Ivy of Our Hearts

Ten

I found myself in bed, curled up underneath the sheets, not caring that my dirty feet would stain the white bedding. Let them for all I cared.

In the other room, Phillip said to Margaret, "Maybe you should go check on her."

I waited for the door to open. I even imagined she'd opened it enough to peek into the room, but hesitated there, unsure if she should come in. I moved to see, but she hadn't come. Of course she hadn't, in case I'd burn her, too.

The painting on the wall caught my attention as I shifted the other way. It hung beside the window in a simple gold frame. I sat up on one arm. I couldn't tell for sure, but it was a portrait of a woman, a side view, as if the painter couldn't remember her from any other angle.

I could make out the outline of her smudged jaw, a pool of brown paint for her hair, a nose, sharp at the tip, a delicate mouth, as pink as Margaret's was red, a thick, black brow. Her forehead curved, but her eye, although closed, was the artist's signature. I could tell because they'd gotten it right. It looked like his, Phillip's, eyelashes like a spider's legs and all. But they hadn't finished the painting, so the beginnings of her neck faded out into nothing. I concluded that one of his relations would show up at any minute to claim the bed I now laid in. Teenage boys didn't just hang out in cabins on their own.

Either he or Margaret knocked. I flew back beneath the covers, pulling it above my head. The door squeaked open, but the person didn't say anything. I closed my eyes and pulled the covers up higher. I hoped they took it for what I didn't want to say out loud, "Go away, so I can pretend to sleep." The door did close, but I kept the covers up over my head. I recognized the smell of my cocoon right away.

White Gardenia, a perfume my mother wore, ever since I'd bought her that bottle for her fortieth birthday, knowing how much they were her favorite flower.

Later, once the rain had slowed to a drizzle; she'd be out in her garden, tending to her late blooming cabbages. She'd curse because she could never get them to grow larger than a tennis ball. She'd tilt her head back, but because someone told her it was good to keep busy her hands would still be tugging roots. She'd still search for it, some semblance of heaven in the clouds. Would she think I was up there? No, she wouldn't. Not yet. She'd go back to her cabbages, still cursing.

I closed my eyes and listened to the rain. When I emerged from my cocoon, the sun had changed from a morning sun to a late evening sun, the magic hour, which painted life in a soft hue and made it easier to stomach. The rain hadn't stopped, although the wind no longer howled like a child with an empty belly, but I wasn't anymore contented than I'd been before. I couldn't hear anything from the other room. I got out of the bed because I needed to use the bathroom, and I admit, the quiet made me anxious. I went to the door.

Hesitating once, I opened it.

"Margaret," I called. Of course, she hadn't left me, but I needed to see a familiar face.

She came to me right away. The top of her boots were wet. Like me, she'd kept her jeans on, but had replaced her blouse with a gray sweater. "I thought you were sleeping," she said. "I came in to check on you earlier."

"I was before," I said. "What were you doing?"

"Standing at the door, waiting for the rain to stop."

That explained her wet shoes. I guess she hadn't been lying after all about wanting to go home.

She leaned in and said, "Phillip is still reading."

Better than him ravishing my heart. But I'd seen enough movies. If he'd wanted to hurt us, he'd have done it already. That realization didn't do anything to quiet my nerves because I remembered how the wind had whispered his name, as a warning perhaps. If the trees could speak, why say his name at all?

I stepped around her to the bathroom. "I'll be out in a second."

"He put out some toothbrushes." She showed me her teeth. "I almost forgot what a clean mouth tasted like."

"Okay," I said, pushing open the door. She left as I closed it.

I could stretch my arms and touch both walls. That's how small the room was. The window had been shut and the puddle on the windowsill mopped up. On the sink, behind the faucet, were two toothbrushes. One used, and one still wrapped in plastic. A mirrored medicine cabinet sat above the sink. I opened it, not because I cared, but because I thought I had the right to know. Other for the things Margaret had used to clean up my hands, some toothpaste, another toothbrush, and over the counter medication, there wasn't anything in there that screamed, "He wants to hurt you."

I closed the cabinet and finished up. While washing my hands, I stuck out my tongue at the mirror and bared my teeth. My mouth tasted foul, but what did a foul mouth matter when I was lost in the woods, stuck in a stranger's cabin in the middle of a storm that didn't want to end? "It doesn't mean you have to be an animal," I said to my reflection. I brushed as fast as I could and left. Instead of going back to the bedroom, I went to Margaret at the door. The rain that fell in made the floor wet. I lifted my toes.

"Where are my boots?" I asked.

"They should be in the bedroom," she said, staring hard at the rain, as if she could command it to stop with her thoughts.

I hadn't seen them. I glanced behind me. When I did, I caught him staring. He shifted his gaze down to his book, his hand poised to flip a page. I turned to Margaret, as the storm beneath my ribcage became a full-blown hurricane. All my desire, every tawdry thought I'd had came rolling back. Shame would have colored my complexion scarlet if I'd been paler.

"We can play a game?" he said, so low he might as well have whispered.

"What?" Margaret spun around.

I hadn't turned, but I heard his book close—a dull thud that made a shiver slip down my back.

"We can play charades, or something else if you want. It doesn't matter to me," he said, and I imagined him shrugging.

Margaret shook her head. "I don't know."

"It'll help pass the time."

I stared hard at the rain and willed it to stop with my thoughts.

Margaret nudged me. "Ivy?"

"Huh?" I said, pretending I hadn't heard. I tried even harder to stop the rain with my thoughts.

She nodded at Phillip.

I gave up on the rain and said to them, "It doesn't matter to me," even though I had no intention of playing.

"I'll go first," he said, getting to his feet. He swung his arms, shook out his long, thin legs, preparing for this game of charades. He took his position in front of the coffee table.

Margaret left me at the door to sit. I must have stood there for too long deciding because she raised her eyebrows and patted the empty space beside her. Before closing the door, I shot the rain one last look. It had let me down. Instead of feeling sympathy, it came down harder. Like the wind that I'd wrestled with earlier, it wanted us to stay.