Twelve—Ivy
O
h, I do love me a good adrenaline rush! Who knew a crisis could so utterly and completely propel me outside of myself and into superhero status? But it did, and for a minute there, helping Bo Sutton felt like the reason I’d been born. His involuntary familiarity with my upper body, notwithstanding.
Of course, like any good high, the effects were short-lived, and when I walked back to the pool house after having participated in the saving of Bo’s life, I met my reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door, and my life came screaming back. I wanted to cry. Damp, limp hair, some plastered to the side of my face, a body, twenty percent of which was hideously encased in old-lady-shaped Lycra, the remainder too hard to look at without squinting. The depth of my self-loathing had never been so poignant. How could I have let this happen?
I sat down in a sodden heap and called Geneva.
“My dearest girl!” she sang out. “How did you know I needed an Ivy fix?” And with that endearment, I was immediately rendered mute. “Oh, sugar plum…Come home, and let me love you. Come today.”
“I can’t do that,” I croaked.
“What’s happened, sweetie?”
“Gran, I’m a whale.”
“You’re not a whale.”
“I’m a baby whale.”
“Ivy Lee, that is simply not true, but if it were, you would still be lovely, because you are you. ”
“I hate myself. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
My grandmother sighed. “It’s temporary, my sweet.”
“Being a whale?”
“Most likely. But I’m talking more about the upheaval in your little life. Being this unhappy…”
“I hate it!”
“I know. It’s very painful. But your life has suffered a chaotic eruption, and you are buried in the ashes. It’s not pretty, and it’s not easy. But as I’ve told you a million times: every life worth living includes at least one year of ashes, my love. It’s a refining process.”
“That’s what you tell me.”
“Well, you should listen to me, because I am very, very wise.”
“You are…” I tried to smile.
“You won’t always feel this way, my sweet girl,” she promised—again. “And when you stop, you will be even more extraordinary than you were before. It will just take time. Now, tell me what has prompted these tears today.”
So, I did. I started with Daniel making the arrangements for me to live with Mia and Bo Sutton, and how disappointed he was that I wasn’t going home. Geneva huffed, predictably—my grandmother did not like my father. I told her about how much I liked Mia—how down-to-earth and confident she was. Gran laughed when I told her about the guy calling us stick and tubby at the football track and how Mia had handled him. I told her about Bo’s panic attack this morning and how scared I was for him and how nice he was, and something in my voice betrayed me.
“He’s nice?” Geneva said.
“Yes. He’s a little strange, but I can tell he has a good heart.”
“Well, how lovely is that? People with good hearts make for good karma—even the strange ones. Sounds like he’s had a rough go today. Perhaps he could use some nice in return.”
I looked down at myself. “Well…I may have blinded him with my centerfold-caliber magnificence, I probably should go check on him. ”
“That’s my girl,” Geneva said. “Sounds like you’ve landed in a good nest, for the time-being. You just breathe deep and let the Universe restore you.”
I sighed. “Okay…because, you know, me and the Universe…we’re tight…”
Geneva chuckle-sighed. “I love you, Ivy Lee.”
“I know you do. I love you, too.” I hung up and felt a smidge better, which was why I called my grandmother in the first place. No matter what I was, or who I became, what I did or what happened to me, Geneva Talbot would still thoroughly love me. And it was amazing to me, the lifesaving power of knowing that. If I was back home, I’d tell Mama I was spending the weekend with Geneva and head on over to Isle of Hope and sit on Gran’s porch—no, wait, the wedding had been over there...never mind. I hung my head and gouged my hands through my tangled hair. Sigh.
Well, at least I’d gone for a swim this morning. I hadn’t done that in… ever . Four laps—nothing to write home about, but still. And it was almost 9:00, and all I’d had was a glass of juice…and a hearty helping of adrenaline. That was a good start.
I took a shower, dried my hair, put on my least repulsive pair of jeans and some lip-gloss, then went to the main house to make some tea for Bo Sutton. While it steeped—four minutes exactly—I wandered around the massive living room. It was an elegant splash of style—Mama would say eclectic. Oversized furniture, lots of fancy throw pillows, I mean lots— some tasseled, some beaded, works of art each and every one. Huge windows let the sun in. There was a big fireplace and on the mantle were lots of pictures of Bo and Mia and Camille and two little girls who had to belong to Camille. The soft color on the walls made everything very soothing, except for a big ol’ garish painting above the fireplace. I’d seen it when I first got here, and I still didn’t know what the heck it was, even upon closer inspection. It was Picasso-esque, not really my wheelhouse, but interesting. I moved closer until I could make out a head, eyes—three, I think, a body(ish) shape—or maybe just a big red balloon, a hand—a four-fingered hand, very odd arrangement. The timer went off in the kitchen, which thankfully meant I didn’t have to think about this masterpiece anymore—which, more sadly still, I had no real appreciation for in the first place.
I made the tea according to Mia’s written directions, which she’d asked me to follow exactly, and found Bo downstairs, right where she’d said he’d be. I’d been given strict instructions to check on him, which Mia had warned me he would hate but tolerate if accompanied by tea. “Knock, knock,” I said stupidly.
He was standing at the window, seemingly deep in thought. He turned with the tiniest scowl, which he quickly strove to retract. “Ivy. Hello. I told you, I’m…I’m fine.”
“Oh, I knew you would be. I just brought you some tea.”
“You shouldn’t have bothered. I’m…”
“Very particular?” I finished for him. “I know. Lemon balm with a teaspoon and a half of organic honey, steeped exactly four minutes, in twice-filtered water. Of course.” I smiled as I handed him the mug encased in a paper towel. If he asks, you haven’t touched the mug, Mia had warned .
An infusion of pink colored Bo’s face. “Thank you. That was… very kind.” He looked at me, compelling me to look anywhere but back at him. I cleared my throat nervously and took in the room, which was its own world. Shelves and shelves of small plastic containers, each clearly marked, lined the walls. Two very bright lamps illuminated a compact worktable. On another table sat a laptop and an open sketchbook and a stack of small black boxes inscribed with Bo’s logo in calligraphy— Sutton . I wanted to pick one up for a closer look, but I didn’t dare touch anything. Finally, I again met Bo’s eyes. “How are you feeling, really?”
He dropped his gaze. “Exhausted. And very embarrassed.”
“Why?” I smiled. “It’s not cause you fell into my private property , is it?”
He groaned, and colored deeper. And smiled. “Sorry about that. ”
I waved away his concern. “I was just teasin’.”
“I really am sorry,” he said. “That was quite a production you were forced to endure. That hasn’t happened for months.”
I shrugged. “Well, you were forced to witness the rather hideous situation going on in my backyard. If that didn’t stop your heart—and not in a good way—then I think we should call it even.”
Bo Sutton looked perplexed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“My butt,” I grimaced. “I’m talking about my butt.”
Bo blew into his tea. “You’re funny.”
“I am?”
“Ivy, I’m sorry to report that I can’t remember your butt. I thought I was dying. All I saw were your eyes, which are beautiful, by the way. And I think I broke your hand while you were trying to calm me down.” He took a sip of his tea, hummed appreciatively, and studied me over the rim. “How did you know what to do?”
He thinks I have beautiful eyes? “What?” I said.
“Talk to me like that. You talked me down like a professional,” Bo said. “Are you? A professional?”
“Oh, no. I just…I’ve seen my life coach do it. I have a life coach—which should tell you everything you need to know about me, Bo Sutton.” I pulled a face, but when Mia’s brother didn’t react to this disclosure, I said, “I’ve seen him do it for Terrance—a guy in my posse.”
Bo looked intrigued as he took another sip of tea. “You have a posse?”
“My PTSD posse. And our fearless leader-slash-life coach is Adam Pembroke. We sit around on Tuesdays and Thursdays and talk about our trauma, and sometimes dredging it all up makes us anxious. But Terrance—his wife was hurt real bad—sometimes he has terrible panic attacks when he talks about her.”
“Panic on top of trauma. That’s not fair,” Bo said.
“No. It’s not. It’s awful.”
“And Adam Pembroke? He’s a therapist? ”
“I don’t really know what he is,” I said. “He’s probably not a real therapist. My dad was very concerned that I not be psychiatrically labeled, so he hooked me up with a life coach, which is apparently more acceptable in his world.”
Bo nodded. “Well, labels can be hard to transcend.”
I looked at him, and when he didn’t expound, I couldn’t help myself. “You sound like you know,” I said. “Do you have one? A label?” My hand found my mouth too late. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Bo. I probably need a license for this hole in my face.”
Bo Sutton chuckled, his eyes half hidden behind his wavy bangs. “It’s okay. I have an anxiety disorder, which is a label I can live with.”
I moved my hand. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Well… anxiety is a big umbrella that other conditions live under—or hide under.” He shrugged a shoulder. “I take irrational pride in not being officially diagnosed with OCD—obsessive compulsive disorder—which I could very well have. I’ve just never stuck with a therapist long enough for them to make that unequivocal determination.” He shook his head. “I probably have it. I don’t like germs. I don’t like the idea of germs. I like order.” He looked around his very ordered workspace. “I like lists and everything checked off those lists before I go to bed at night.”
“The lawn furniture…” I said.
He nodded. “I don’t do disruption very well. I’m not particularly flexible. I don’t always have a panic attack in response to disruption like I did today, but I’m pretty compulsive, and sometimes I do.” He took another sip of his tea. “So, I probably have it, or maybe I’m just…”
“A very interesting man?” I finished for him.
His mouth bent in a lopsided grin. “Well, I like that better than mentally deranged.”
“Oh, me too.” I smiled. Then the silence got a little awkward, and it seemed like a good time to leave. I was about to say so when he said, “So, is he helping? Your life coach? ”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I still wake up every morning sad and humiliated and betrayed and feeling bad about myself. So, if he’s helping, he’s taking his sweet time.”
Bo smiled, but looked sorry and like he didn’t know what to say, and it felt uncomfortable. I sighed and tried to smile, too. “Well, I’ll leave you to your creating. Can I get you anything else?”
“No. This is just right.” He indicated his cup. “Thank you.”
I turned to leave, and as I did, he called after me. “Ivy?”
“Yes?” I said, turning back.
“For what it’s worth, your backyard looks fine to me.”
Now it was my turn to color, and I imagined a deep magenta. But there was no malice, no teasing insincerity in Bo’s face, and it caught me off guard. I smiled again, this time self-consciously. “Well, now I know that in addition to the other noteworthy elements of your personality, you are, in fact, also a very nice man who may or may not be hard of seeing.”
He was laughing when I walked out.
Truth be told, so was I.