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice, bacon and sausages, pancakes and hash browns, along with omelets and eggs over easy, scrambled, and fried. We eat like we haven't eaten in days.

Rae quietly gives Ivy tips on eating during pregnancy. “Avoid grease. Eat healthy, wholesome foods—grains, fiber, lots of vegetables and fruits.”

“That means no French fries,” Ben says, sliding a piece of bacon in his mouth.

“Yogurt,” Rae adds. “It will aid your sluggish digestive tract.”

Ivy wrinkles her nose, then slaps another pat of butter on her pancakes. “Whatever.”

“Eat a little bit, several times a day,” Rae continues as if her advice is being absorbed with relish. “Having something in you will settle your stomach.”

Silverware clinks against the plain white plates. The attentive waitress brings more coffee, then a basket of hot-out-of-the-oven biscuits.

Eventually Ivy's the first to surrender. “I'm stuffed.”

We laugh. Not that her comment's funny, but it provides relief for all of us. Our manic eating slows, and we nibble on bits of biscuit, a last swipe of pancake through thick syrup, broken pieces of bacon.

“What are the plans today?” Ben asks.

“Maybe we should do something just for fun,” Rae suggests.

“A movie?” Ivy asks.

“I thought we'd head home,” I say, more than ready to abandon this journey that has been too difficult already.

Everyone stares at me for a minute as if I've spoken treason. Then the excuses shoot out of them, overlapping one another.

“But,” Ben said, “what about—?”

“It's not possible,” Rae imposes.

“No,” Ivy says, “we can't go yet. What about Elvis?”

Why did it always come back to him?

“Stuart asked you to return it,” Rae says.

“I think it was his final joke on me,” I return.

“No, it wasn't,” Ben argues.

“How am I ever going to find where Elvis belongs? It's crazy. You all should have stopped me back in Dallas. It's insane.”

“I know,” Ivy says.

“See! Even Ivy can see the absurdity of it.”

“No,” she says, leaning forward, “I
know
.”

“Know what?” Rae asks.

“I know where Elvis belongs.”

“You do?” Ben asks. “Where?”

“The chapel. Faithland.”

“That pedestal did look the right size,” I say, “but that's no proof. And I am not about to go back and ask Myrtle and Guy if they're missing,” I lower my voice to a whisper, “a big head of Elvis.”