Ivy in Stills

Fifty-Three—Mia

T

he hardest thing I’ve done for a very long time is keep Bo’s secret from my parents. And I hated my brother a little for putting me in this position. And I was a little cranky at them for the same reason. But Mom had just left me another message that Bo was ghosting her, and I had no choice but to come clean because he obviously wasn’t going to. Damn him!

Now I readily admit that I got most of the good moxie in my family—which should come in handy at times like this. Camille had plenty at one time—not as much as me, but plenty—but she let a creep suck it out of her, so she was no help at the moment. And Bo—a major contributor to my current pissiness—had a kind of warped moxie that was obviously a problem. I’m not complaining, not really—I wouldn’t trade places with either one of them. I just get a little peeved that my particular gift comes with so much responsibility. I’m too busy trying to graduate to be this preoccupied with my brother’s disappearing act and protecting my parents from it. He makes me so mad!

But then, admittedly, I was already mad—about everything. My pathetic unimpressive, final project, Mom’s early morning worried text because of my insane brother who was in New Mexico which was a secret I was keeping from her. Another snarky message from Peter demanding to know where Camille was and day eight without a word from Derek. Would it kill that boyfriend of mine to let me know he was alive? Eight days. I hadn’t heard from him for eight days . No text. No email. No letter. No call. Was he mad at me? Hurt that I hadn’t said I love you back? And why hadn’t I? I’m such an idiot.

I hated waking up in a bad mood—feeling like I was outrunning an avalanche of crap before I was even out of bed.

I sat up with a pit in my stomach. Then I fell back into the covers and groan-yelled at the ceiling. It was at that moment that my phone buzzed. I grabbed it, not realizing it had been on silent mode. Please be Derek!

But it wasn’t Derek. It was Bo. At ten after seven in the morning, it was pretty early for another crisis. But it was Bo, so I steeled myself and answered with: “Are you okay?”

“I think so. No, I am .”

“Are you on your way home?”

“Ummmm….”

“What?” I said, balancing on my last nerve.

“I’m not coming home, Mia. I was. I thought I was—”

“No! No, no, no. You can’t do this. What are you doing?”

“I need you to tell Mom and—”

“No! No way! I’m not covering for you one more day! You call them! You call them right now. Mom’s been texting me. What are you doing?”

“It’s…it’s Ivy,” he said. “Her mom died, and I’m going to Savannah.”

I swallowed my tirade. “What?”

“Bree died,” he said. “This morning. Ivy left me a message a little while ago…”

“Oh, no. No.”

“I’m almost halfway there, Mia. I can’t quite believe it, but I have to do this. And I need you not to freak out. I’m not, so you can’t.”

I breathed out. “You’re going to Savannah? You? Alone? Are…are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah…yeah. Shockingly. I slept and ate and I’m good. She doesn’t know I’m coming, and I don’t want her to, just in case I…I, you know, turn into the debilitated flake we all know so well. But it’s weird, Mia. I thought I was running away from her—it started out that way, anyway. But it kind of seems like I was always headed straight to her. That’s crazy, right?”

I pulled my phone from my ear and stared at it, briefly wondering if I was dreaming this conversation. Then, once more into the phone, I said, “Who is this? This is not my brother! My brother does not do this. My brother does not not plan things out. He does not drive to Albuquerque, sleep in Albuquerque—then have an epiphany,” I said, trying not to scream-cry. “You…you slept in Albuquerque, Bo.”

“I did.”

“What’s happening to you?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure,” he said. “But I kind of like it.”

I suddenly could not speak for tears and a boulder in my throat.

“Mia, did I lose you? Mia?”

“I’m here.”

“Are you okay?”

I bit my lip, rallied. “Yeah. Just trying to wrap my head—.”

“I know. I’m sorry I’ve been so… weird .”

“You have been weird. But…” I swallowed. “You can do this, Bo,” I said, meaning it—surprised that I meant it. “You can.”

“Yeah? Really? I think so, too,” he said. “I really, really want to, Mia. I want to for Ivy.”

I sniffed. “And for you …This is huge.”

“Which is why I… I might not make it,” he said. “I am me , remember.”

“Yes, you will. I’ll help you. What do you need?”

“I need you to tell Mom and Dad what I’m doing. I love them, you know I do, but I don’t want to deal with them right now…their worry. Mom will probably be on the next plane, and I can’t, I just can’t. So please do this for me, Mia. Tell them I’m okay—I’m fine. And don’t tell Ivy. Promise me! Or Camille. And tell Mom not to either. I’m serious. Just let me get there and I’ll figure it out.”

“Are you sure? Okay. Okay,” I agreed. “On one condition. ”

“Nooooooo. No conditions,” he whined.

“Yes, and here it is: You check in with me every few hours—and you answer your damn phone when I call. If you do that, I promise I won’t let you flake out.”

He seemed to think about this. “I’ll check in with you. I promise. And if I need your help, I’ll ask. But Mia, I have to do this on my own. I have to. But thanks. You’re a good sister.”

I let Bo hang up first, then stared at my phone for a long time. Wow. Just wow . The whole conversation had left me a bit awestruck. It also inspired me. Bo might not be admitting it to himself yet, but he had real feelings for Ivy. And the manifestation of those feelings left me questioning who in our family actually possessed the most moxie after all. It rather pinched to realize it might not be me at the moment—lying here in my puddle of whiny self-absorption and talent-doubt, love-doubt.

In the eight days I had not heard how missed and adored I was by the man who’d become a permanent resident in my head, heart, and fantasies, that same man had also not heard those things from me. My brother shamed me. Truly. Why had I not reached out to Derek? Because I’d written last? Because it was his turn? Because I was scared of my own feelings for him? Scared I might send him the wrong message? I groaned. There was no wrong message. I was an idiot.

I pulled my laptop onto the bed and opened my email. Still nothing from him. I hit compose and made it short and unmistakable.

Hey.

You’re scaring me. Eight days without hearing that you’re okay is agony. Eight days of imagining the worst is making it hard to breathe. But worse than that is eight days of you not knowing how much you mean to me. I love you, D. I do. I’m sorry it took so long to tell you. I’m sorry it took imagining my life without you to know how completely, utterly, totally, and absolutely in love I am with you. But it did, and I am. So please, please be safe and come home to me.

I love you. I love you. I love you. Oh, and I love you!

M

I knew I meant it when peace and relief—and not an ounce of regret—washed through me as I pressed send. But I ached. I ached not knowing what was happening with him. I ached hoping he hadn’t changed his mind about me. I sighed and screamed a little at the ceiling as tears filled my eyes and leaked down my temples.

To say that I forced myself into the pool fifteen minutes later to do twenty laps would be a massive understatement. It was a lackluster workout at best, and my phone ringing at just past eight was what ended it. I missed the call, but it was from Ivy. She didn’t leave a message, but I could have kicked myself when I noticed that I had an earlier voicemail from her that had come in at just past 6:30 this morning. I listened and wept as she informed me of what Bo had already let me know: her mother had died.

Ivy didn’t answer when I tried to call her back, but I told her how sorry I was and that I would call later. I so wished I was there to hug her.

As I sat there, on the edge of the pool, I looked again for photos of us on my phone. I wanted to send her one of the two of us, to remind her that she had a friend across the country who was thinking of her—maybe the one from Carmel with our mouths full that I hadn’t sent the other day. But when I started scrolling, I couldn’t stop.

I was looking for a pic I’d taken the night I met Ivy at my exhibition. I’d gotten the shot of her just before I walked up and introduced myself—but I couldn’t find it now. I remembered that she’d been a bit folded in on herself, trailing her weird dad, no hint of life in her lovely features—almost like she wished she could disappear. But again, that pic was not on my phone. Nor were the ones I’d taken of her later that week when she’d met me at the track. I suddenly remembered how timid, unsure, burdened she’d seemed. Deeply wounded. But I had gotten a tiny grin out of her after we’d shared pieces of ourselves with each other and declared we were meant to be roomies for the summer.

No, all those had been taken with my Nikon. I take pics anytime inspiration hits. Sometimes I use my phone, but more often I use one of my three cameras. Now, I wanted to find the one from the track because I remembered it was nearly perfect in composition: full sun illuminating her delicious skin, lots of slightly sweaty curls as I recall, sad eyes, but the beginning of a friendship.

On my phone, I found a selfie I’d taken of Ivy and me right after she’d argued with her mom in Carmel. We were in that little restaurant killing a plate of onion rings. It was a good picture of us. But I was pretty sure Ivy would remember the occasion and her mother’s part in it, so I decided not to send it.

But staring at that picture gave me an idea.

So far, this semester had been one long class arguing technique with guest experts. Kyle Donohue, whose work regularly graced the best photog magazines, had been the latest. He was good, but not great in my opinion. But that might have been his arrogance and not his actual talent. Still, trying to appreciate and incorporate his expertise into my work had been frustrating and left me doubting my abilities. I kind of hated him for that. I was being tutored by one of the premier black and white photographers of all time. Why not use it instead of just keep whining about it? I blew out a grumbly breath. Because I could do better, that’s why. Kyle Donohue was Kyle Donohue, and he had his own unique style—brilliant by industry standards, magnificent by his own. But the truth was he was no Mia Sutton.

He didn’t have my eye. And he didn’t have the perfect subject. Ivy.

Since the day I’d met her, I had been taking her picture—I’m a freak that way—I take everyone’s picture. My camera loved her face—her skin reflected light with the raw purity of a child’s gaze. Her expressions hid nothing, and my camera missed nothing, and between the two, Ivy was a canvas where subtlety told entire stories. Ivy—guileless Ivy—somehow managed to own the emotion of the moment completely unfiltered.

Imperfection was my trademark, but it wasn’t to be found in her face. Her skin was immaculate, her features gentle and proportionate, blue-gray eyes, fullish lips, generous brows, no-nonsense nose. Completely, perfectly, Ivy. The imperfection came from the shadows and contours caused by what she was feeling, the emotion inhabiting that landscape—the pain, the unworthiness, the self-doubt, the emergence of a long-lost laugh, concern, regret. I’d seen entire wars fought on that face—but how much had I actually captured?

I got up and pulled a towel around me then headed back to my bedroom to get myself organized. Then for the rest of the morning I studied every picture I’d taken of Ivy Talbot. And as I did, I knew, absolutely, why I’d become a photographer. Ivy didn’t know how lovely she was—inside or out—so she wasn’t in the habit of trying to convince the camera of anything. It was hard to believe what she’d been through in just the time that I’d known her. But I’d taken so many pictures of her that you could see it, you could see the evolution. And I ached when I saw what I had accumulated. Lovely. Tragic. Raw. Redemptive. Healing. But would she give me permission to use these images as my final project?

It was early afternoon when I drove over to my parents’ house. Mom had called again, and I could not ignore her another moment. When I pulled up, she was watering the lupine near the front door. She looked nervous when she saw me, like I was there to deliver bad news—and I guess I was: I needed airfare to Georgia, and because of the short timing, it was a substantial amount. She turned off the hose and sat down on the front step as I got out of the car.

“Bo’s fine, Mom,” I said as I made my way across the lawn. “He’s a butthead, but he’s fine, ”

She visibly relaxed. “So, you’ve talked to him?”

I nodded as I sat down next to her.

“Where is he? What’s he doing?”

“Well…the short answer is he’s on his way to Savannah. Bree died. The longer answer is, I think he’s on his way to falling in love with Ivy.”

Mom’s features slackened, but I’m not sure which of those three declarations caused it. “What? Bo and Ivy?” she stared at me, processing this. “Bree died? No…Oh, no…Poor Ivy. Bo didn’t fly? Did he?”

“No. He’s driving.”

Her eyes widened.

“He’s about halfway. Apparently.” I took her hand. “He sounds good. He wanted to tell you himself, but he thought you would talk him out of it…or, you know, be worried.”

Mom eyed me, still processing but did not dispute what I’d said.

After she stared a bruise between my eyes, I cleared my throat. “I want to go to the funeral, Mom. Is there any way you can lend me the airfare to get there? I’ll pay you back. It’s just one-way. Then, I’ll drive home with Bo.” I did not tell her that Bree’s funeral was only part of my motivation.

Of course, she said yes. Of course, she did. My mother is completely stellar that way.