Ivy of Our Hearts

Nine

I cringed as Margaret plucked bits of wood from my skin and fought the urge to stick my fingers into my mouth at the sight of my fresh blood.

"You should be more careful," she said. She put the tweezers down and picked up the bottle of rubbing alcohol. She gave it a shake and unscrewed the cap. "This is going to sting," she said, as she tilted the bottle onto a cotton ball. I closed my eyes and counted to ten. She made fast sweeps across my palms and fingers. Sometimes I winced but mostly the sensation cooled my hands.

"There," she said when she'd finished with me. "Now you don't look like you've misused the red paint."

I curled my fingers. They were stiff from the bandages. "Thanks."

"No problem." She gathered the stuff from the bathroom into her arms and carried them out.

Helplessness took me to the window. It gave a view of the side of the cabin. A thin layer of dust coated its surface. I ran my finger across, drawing a small house, as if by drawing home I'd get there sooner. Outside, the storm raged. I had the impression that it wanted nothing more than to get in. A bucket left out front could be filled within a minute with the way the rain fell. It appeared, since the moment we'd stepped foot in Roving Woods, fate had been conspiring against us, fate or a force far more sinister. Why hadn't anyone found us yet? Maybe what kept us here also kept everyone else out.

Margaret came back in. "Do you want something to eat?" she asked. "Don't tell me you're not hungry because I know you haven't had anything. And we should consider taking a bath while we're here. I smell." She laughed at her joke.

I could bear a lot of things, even my putrid smell, but my stomach couldn't bear another second without food, his food. "Yeah," I said, turning to her as she pulled her blouse over her head, revealing a waist smaller than the one she'd had before.

I turned back to the window. A small rectangular shack stood nearby. It must have been sturdier than it looked since it remained upright against the wind. I squinted and rubbed my sleeve across the window, wiping away my house. The door to the shack had been bolted shut.

"What are you staring at?" Margaret came to my side. "Jeez, Ivy," she said. "I can hear your stomach from here."

I wrapped my arm around my middle. She squeezed my shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll ask him if I can make you something myself."

I began to smile at her, but the sight of the dead moth on the wardrobe made me change my mind. Such a tangible thing it was, yet still dead, when its wings had been beating minutes before.

Margaret followed my gaze. "They don't live long but I'll tell him about it."

As she began to move, I grabbed her arm. "No. Help me move the bed. We'll take it down ourselves."

She pursed her lips. "All right. But let's do it fast."

She took one side, I took the other, and we pushed. The queen-sized bed moved easily, and the distance wasn't mush, so we had time to move it before its metal legs made too much noise against the floorboards. Margaret stood on top and plucked the moth off the wardrobe. She held it in the palm of her hands and blew onto it, and I could've sworn its small dusted wings fluttered for a moment, like her breathing onto it had kindled its heart.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Making sure it's dead," she said. Her mother was a veterinarian, so she had a soft spot for all animals, especially the fragile and the unwanted.

She jumped off the bed, landing with a soft thud.

"Let me see it," I said.

She lifted her hand. "Poor creature."

It was no bigger than a quarter. The way its wings were folded around its body reminded me of the deceased in their coffins. There'd be no coffin for it and no one to miss it. Whoever fate was, whatever cards she had planned for us, I hoped for something better, a lifeline maybe, a team of our neighbors, family, and friends searching for two missing girls. One black. One white. But still missing all the same.

At the very least, they'd look for Margaret. The world loved stories about missing white beauties. They'd come out in droves, waving bundles of sage, sprinkling blessed oil around places they'd thought she'd have been. Maybe they'd even say, "It must have been Ivy who made her do it. She bewitched her, cursed her, whispered the devil's words into her virginal ears, too sweet to resist. Who could resist such temptation?" they'd ask.

Poison, they'd label me.

My poor mother's knees would be two shades darker from all the praying she'd do for my lost soul. She already prayed so much already, fearing that I might one day leave her nest and never return. Had that day come so soon?

I moved from Margaret to the window, thinking at least I chose the right best friend. She pushed the bed into its place without my help. When she left the room, seconds later, the toilet flushed. She poked her head in again to ask, "Peanut butter sandwich or cheese?"

I started to shrug, but thought better of it and said, "Peanut butter."

Soon, she called to me, "Ivy, it's ready."

I met her at the kitchen table. Two plates with sandwiches on them were set out right next to each other, both cut into triangles. Phillip was on the couch, a gargantuan of a book open in his lap. He'd looked up when I walked in. Thank God he didn't join us. I pulled out a chair and sat as Margaret poured water into two mugs, both with a pattern of wildflowers on them, and slightly chipped at their lips. Someone else must have lived here.

She put one down next to my plate. "Chamomile," she said.

I leaned forward to inhale the familiar smell of my mother's favorite tea. The steam tickled my nose. I waited for Margaret to sit, but even then I didn't lunge at my food like a wolf. I nibbled the edges of my sandwich the way an ant would. The food tasted fine. If he'd wanted to poison us, maybe it would kick in later, although I didn't think so. You couldn't have such hands like his and not put them to use.

Other than for the storm raging outside, and the one caged behind my ribs, the other sound in the cabin came from Phillip turning the pages of his book. Beside me, Margaret had already finished half of her sandwich and swallowed her tea.

Phillip slammed the book shut. At the noise, my hand leapt and knocked over my mug. Margaret scooted backwards, but Phillip got up before she could. He took long strides to the counter where he grabbed a rag. He picked up the fallen mug and wiped up my mess, all the while muttering, "It's okay. It's okay," with that same half smile on his lips, like everything made him think of a joke he'd heard long ago.

I saw myself drowning in those inky irises again and got up. Without a word, I disappeared into the bedroom. The door had no lock, so I pressed myself against it. I held one hand over my mouth to muffle my sobs. I'd said before nothing scared me as much as leaving Margaret, but I'd been wrong. Girls like me didn't shimmer. We weren't sparkly. We ignited and burned whole forests to the ground.