Chapter 33 #2
“As detailed as you’re comfortable with,” she says simply.
“Okay,” I say, a bit wary. “I think I can do that.”
“I think you can, too, Ivy. Now, why don’t you tell me about the struggles you are comfortable sharing today, and we’ll go from there.”
I spend the rest of the session touching briefly on everything wrong in my life.
I start with Wes but change the subject because it hurts too much to talk about him.
I move on to Alexis’s treatment of me and my parents’ apathy when it comes to my life.
I describe the issues I’ve had with Public Speaking and my desire to drop the class so late in the semester.
After mentioning that Professor Markham recommended the SSC, she confirms that I will be able to drop and not receive a failing grade.
Even though I should feel like a failure, all I am is relieved.
“I’d like to meet with you again on Monday, Ivy,” she says, when our hour’s almost up. “I think it’s easier to ramp up the sessions at the beginning as we formulate a plan and taper off as you get more comfortable. How does that sound?”
“That sounds good, I guess.”
“Great,” she says, setting her notepad to the side. She gets to her feet, and I follow suit, smoothing out my sweatshirt as I stand. “Well, in that case, I’ll see you in a couple days, okay?”
“Okay,” I tell her, surprised to find that I’m relieved I don’t have to wait too long for a second session. “I’ll see you in a couple days.”
When I step outside the building, the rain’s still coming down, but it’s lighter now. Just a drizzle, one step up from a mist.
On the walk back to my car, I wonder if maybe it’s a sign.
I hope more than anything that it’s a sign.
Somehow, I make it through the rest of the week. It’s easier now, with Public Speaking struck from my schedule, though I mourn the loss of my final link to Wes. Without that class, there’s no more overlap between our lives. There’s no reason for me to see him now, unless it’s by accident.
It’s better this way.
No. No, I don’t believe it is. I don’t believe that my life improves in any way without him in it, but I have no choice but to accept what we’ve become—a casualty of my inability to function like a normal fucking human being.
On Saturday morning, I rot in bed until noon. My computer screen mocks me, open to a blank document where I’m meant to write the things I can’t say out loud. Every time I start to type, though, something stops me, and I stare at the blinking cursor until my eyes water.
Seconds, minutes, hours pass, and then I hear a knock on the apartment door. I make no move to get out of bed. I’m not expecting anyone, and I don’t want to see anyone, but after a moment, the knock sounds again, this time louder.
With a groan, I roll over, putting my back to my door, only to see my phone screen light up with a text. The message has me scrambling out of bed.
Mom: Ivy, are you home? I’m outside your door.
A mixture of dread and disbelief curdle my stomach, and I have no time to process why she’s here or what it means as I struggle to find clothes.
Bra. T-shirt. Sweatpants. I throw on the first things my hands touch and then dart to the bathroom, where I attempt to run a brush through my hair. My teeth will have to wait.
I rush to the front door and pull it open, shocked to see my mother standing there. Angela Combs looks up from her phone, sliding her sunglasses up on top of her head—to better glare at me, I assume.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt as her eyes roam over my body. I can only imagine what she thinks of my wrinkled, mismatched clothes, unwashed hair, and oily skin. Her mouth tightens, and she meets my eyes.
“You haven’t been answering any of my calls or messages,” she says. “Did you think I wouldn’t care?”
I blink at her, still stunned to find her hovering in my doorway. She’s never once made a trip up to see me, not since move-in day, and even then, her and my dad left as soon as they were able. “I don’t know…”
“Well,” she gestures inside, “are you going to invite me in?”
Reluctantly, I step to the side. Our apartment isn’t a disaster, at least, though I wouldn’t exactly call it tidy. It doesn’t live up to Angela Combs’s standards, that’s for sure, but I can’t stop her from entering at this point.
Moving further into the room, my mom frowns at the dirty dishes someone left in the sink and the liquor bottles lined up across the counter. Her eyes narrow on the overflowing recycling bin and the messy piles of books and shoes which must belong to Ava and Kinsley.
I wait for her to comment on the alcohol at the very least, but she doesn’t say a word about it. Instead, she asks, “Which one is your room, again?”
I point at the only open door and then panic when she starts walking toward it. “It’s not clean, Mom. I didn’t know you were coming…”
She ignores me, stepping inside. She doesn’t say a thing as she takes in the war zone my room’s become.
It’s been ages since I last did a load of laundry, and piles of dirty clothes are scattered across the floor.
My bed is messy and unmade, the sheets also in dire need of a wash, and used cups and dishes litter every surface.
I tense, waiting for her to yell at me. Waiting for her to scold me, shame me, lecture me for letting things get this bad.
She doesn’t. Instead, she asks, her voice too calm, “Have you eaten lunch?”
“Lunch,” I repeat. The last thing I feel like doing right now is having a meal with my mother, but my empty stomach has other ideas. It growls at the mention of food. When I try to remember the last time I ate something other than instant ramen, I can’t. “No.”
“Jump in the shower. Then we’ll find a spot where I can order a decent salad.”
I squint at her, wondering why she’s talking about salads and not letting me have it. “Okay…”
When I still don’t move, rooted by confusion, she gives an exasperated sigh. “Go, Ivy. It’s nearly one, and I’m starving.”
Leaving my mom alone, I rush through a shower, but when I step back into my bedroom, I find it empty.
Not just empty, but considerably cleaner.
The dishes are gone, the clothes are piled into the laundry bin, and my bed is perfectly made.
My chest pangs as I wonder what this might cost me, and I hurry to get dressed.
“Thanks,” I tell my mom as I emerge into the living area.
She only nods before glancing down at her phone. “Have you been to The Tavern? The menu’s not perfect, but it’ll suffice.”
“Yeah. It’s on the main street in town.”
“Perfect. Let’s go, then.”
Twenty minutes and two tables later (Mom thought the first one was too close to the restrooms), we’re seated in a booth at The Tavern.
Mom orders the Cobb salad, chopped, with dressing on the side, and I order chicken fingers and fries.
My shoulders are tight with tension as the waitress takes our menus, and I wait for Mom to scold me for ordering something unhealthy.
When the admonishment doesn’t come after five minutes, my muscles begin to relax.
As we wait for our food, she talks at me about my brothers and her friends like it’s any other normal day and she didn’t make a special trip up here just to see me.
I nod as best I can, but my brain is exhausted from scrambling around in circles, looking for the catch.
I don’t have the energy to feign interest the way I usually do, but she doesn’t call me out on it.
They deliver our food, and I pick at my chicken. Mom takes a few bites of lettuce before setting down her fork. She looks at me, and I tense up again.
Here we go.
“What’s been going on with you, Ivy?” she asks carefully. I nibble a fry, not sure how to respond to that question. When the silence lingers, she sighs and folds her hands on top of the table. “I got a notification from the school that you dropped out of one of your classes.”
My stomach twists. I set the half-eaten fry back down on my plate, my appetite dissipating as I wait for the inevitable verbal beating. “Oh.”
“Oh is right. Won’t that damage your GPA?”
I shake my head, staring down at my plate. “It won’t.”
“Well, when Noah dropped a class his scores plummeted—”
“It’s different than Noah,” I cut in. She raises her eyebrows at me, waiting for me to continue.
I shift uncomfortably in the booth. Tap my fingers against my thigh.
“The school let me drop it for health reasons. A counselor signed off on it. It won’t affect my grades, and I can take a summer class to make up the credit.
It will cost a bit more, and I’m sorry about that. ”
I wince, waiting for her to go ballistic over the money aspect, but she doesn’t seem to hear that part. “Health reasons?” Her eyes scan over my face, searching for visible symptoms of illness. “Have you been sick? You look like you’ve lost weight.”
I swallow. “No. Um, mental health reasons.”
Now it’s her turn to be silent. My shoulders slump, and I brace myself for an outpour of protests.
That’s not a real excuse.
We let you major in art, and you can’t even handle that?
The school should have contacted me before letting you drop.
Money doesn’t just grow on trees.
I wait…but she doesn’t say any of those things. Just kind of looks at me, processing what I’ve told her. And then she says the last thing I ever expected her to say. “Is this like before?”
Before. Before could refer to any portion of the last two years. I shrug.
“Well, I spoke to Noah.”
“Noah?” I repeat, confused as to why she’s bringing up the golden child.
She nods. “He’s the one who convinced me to come, actually. He told me he talked to you that weekend before the garage sale and was concerned that you weren’t answering your phone.”
My brows pull together, processing this information. The more I think about what she’s told me, the more sense it makes. It figures that my mom wouldn’t start paying attention to me until Noah suggested it. Until Noah raised a flag. “Oh.”
“And then I got the email from the school, and I just wondered…”
I blink at her. “Wondered what?”
“I wondered if perhaps I’ve been unfair to you.”
I sigh, slumping in my seat. “Mom, it’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.” She reaches across the table, putting her hand on mine in a surprisingly tender gesture. “Ivy. It’s not fine.” I shrug. I can’t meet her eyes. “I want you to understand that you can come to me. Talk to me. Maybe I haven’t made that clear enough.”
My eyes snap up, and before I can stop myself, I say, much too defensively, “I’ve tried talking to you before, Mom. It doesn’t work.”
I wait for her to snap back, to lash out in return, but she doesn’t.
She goes quiet for a while, contemplating my words.
Then, she points to my plate. “If you’re not going to eat this here, take it to go.
You need calories.” I stare at her because those are the last words I ever expected to hear come out of Angela Combs’ mouth.
“And I’m staying the weekend. Maybe you’ll want to try talking more tomorrow. ”
My eyebrows raise. My mom taking a day trip to come visit me was crazy to begin with, but staying the weekend? I can barely wrap my head around it. “You are?”
“Yes. At the hotel a few blocks down.”
“Does dad know?” I ask, considering he’s even more frugal than she is.
“Not yet.”
I blink at her, wondering, who is this woman?
And then she leaves a five percent tip because the service was “a little bit slow, don’t you think?” and I recognize her again.