Untitled Project

3. The damage is worse

Morning arrived, and sunlight burst through Ivy's curtain-less windows. She blinked several times and sat up, dazed by sleep and squinting through the brightness. Ivy clambered to her feet and ran to her purse, digging out her cell phone. It was a few minutes past seven in the morning. She must have slept through the night... but she couldn't remember falling asleep. Ivy crossed the room back to the couch, and felt something wet under her feet. Then she remembered the coffee mug spilling, and the noise which filled the apartment, which clawed through her skin and nestled in her bones. She could still feel it, a coldness within her, a strange, sad sound echoing through her.

Ivy began to feel real fear. All the strange events of yesterday rushed back to her: the train, the cashier, the sound. She was almost certainly losing it. There was no other explanation. She was going insane, in a city she didn't know, and everyone she knew was two states away in Maine, and she had no idea what to do. But again, Ivy had to wonder why she felt such an awareness of being sane, with all these odd things happening. It must be a defense mechanism, she decided, going back in her mind to her Introduction to Psychology course. She was imagining everything, then convincing herself it was reality.

So, Ivy decided, she was losing it. What now?

Calling her mom was the first thought that popped up; no sooner had Ivy thought it than she was dialing the familiar number.

"Hi, honey," came her mom's voice over the telephone line. It crackled a little. Service wasn't great back in Maine.

"Hey, mom."

"How's moving in going?"

"Great," Ivy lied. The conversation was off to an awkward start as she had done absolutely zero unpacking besides the pot and the coffeemaker. "It's starting to feel like home."

"That's good, dear. We miss you terribly."

Guilt panged Ivy, hard and raw, and she pictured the little ranch house where her mother lived, and the dogwood tree out front, and the stream running through the backyard next to the swing set and the garden. The scene felt real, and Ivy's new apartment felt like a mirage.

"I miss you guys too. How's Pop?" Ivy's grandfather lived with her mother, in a basement apartment with all his books and his vinyl collection.

"He's good! Really good." Her mother paused, then cut right to the chase. "Have you found a job?"

"I've only had a few interviews, mom. I won't hear anything back for at least a week. I have another interview set up tomorrow," Ivy said tersely. "It's at a library," she added.

"Oh, that's good, honey. I'm sure you'll find a good job. You can always come home, too."

"I know, mom. But... I like it here." Ivy wondered if her mom could sense the lie.

"Well, we'll keep your room the same for a while. Just in case. Oh, I ran into Sheila at the store yesterday."

"Yeah?" Ivy's stomach dropped. Sheila had been kind to her, but probably hated her now.

"She's doing well. She said Andrew got a promotion at work. He's the general manager now!" Her mother's voice was fraught with things unsaid. "He's doing really, really well, honey."

"Oh. Good." Ivy closed her eyes and for a moment saw blonde hair, hazel eyes, a crooked smile, a table set for two, and the glint of something shiny in a tiny black box. "I'm glad he's good."