Where the Ivy Hides (8 page)

Well, shit, with my psych record, it's not surprising that it's probably genetic. The fucked up ones usually are.

My mother probably was sick, but in my mind as a child, I contorted it into an actual illness.

When I look back to the stack representing the debris of my childhood, I see a picture taken a few years later of the same, older, and almost hardened version of their younger happier selves, and it verifies at least one of my random thoughts tonight since stepping foot back into this closet.

Their physical health wasn't the reason 'aunt' Beth took me in, whatever the reason was, it took a hard toll on both of them.

My eyes scan over the little boy’s face who seems stuck out of place...in my space.

And because I'm human, the thought filters through the chaos of my mind.

Good. I'm glad whatever it was they were going through that caused them to not want me hurt them. Fucking. Good. Because it was really damn hard on me, too.

And when I went on, when I trudged forward with people I didn't know from Adam, one day at a time, I had to do it on my own. Every step of the way.

So fuck them.

Fuck Roman 1 and Roman 2, and my psychotic mother! I've got to where I am on my own, this is mine, and I'll finish living my life the way I deem. They all can be damned.

I shove every picture half-heartedly back into the box as the tears fall. I give little to no attention to what it is in this baggie, I just pour it out onto the bathroom counters, grab one of Ryker’s pocket knives out of his dresser drawer, kneel at the bathroom sink, crush it up, and blow, baby...

I just smile and blow.

Chapter 9

I can't say how long I had a feeling that Ryker was cheating on me. I knew something was off. I knew I was spending a lot more time alone, and that time seemed to grow with every passing day.

I wasn't mad or angry at him.

Mostly just hurt.

I think all the preparation I'd given myself where Ryker David Killian was concerned, helped dull the blow.

Don't worry, the only person to bleed when I found out was me. As soon as I saw Ryker and the snooty preppy bitch coming out of Walmart with a new car seat in their buggy, I hit my knees in the middle of the parking lot, tiny, sharp pieces of concrete stabbing into my flesh as I literally kneeled there, high as a fucking kite, and cried into my hands.

Later that night I lied saying I tripped at the gas station when he asked what the bloody hell happened to my legs. It was the first of many lies that would be told between the two of us in the next following days.

I methodically planned the upcoming week to the final precise detail, leaving what I thought, was no leaf left unturned and no words left unsaid. I pulled out enough money to get me to Seattle, Washington and enough coke to last me until I could find myself in front of another dealer.

Then I packed a bag.

Stowed Delilah's chest, minus any extra-curricular substances
—
those I'd already packed in my make-up case, in the back of my Mini cooper under a blanket. I'd just slipped my promise ring on and was in the middle of writing a goodbye letter to Ryker when he came in from the garage on that fateful wet Thursday night.

I couldn't do this.

I wouldn't do this.

And fuck him if he thinks I will.

"Ivy, love. What ya looking so pretty for today? Need some new paints or something?"

Without turning my back from him, I shove the words out, "No. I ahh...no, I have paint." All I have written is, 'Dear Ryker, I'm leaving.' I don't want him to fucking see it, right here, right now, with me standing here, but I also don't want to abort this fucking mission, either.

"Well, what ya writing there, hon? A list?"

Dropping the pen to the table and onto the paper I was writing on, I turn and face him before clearly saying, "No. It's not a list. Ryker, I'm leaving."

His ridiculous, boyish smile causes his cheek to dimple just before it falters. "Leaving?" he asks.

I reach out and grab the last thing I need before walking through the front door, and once I'm at the threshold I stop and turn my head, slightly as my hand grips the keys against my palm. "Yes. I'm leaving you, Ryker. I don't love you. I never have, and I never will. Stay away from me. Don't follow me, don't call me, don't even think about me. Whatever we were died the moment our daughter was born. Do you understand?"

With firm steady feet, I step forward and out of our home for the last time.

Just as I knew he would be, he's in my footsteps seconds later.

Bless his heart, I almost fall apart when his voice chokes out, crying, “Stay, Ivy, goddammit, just stay, love. It doesn’t have to be like this. I love you.” His eyes are filled with so much pain.

If I was a good person, I’d stay.

If I was a good person, I’d tell him that I love him, too.

I’d tell him the truth.

“Don’t. Don’t say that. You don’t love me.” Every word I mutter slices through me, yet somehow, my resolve remains strong. “I can’t, Ry. I can’t stay somewhere I don’t belong, not with someone I don’t love. Not anymore.”

As I turn to leave his grip tightens around my left bicep and his voice rumbles, “No! I can love you enough for the both of us. I’ve done it for this fucking long!”

My stumble forward helps me maneuver from his grasp and I quicken my steps towards my car, yelling out over my shoulder before slipping in and cutting his words off with the car door, “No, Ryker, you’re wrong, you haven’t. When will you learn you can't catch what doesn't want to be caught?” The silence after the slam is so loud it’s deafening.

But Ryker had. From the moment he first laid eyes on me, Ryker Killian had loved me harder and stronger than I’d ever been loved in my pathetic, indifferent, short life, and he'd caught me a lifetime ago.

As the cars on I-10 keep speeding by, I fumble through my purse in the passenger seat, digging for a treat from Delilah's chest to fall beneath my hand. When I feel a teardrop shaped baggie, I kiss my middle and pointer fingers then tap the roof of the Mini cooper with both as I fly under the yellow traffic light. Using my front teeth, I bite a hole in the corner of the bag and snort the coke that spills onto my fingers before looking back over my shoulder, making sure one last time Ryker isn't following me.

Once the speed of traffic levels out, I set the cruise control and snort another quick line before focusing back on the surrounding traffic.

I never saw the red GTO swerve into my lane, I never saw it because I was going eighty miles an hour and snorting cocaine when it hit.

I barely recall anything. It's just snippets of time. There's a before and an after, just no in between.

I remember hearing Imagine Dragon’s
Shots
on the radio, then glass smashing and metal creaking.

And screams.

Those earsplitting screams that pierce the hot summer night are still faintly heard even in the darkness, until they abruptly cease just before the bright light…simply…goes…out.

Had I known I would die today, I would’ve made sure Ryker Killian knew I loved him. That I always have, and I always would, and in this form and the next I'd never be something he'd
have
to catch.

I'd always be his.

Part 2

After Death

Chapter 10

I remember each time they resuscitated me. I remember the feeling of back and forth in purgatory. It's like the tide. It pulls you close only to push you away. And every time it pulled me close, I was ready.

But in the end, it wasn't ready for me. The last time the paddles struck my chest, bringing me back to life, was the last time purgatory pushed me away and when I came to, I did not get the option to beg for another chance.

The blonde woman from the picture is standing over me, as she has from the moment I watched them roll my body into the hospital from the helicopter. The doctors and nurses were like ants around my lifeless form, one continuously squeezing the bag attached to the tube inserted in my lungs, breathing for me, while another continuously pumped my chest as he counts to thirty.

As soon as I see the blonde woman through my matted eyelashes, I close them again. I'm not ready for a fucking family reunion. What exactly am I supposed to say right now to these people?  Sorry for being born and then for snorting coke while driving...and totaling my car?

"She's coming to." I hear a deep, resounding voice echo off the sterile white walls.

A cracked voice breaks the silence when my mother speaks, "Roman, no she isn't. You heard the doctors, you've seen the nurses’ faces, I..." Her sobs resemble the sounds of a tortured soul and my heart breaks for this woman. For my mother.

I remain still. Not even an eyelash twitches.

Minutes turn into hours and at some point I drift away, exhaustion and confusion takes its toll on my weak mind and body.

When I wake up the sun is in my eyes and it causes me to squint and turn my face away.

"Why didn't you tell your mother you were awake yesterday morning, young lady? You and I both know you were, but instead of speaking, you just lay there and caused her even more undue stress and worry."

I freeze the second his voice splits the air between us and it leaves me at quite the awkward position with my head turned a sharp ninety degrees to the left.

I couldn't care less. There's no way I'm letting him gain any of the power exchange up for grabs in the initial reunion. No. Fucking. Way.

It's apparent this man is intelligent, and I'm not threatened by it, not in the least.

No, I'm threatened by the size of this man's balls and his audacity.

His breath stirs the hair by my ear when he speaks in a growl, "Winter Ivy Payne, I have had to rock your poor mother to sleep, every single night from the moment Delores Chiasson walked out of the front door with you, I will not be rocking her to sleep tonight, though. Don't mistake my mild interest in how this will all unfold for acceptance. Need I remind you, precisely
whom
the parent is here?"

Fuck the initial power exchange.

I snap.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, you
should
remind me
whom
the parent is, because from where I'm sitting, I don't see a single one." My swollen eyes clash with his. "Nope. Not one."

His smirk is easily the most intimidating I've ever seen, and his words...they’d cause me to shiver if I were less of a woman.

"There’s that fire. There's my angel." When I see my father for the first time, he's kneeling at my bedside, smiling back towards where my mother stands with her hands covering her mouth agape.

"See, mouse, if she has an ounce of you in her, all she needs is a few threats, poke the bear, and she'll come around." He looks back at me. "Good morning, Angel. Please tell your mother the same so she'll stop acting like a nervous nelly. It'll make both our days substantially better, I assure you."

Without thought, I look from my father to my mother and the words fall out of my mouth, "Who is Dolores...Chai-whatever he said?"

Tears well in my mother's big brown eyes and a twinge of regret tugs at the last heart string I have.

"She's dead," she blurts out just before her wide eyes shoot behind her, then she steps the rest of the way into the hospital room and quietly closes the door. "She's...no longer with us. She passed after you were kidnapped. She can't hurt you, sweet pea."

Kidnapped?

"Kidnapped? No... you were sick." I move my pointed fingers from her to my father. "He was supposed to get you better." I point to my chest and mock, "I went to fucking Disney World. And it rained the whole damn day. I wasn't kidnapped. I was gotten rid of. Keep the facts straight."

My finger presses the nurse call button, I mostly do it out of spite. That, and I'm trying to compensate for those initial power exchange points I lost by snapping before thinking.

My father abruptly stands when the door swings open and a nurse waddles in, "Sweetie, you buzzed?"

"I'm hurting," I lie.

If I can just get a little something, I'd be able to numb these increasingly overwhelming emotions. I'd take anything right now. Anything with codeine would be a God send. Anything.

"I'd like to review the medication her doctor has ordered for her, she's a recovering addict, or she is now, and-" I'm going to fucking kill him!

"Mr. Payne, your doctor’s privileges do not apply here, and she's over the age of consent." She turns to me, "Ivy, love, what's your pain level, zero being no pain and ten being the worst pain?"

That one word catapults me into the darkest world of pain ever witnessed. 'Love'. 'Ivy, love'.

Ryker.

Shit, I forgot about Ryker.

How? I'll never know, but damn, did I enjoy the reprieve.

Ryker's probably already here.

He's probably tearing the waiting room apart and threatening the ER staff.

"Ryker?" I ask the nurse.

"I'm sorry, hon?" The concern on her face is evident.

My father steps towards the foot of my bed and I feel his large hand squeeze my foot. "Pain level, Ivy. Don't round up."

"Four." I tell her the truth.

I'm not sure why, but I keep finding myself compelled to tell the truth and be good around this man. It's odd. As fuck. And I don't like it.

But I'm even compelled to at least give it a try.

So I do.

I pause.

I breathe.

I trudge forward.

Without Ryker by my side.

And goddamn it, it hurts.

Fuck rehab. Rehab sucks.

It sucked the first time and it sucked harder the second time. Rehab...physical rehab, in rehab-rehab...a hundred times worse. A hundred.

In the first few days, when your leg and collar bone are broken, they pry the good shit out of you when you're high—on the good shit. Then as soon as they get enough good shit, they quit giving you the good shit…and that's called being shit out of luck.

When my leg swells, I get Motrin.

When my shoulder aches, I get Tylenol.

Like I said, fuck Rehab.

Throughout the family counseling sessions over the last month and the police questioning, the pieces of the puzzle have finally come together for the most part, healing us as a family to a certain extent.

I like Seattle.

I like the weather here. It mirrors my mood.

When I'm not alone, I'm okay. I do well.

It's at night, in the dark when I'm at my loneliest that the past catches up with me and I don't do well.

I don't do well at all.

It's been over a month when I accept the pain Ryker left behind and realize it will not be the kind that fades with time.

No. These scars are ones that won't heal.

And these mantras of pain and life become the backdrop of my stint in rehab, this time.

I'm nervous about going 'home' the day after tomorrow. And to be honest, I'm grateful family session was canceled today. I don't feel much like pretending—not today. I'm digging this pity party I tailored to my mood this rainy morning. It's been going quite well. The sound of the rain pelting the metal awning over the smoke hut is the icing on this pity party's cake.

It's perfect,
I think as the tears pool before slipping over my eyelashes and trailing down my face.

“It's perfect,” I mutter aloud.

"Nah...I mean, don't get me wrong, it's nice. But I definitely wouldn't call it perfect, little sis." My brother says behind me.

I smile.

I pause.

I breathe.

"I'm from Florida, I don't usually get to watch rain roll. It just instantly absorbs as soon as it hits the sand. Get off my ass and out of my pity party, Rome, you weren't invited."

Still smiling, I turn to face him.

I see why Delilah was smitten. For a guy, he isn't half bad. For a brother though, he's a pain in the ass. I mean he’s the shit, he’s also just a pain in the ass.

"I'm always invited to pity parties. Don't you know, sis, all the lady's in this town, I'm the reason it's the season for pity parties." He chuckles as he pulls an unopened pack of Camel menthols from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "Smoke break?"

See, I told you he was the shit.

"How did you know?" I smile and ask when I gesture at our surroundings.

He smirks, "I'm just good like that, I guess." He finishes packing the cigarettes before flipping the top open and thumbing a cigarette out a bit. After I pluck the cigarette from the pack, just like the gentleman he is, my brother, Roman has a lighter lit and in front of my cigarette.

“I know, it's probably confusing for you. What with having a brother this handsome and debonair, then you have to accept the fact that I'm your flesh and blood? It's alright, you'll get used to the swagger, little sis. How ya holding up?"

"First off, I'm the oldest. So that's
big
sister to you, and second…ehh, I'm holding up,” I shrug, “I guess." I say, laughing.

“You guess? Okay, I won’t pry too much. I get it. I’ve been the only child of the two most protective, domineering parents, for twenty-one years, I get it. Pops talk you into completing your rehab stint under his roof or did he offer to cover your living expenses while you’re here?”

I just blink at my brother through the cigarette smoke hanging in the humidity between us, thinking.

I lived off Blythe the first fifteen years of my life, then Delilah, and lastly Ryker. I don’t want to live off anyone else ever again.

But, again, like always, I don’t have a fucking choice, do I?

After a while of silence and thought, I answer, “Honestly, he hasn’t said and I haven’t even thought about it until just now.” I chuckle and it sounds as fake as it is, “I think I need to find a job. I can paint. And sit pretty, I modeled for Delilah’s folks at their studio.” I pull a drag from my cigarette. “And bikes. I know how to run a bike shop. Know of anything for someone with those random qualifications?”

Our eyes lock and just like that his next words seal his role in my life. I have a brother, a bad ass brother at that, and he’d forever be a pivotal part of my life.

“Baby steps, little sis. Fuck Pops. He’s bullheaded as fuck, and you’ll find out just how persuasive he and his methods can be soon enough. Stay with me. I have an extra room, hell I have an extra floor, it’s yours if you want it. And if you’re smart…don’t mention getting a job yet. Especially not to Pops. Ya savvy?”