What Happened to Ivy by Kathy Stinson Page B

the image of Dad and Hannah among the broken plants and the wreckage of Ivy’s ramp. “He let her go, Will. In the lake. Dad let Ivy go.”
    Will’s eyebrows shoot up, then he looks down into his tea. “I was sorry to hear about your sister, David, and I was surprised when I didn’t hear from you sooner. I was sorry not to get to her funeral, too, but I was in rough shape for a while after my fall. I would have sent a card, but…”
    I wonder if he heard what I said, and think maybe it would be better if he didn’t. It’s not something I was planning to say, when I called him. I wasn’t planning anything. I just wanted to see him. I take a long sip of my drink. Will lifts his cup in two hands and sets it down again.
    When he finally looks up at me, his gaze is direct. “I wish I’d been brave enough to do something for my Vera.” His wife. Before she died, her Alzheimer’s was so bad she didn’t know who he was anymore.
    Behind Will, pincushion flowers nod their blue heads.
    “I never thought of it like that. But Will—?” I swallow hard and tell him carefully, “Will, it’s not the same.”
    He licks his dry lips, rubs his hand across his face and says, “No. You’re right, David. It’s not.”
    Neither of us seems to know what to say after that, but we’ve spent lots of time together not talking, just watching TV or gazing at gardens, so I think we’re okay. I hope I haven’t wrecked everything that was easy about us, blurting out about Dad and everything.
    I see Will’s caregiver coming along the path back to the tea house, carrying a bag from the gift shop. “I’m glad we met up today,” I tell him.
    “Me too,” Will says, and before we say good-bye, he makes me promise I’ll come see him at the home.
    As I’m leaving the botanical gardens, dark clouds cover the sun. Before I’m half way home, it looks as if the sky could open up any minute. I duck into the library and settle into a corner with a book about trees. Who knew there’s a species of tree that was destroyed in the Ice Age everywhere except in China? Gingko biloba. If a bunch of Buddhist monks hadn’t planted them around their temples, they’d be extinct. I should come back when I have my card sometime. Take the book with me when I go see Will.
    I leave the library when the rain stops. The setting sun reflects brilliantly off the wet sidewalks and streets as I trudge slowly in the direction of home. Car tires hiss along the wet pavement. The humidity is gone from the air.
    Along the front of our house where Ivy’s ramp used to be, muddy footprints are filled with rainwater. Dad’s footprints and Hannah’s. Around the empty space, shrubs have been trampled and blossoms crushed. I look for the odd-looking plant among them but I can’t find it. And I can’t yet go inside and face Dad. I can’t.

Chapter 27
    This late in the day, the playground is empty. Maybe I should have gone in for supper but I wouldn’t have been able to eat anyway.
    With the bottom edge of my t-shirt I dry off the seat of a swing and jump on. I pump my legs and pull hard on the chains, sending myself as far as I can from the ground and the blur of neighboring houses and dog-walkers who didn’t get out earlier because of the rain. Back and forth I go, kicking hard into the leafy canopy of a nearby oak. Back and forth until the chains blister my hands.
    “I went looking for you but I couldn’t find you.”
    Beside the swings are Hannah and Shamus. I feel lightheaded, but pump harder anyway.
    She calls up to me again. “I understand why you were mad.”
    “Oh really?”
    “I was still trying to fit everything together. You know, what I thought I knew about your dad and what you told me? And when I was getting dressed after my shower, I saw him. Out there in front of your house. All in a rage, it looked like, ripping apart the ramp.”
    “That’s great, Hannah.” I yank hard on the chains. “I can see exactly why that would make you go over to