Black and Blue Ivy

The Robinsons

I don't know what I expected from my new room, but I wasn't prepared to be squirreled away up a winding spiral staircase in one of the towers. I tried not to stare at Mrs. Robinson's slim, swaying hips as she mounted the stairs before me. As if giving a tour to the local ladies' bridge club, she recited a well-rehearsed speech about Providence House's history.

"Built in 1900 in the gothic revival style, Providence House was the original home of Oscar Randolph White, a Philadelphia justice and philanthropist. He also ran for mayor but unfortunately died from a heart attack during his campaign in 1936. He left behind his wife, Margaret, and their ten children, who grew up to be outstanding Philadelphia society members. I'm friends with many extended family members at our club."

She turned at the top of the stairs to dart me a pointed glance. "So, as you can see, this house is designed for many children."

So, why are you putting me in the attic?

"Here we are." Mrs. Robinson shouldered the door open, releasing a snowfall of dust. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. "I expect you to keep your room tidy, Ivy. That last girl who was here—" Her words trailed off.

"What about the last girl who was here?" I asked.

"Never mind." Brushing her hands, she stood aside so I could enter.

"It's a charming room, really. In fact, I set up my own little art studio in the matching tower. See?" She parted a faded striped curtain to point across the gabled slate roof at the replica tower with an identical peaked window. "We can wave at each other from there."

I was about to say, "Oh, goody," but instead, I thought of Ellen's advice and decided to be polite. "Are you an artist?"

Mrs. Robinson's tinkling laugh bounced off the low ceiling. "Oh, heavens no. I'm just a dabbler. It's a way of calming my nerves." Her hands fluttered as if she needed some calming. "What about you, Ivy? Do you have any special talents?" Her gaze told me she doubted I had any, so her eyebrows raised slightly when I told her I'm a singer.

"Indeed? Our eldest son, Bentley, is a gifted pianist." Her face lost its tension for a moment as if thoughts of "Bentley" were pleasant. Mrs. Robinson did appear quite beautiful in the dim tower room light, but it was the artificial kind. She certainly was not a natural beauty like Morningstar. At least how she once was. It was sad to think of how she destroyed herself. I wondered if she were still in jail. Tearing my gaze away from Mrs. Robinson's flawless features, I checked out the accommodations—a small bed pushed up against the contoured wall, a desk and dresser, the dome of arched windows placed every few feet. The room did, indeed, have charm. I saw that my Target bag sat on top of the dresser, draped with a faded doily.

"Perhaps you and Bentley will prepare a song for us sometime." Her hand rested on my forearm for a moment. "You'll meet all of the peeps at dinner tonight." She swept a blond lock from her eyes as if the thought filled her with fresh anxiety. "Anyway," she stepped softly across the round Persian rug toward the door. "I'll let you rest till then. I'm sure it's a lot to take in."

"Thank you, Mrs. Robinson," I said.

She turned at the door. "Please, Ivy. Let's not be so formal. Call me Mother."

"But I already have a mother."

She was smirking slightly. "All right. Call me Gardenia then. Many of the older peeps do, so I don't mind, really." She swept out of the room, leaving a trace of sweet perfume. I had tried to place the floral scent and now I realized it was indeed gardenia. That smell has always given me a headache.

I sighed with relief when she left. Privacy was a new concept, and I reveled in it for a few hours. At first, I put my things away. I was wearing the items Ellen had bought for me at Target: the skirt, sweater, tights, and short boots that pinched a little, as well as some basic underwear and two sports bras. I guess Ellen noticed that I didn't have much on top. What curves I did have had shrunk to flatness during my illness. I bought the toiletries into the tiny bathroom, where I discovered another window over the claw-foot tub. The toilet and sink were so close I could see the top of my head in the mirror when I sat down to pee. My hair looked awful, and no amount from the hair gel Ellen procured for me could remedy it. I had asked the nurse at the hospital why they had to shave me bald practically, and she told me it was to relieve the pressure in my brain. But that made little sense to me. I think it was more to do with the fact that no underpaid staff at the charity hospital wanted to deal with my long hair. Or perhaps some mean nun thought my long, golden threads—something Morningstar was always so proud of—led me into the sin of pride.