Ivy of Our Hearts

Twenty-seven

Margaret and I lay awake in bed. The light in the front room hadn't gone out. Phillip hadn't fallen asleep yet. For this reason, we had to whisper. 

"She must have lost her mind," Margaret said.

I pinched her arm. "Don't say that." Since I'd been the one to find Nora's photo, badmouthing her made me uncomfortable.

"Ouch, Ivy." Margaret rubbed her arm. "Poor, Phillip," she said. "Poor, Nora. I don't know who had it worse."

I rolled over towards the door. I'd heard a whimper. Grabbing the book on the nightstand, I got up. Without question, Margaret followed me. I opened the door a crack. "Phillip," I said, through the space.

"Yeah." His voice sounded even. Maybe he hadn't been crying after all.

"Do you mind if we join you?"

"Do whatever you want."

In the front room, he sat at the table with his face in his hands. I rapped my fingers against the cover of the book. Would showing him the picture of Nora make things better or worse? I went to the table and sat before I'd decided what to do.

Margaret sat on my other side. "We're worried about you," she said.

He lowered his hands. His eyes were red. He had been crying.

"Oh, Phillip," Margaret said. She slipped her hand across the table and he took it.

"I found something the other day," I said, eyeing their linked fingers. For once, I wished I knew how to soothe like Margaret. I brought the book up from where I'd held it on my lap. I pushed it across the table to him. "There's a picture of Nora inside."

His eyebrows drew close together. He let go of Margaret's hand and took up the book. I'd kept the picture in the back near her writing.

"It's in back," I said, as he began to flip through the pages.

He went to the last page, picked up the photo, and held it up. I watched him for any signs that I'd made a mistake by bringing it to him, but there were none.

He examined the photo for as long as I had when I first found it. "She's so young," he said. That half smile I'd come to love formed on his lips. "She's so different here." He saw her writing in the book and read it out loud. "Nora Elizabeth Callaway read this book on June 6th, 1951. Age sixteen. Where did you find this, Ivy?" he asked.

"In the wardrobe after Margaret and I cleaned it," I said, tracing a long scratch on the table to avoid his eyes. I'd kept the photo a secret far longer than I should have. For that, I was sorry.

Manderley made a noise in her sleep that stole our attention. How nice it would have been to not have to be concerned with any of this, to not have to push ourselves to forget when all we wanted to do was remember. I couldn't forget Nora.

"The wardrobe," Margaret said, like she'd meant to ask a question. She reached across the table and took the book. She mouthed the words Phillip had read, although she said, age sixteen, out loud

Phillip pushed away from the table, leaving the photo behind. Margaret took it. With his hands knitted behind his head, he paced back and forth across the room.

"You guys should get some sleep," he said when he'd finished pacing.

***

Phillip had moved all the paintings to the back wall. I couldn't help but look whenever I passed them on my way into the bedroom or bathroom.

The paintings were no Mona Lisa, no one would want them for their gallery, but the primitiveness of them mesmerized me. Nora had believed her own paintings, or else she wouldn't have spent so much time on the tiniest details, like a fallen feather or the bright blue of the woman's cloak. She'd believed that she had seen this thing she'd thought to be Phillip's real mother. I would have liked to believe as well, but it was impossible.

"You left a rose on her grave," I said to Phillip. Margaret had said she wanted to make dinner, so he helped me bring in the clothing we'd washed the other day.

"Huh?" He startled, shook his head, and said, "They were her favorite." He picked up one of Margaret's dresses, Nora's dress. "I didn't know she owned dresses like this," he said. "When she got worse, she wore the same thing every day." He wrinkled his nose.

I tried hard to think of what to say and settled on, "She's okay now." I even looked up, searching for a bit of heaven in the clouds. He hadn't looked with me.

"I don't believe in that," he said.

I didn't pester him about it. I often wondered, too, if we did it to comfort ourselves. We gathered the rest of the clothes and carried them back into the cabin. Inside, the air had warmed with the scent of Margaret's cooking.

***

"I'll have to let you do the cooking from now on, Margaret," Phillip said and proceeded to slurp up his spaghetti, giving her a thumbs up as he did.

She beamed. "My mother taught me to cook. She says it's the best way to show people how much you care for them."

"Smart woman," he said.

Margaret spun spaghetti onto her fork but didn't eat. "She is," she said. "She's a veterinarian. She's great with animals." She smiled. "And humans, too."

Phillip's eyes widened, as if she'd told him her mom had fallen in from outer space. He nodded. "What about your mom, Ivy?"

I swallowed the spaghetti in my mouth. "She doesn't work. Well, she used to, but she stopped when I was born. She likes to garden though."

I hadn't seen my parents for some time now, but I didn't miss them as much as I should have. Phillip and Margaret now made up the hole in my heart where they should have been. I loved being here with them. My heart heaved a sigh whenever they were near me.

"Ivy's mom won largest squash at last year's festival," Margaret said. She nudged me, as if that bit of information weren't embarrassing enough.

"Wow." Phillip grinned.

Margaret and I burst out laughing at the same time.

He cocked his mouth a little to one side. "What?"

"You have spaghetti between your teeth," Margaret said.

"Oh, that." He waved his hand as if he'd meant to do it all along. He ran his tongue over his teeth. "Better," he asked, baring them.

Margaret gave him a thumbs up.

Phillip slapped his stomach three times. It had quadrupled since having Margaret's spaghetti. "I'm ready for dessert," he said. He got up from the table to the fridge. Pulling the freezer door open, he said, "I didn't know what kind of ice cream you guys liked, so I bought three different flavors."

"Strawberry for the both of us," Margaret said.

While Phillip got out the dessert bowls, I helped clear the table. We spent the rest of the evening talking about everything and nothing, childhood memories and favorite songs.

Margaret licked a scoop of ice cream off her spoon. "Why did you choose Tarzan?" During charades, she'd chosen Winnie the Pooh because of Benny.

"It was the first movie Nora took me to see," he said, not without a hint of sadness in his voice.

It had become impossible to not talk about Nora since finding her paintings. Her presence now lingered on everything. I sensed that there was much we didn't know. Maybe Phillip didn't want to tell us yet, or maybe he didn't know either.