Ivy of Our Hearts

Twenty-six

"Nora," Margaret said, in that familiar breathy way. "What do you mean she found you here?"

Phillip dipped his chin. "I was a baby," he said. "Someone, I guess my mom, left me here. And Nora found me." He raised his head, but his gaze didn't fall on either of us, as if he could remember being left in the crook of the tree to be taken home by Nora.

His real mother had been young I supposed, as young as she appeared in the bedroom painting, I knew now had been painted by Nora. Margaret kicked the leaves, but this kick didn't signify her frustration with him but with herself. I saw it on her face before she said it. She'd already forgiven him.

Phillip turned to her now, his face pleading and apologetic. "I..." He lowered his chin once more, biting his bottom lip.

"It's okay," she said.

He looked up at her. "Really?"

She nodded. "I wish you would have told us sooner about the grave."

He sighed. His shoulders elevated and lowered. I tried to imagine baby Phillip bundled up in his mother's arms, her pressing a warm kiss to his forehead before leaving him to be found by another. She'd waited for someone to stop by, to hear his wailing before she turned away for good. Tears cascaded down her cheeks, but she didn't bother brushing them away. I turned my attention from the tree to the leaves above. Even imagining it hurt too much. No wonder he hadn't told us.

We walked back to the cabin hand in hand. "How did Nora die?" Margaret asked. She kicked up leaves as she walked. She didn't know it, but she had one in her hair.

Phillip brushed it out. "She'd been sick."

Being sick and dying from old age were different, but I didn't say anything. He'd shared a big enough secret with us today. I didn't have to ask because he said, "I'm sorry I lied before, Ivy." He leaned around Margaret to see me.

I smiled at him.

Manderley waited for us on the fence. She flew straight to Phillip when she saw us, rubbing her head against his cheek.

Phillip nuzzled her back. "I always miss you when you're gone," he said. To me and Margaret he said, "There's something else I need help with. I thought I could do it on my own but I'm hopeless." He took the key out of his pocket and bounced it in his palm. "Would you ladies help me?"

Margaret and I agreed. Instead of heading in, we went around the cabin to the shack. Phillip didn't stall. He shoved the key right in and turned. The lock clicked open. The door creaked. "I might as well get it over with," he said, shoving it open the rest of the way.

We were hit with a pleasant odor. It wasn't sweet but it wasn't bad either. I couldn't describe it. It wasn't as strong as a scent of a perfume or a flower. If nostalgia had a smell, it would have come quite close to it. I took a deep breath. It was hard to imagine Nora smelling like anything but White Gardenia.

Phillip stood in the open doorway with Manderley on his shoulder and we stood on either side of him. "I can look first if you want," Margaret said. She squeezed his arm.

He shook her free, but not in an impolite way. "I can do it," he said. He stepped into the dark space. Margaret and I peered in. Leaning against the walls of the shack were canvases. I caught parts of the paintings, a bit of a black or a blue smudge here and there.

"Could you guys give me a hand?" Phillip asked.

We jumped out of the way as Manderley flew by. Phillip came out holding a thick canvas. "Nora painted these," he said. "She's supposed to be my mother." He flipped it the other way to show us.

Margaret and I stared at it and stared at it and stared at it. "She isn't human," I said. The woman in the painting wore a long blue cloak, though most of her features were hidden beneath it, unfolded, and dragging behind her were wings, like the wings of a crow. Nora had made the painting as detailed as one could, giving her wings a silky blue-black appearance, like Manderley's.

"There are a lot more like these," Phillip said, resting the painting against the wall. "She did a lot of painting in her later days."

We helped him carry the rest of them out. He'd been right. Most of the paintings were of a woman who wasn't quite human. In a few of them she had the same feathered blue-black skin as her wings and sometimes a beak. She was tall and lithe, an angel or a monster depending on how long you stared at her.

In one of the last paintings, however, she appeared human, as human as a person could be. Her hood had been lowered, and in her arms she held a small bundle. Her dark hair fell over her face as she gazed down at the sleeping baby in her arms.

Phillip stared at this painting the longest. From his parted lips and glassy eyes, it was obvious the paintings hurt as much as losing Nora had.

"Nora sure had an imagination," Margaret said to soothe him.

He attempted to smile back, but it didn't come across quite right, so he'd grimaced instead. "Let's take these inside," he said.

Picking up as much as we could carry, we took the paintings in. When they had all been moved, some onto the couch, some leaning against the bookshelves, we stared at them some more. Nora did have an imagination, but we couldn't deny that the woman in the paintings, both angel and beast, resembled the boy standing between us.

But she was a faerie and he wasn't.