The Death of Us (12 page)

We’re all silent. I try to imagine Ivy lying on the ground, her best friend dying in her arms. “God, Ivy,” I murmur.

Ivy says, “If I hadn’t made her angry, she wouldn’t have been driving so fast. She wouldn’t have died. It’s my fault.” She sits as still as a porcelain figurine, her eyes glassy with tears.

I come to my senses. I have to
do
something. I have to get her out of here before she says any more. If I were a better friend I would have stopped this earlier. I stand. “Ivy, let’s go.”

The three guys stare at me. I say, “Kurt, which room can we sleep in?”

To my relief, Ivy gets up and follows, quiet and distracted, moving like she’s walking through deep water.

Kurt leads us up to one of his brothers’ rooms on the second floor. He mumbles a good night and I shut the door. There’s a small lamp on in the room and it’s cozy, so different from the cavernous living room with its dark shadows of Ivy’s story.

Ivy collapses onto the bed, grabs my hand and tugs me down. I fall next to her. “Callie,” she says, and giggles. The mood shifts. She runs a finger from the corner of my eye to the edge of my mouth. “Let me kiss you.”

“I’m …” My tongue touches my top lip.

She smiles. “You know you want to.”

Her mouth is very close. She smells of alcohol. Of pot. Those things she said, those awful things. “You’re high, and upset,” I say pulling away. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Her eyes glitter. She says, “Did you miss me?”

“You know I did.”

She closes her eyes. She’s asleep within seconds. I switch out the light, my mind a tornado. Ivy. Isabel. I’m left in a too-warm bedroom with nothing but the image of two girls flipping through the air, one of them to her death.

X
ander gets up from the waiting room sofa and walks off down the corridor without looking back at me. There’ll be a story about this car accident for
Flat Earth Theory,
but it’s one I could never write. I’m too close to this. I think about Callie and Ivy again, the party at my house, the things Ivy said when she was high.

There’s something about getting high that I love. I should say
loved.
I don’t do it anymore. I was about
fourteen when I first got into all that, started being the guy at every party. I was younger than most of them, but I’ve always looked older than I am. One party sticks in my head. A bunch of seniors, drinking, some college guys. I got myself a beer and worked on getting fucked up. Two beers, three, four. A few shots. I was staggering drunk. Then I took a pill, began rushing. I was feeling great until I saw my birth-mom. At the party. Holding hands with an older guy, deep in conversation. She saw me as I saw her. The moment that changes your life. Changed mine. It was the look in her eyes—sure there was shame, guilt, anger, remorse—but the biggest emotion I read on her face was resignation. Resignation because her kid was
just like her.

Xander returns. Sits on one of the couches, tips his head back, falls asleep. Wish I could sleep.

I hear dogs barking but ignore them. Christ,
there’s a banging in my head like a fist against a door as the dogs break into another frenzied round of barking. I swear, if I had a gun, I’d shoot the hairy dumbasses. Shut up, shut up, shut up. I doze off. I’m a little girl again, watching my mom. She’s covering a bruise on her cheek with concealer. Putting on red lipstick. “Men. Can’t live with ’em. Can’t live without ’em. You’ll learn.”

She holds me. Whispers to my hair, “Don’t ever leave me.”

I wake as if I’m coming up for air. Where the hell am I? Callie isn’t in the bed. The clock on the wall reads eleven. There’s Callie, shaking me, saying, “Oh my God, my parents. They’ll expect me back, like, earlier. Get up, Ivy.”

She’s hopping about, throwing on clothes. It would be funny if everything didn’t hurt. “Screw it, calm down, it’s not even noon,” I say.

She won’t even look in my direction. “Just hurry up, Ivy. Please.”

“What’s really wrong?”

“I told you, I’m late.” She still avoids my gaze.

“Are you being like this because I tried to kiss you?”

“No.” She’s blushing.

“Get over yourself.” I say this gently, trying to joke, clear the air. “It’s no big deal.”

“It’s a big deal for me,” she says. Then she bursts into tears. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I just really need to get home. My phone died and now we’ve slept in. Mom’s going to be trying to get hold of me.”

I get out of the bed. “She treats you like a little kid.”

“I know.”

I say, “It’s not a bad thing. Growing up fast blows.”

“Yeah— can we just go? Please, Ivy?”

I’m still dressed from the night before. I grab sunglasses from my bag. We head downstairs. I mumble, “I was only fooling around.”

“Do you even remember?”

“Remember what?”

“What you said last night.”

“What did I say?”

“About Isabel?”

“Oh, shit.” What
did
I say? I put on my sunglasses.

Callie says, “Later. Everyone’s already getting in Xander’s car.”

Xander nods a short hello to us. We’re all quiet in the car. Callie watches out the window as we drive off. There’s a stormy gathering of clouds on the horizon. We pull up at Callie’s and she jumps out, hurries up the path. I get out my side of the car and watch her.

Her mom yanks open their front door. She’s red in the face as she yells, “Where were you?” Uh, full on. She glances at me.

I hear Callie say, “I was … um.” She’s not making it any better. She just got out of Xander’s car. If you’re caught lying, it’s time to switch to the truth.

Her mom bursts into tears. She says, “I couldn’t call you, Callie. Last night she died.”

For a moment I’m confused, remembering Ivy’s story about Isabel. Then I realize with a sickening lurch that Mom’s talking about my granny. Granny’s dead. My mouth tastes bitter.

“No,” I say.

“What were you doing with Ivy? I forbade you to see her. Whose car is that?” She pulls me into the house. Her grip is tight. The house is too warm. She says, “Where did you go? Who was driving that car? Why didn’t you answer when I called?”

“The battery doesn’t last long on this. I’ve been telling you I need a new phone.”

Her eyes brim and she looks like a young child. “I called Rebecca’s house. Woke them all up.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. And I didn’t mean to say that about the phone. I should have charged it before I left. I’m sorry I lied. I went to a party with Ivy. I didn’t mean to lie to you, I just knew you’d never let me go if I asked and I didn’t know we were spending the night and now I wasn’t here when Granny died—” It hits me. It seems impossible that Granny’s not here anymore. Her whole life, all the moments that made it, all of it over. I start to cry.

Mom softens, tells me it’s okay, hugs me, but I know she’s upset about the party, about Ivy. Worse—she’s
disappointed.

I whisper into her hair, “I wish I hadn’t gone, Mom. I’m sorry.”

It’s enough for the moment. There are things to
organize. Mom draws me into the house and we are swept into a blur of family visits, and the endless details of a funeral, which is rapidly arranged for three days later, on Sunday. We discuss flowers and music, who will speak, the order of service. Mom and I select the coffin.

I’m helpful, sweet, and Mom doesn’t mention the party, Ivy, my disobedience, her disappointment. Grief is like the ocean. It rushes over me in waves, sometimes knocking all the air out of my body with the force of memories, and then there are lulls when I feel fine, like nothing is wrong.

As the days hurtle by, Ivy calls loads, being supportive and endlessly kind, offering to come over, offering to help. But I don’t see her. I don’t see Rebecca either. She texts and calls. At least we’re not annoying each other anymore. I don’t go to work and Ana is understanding. I cocoon with my family until the funeral, which is held in a bleak room with a photograph of my grandmother at the centre, surrounded by heaps of roses. The smell is intense, sickly even. I can’t believe a life ends like this, ushered out by strangers in dark suits. Rebecca’s there. Ivy’s there, wearing a black dress.

It’s the first time since she returned that I’ve seen her in anything other than white and the first time with no makeup. Her eyelashes are pale and her skin is blotchy. She waves at me.

Granny is far away from me, her voice difficult to recall. Bouquets of roses, roses stacked up all over the place. I breathe in. Now the air smells like her and for a too-brief moment it’s as if she’s talking to me.
Careful, Callie.

After the service, Ivy comes up to me and takes my hand. But I don’t get to talk to her because one of my great-uncles is pulling me into an overfriendly hug and telling me what a lovely young woman I have become. Ergh. Old people kiss me on the cheek and tell me stories about my grandmother, stories that I hardly hear.

It’s the day after the funeral, four days since the party. My relatives have left and I’m feeling empty and sad when Ivy texts and asks me to go for ice cream. I go to my mom’s office and say, “Mom, can I, um, could I go out with Ivy, please?”

Mom raises her gaze and regards me steadily. “I saw her at the funeral.”

“She’s important to me, Mom.”

“We haven’t talked yet about the party. About you seeing her when I asked you not to.”

“I know.”

“You lied to me, Callie.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to lie to me again.”

“I’m really sorry.” Tears spill from my eyes. “I couldn’t tell Ivy that you wouldn’t let me see her.”

She spins her office chair slightly from side to side. “I know I should be more open-minded.”

Embarrassment seizes me. “Do we have to talk about this?”

“Callie, I should be … I just don’t want to see you hurt again.”

“Mom, I really don’t want to talk about this. Really.”

“It’s fine to—”

“Can we stop now? Please?”

She opens up her laptop and we both wait in excruciating silence. She says, eventually, “If she’s your friend then I should try again with her. I know I should, so tell me, where do you guys want to go?”

“Just for a walk. We might get ice cream, something.”

Mom takes another moment. “Okay,” she says finally. “But no more lies.”

“I promise,” I say.

When I get to the ice cream parlour, Ivy gives me a huge hug, then says, “Ice cream. It’s the only thing.”

“Sure.”

“Not mint-chocolate though.”

“But it’s my favourite.”

“It always was.” She buys us pistachio and mango ice cream. Sounds disgusting, but tastes delicious. I think about my granny and the quiet determination in her pale eyes, the way she circled her thumbs one over the other.

Ivy puts her arm around me and says, “I know how hard it is.”

I lean in to be comforted. Ivy smells good, like she always does, that vanilla perfume.

She murmurs into my hair, squeezing me tightly.

She says, “I wish I could make it better,” and I hear a note of regret in her voice.

I assume she must be thinking of her own loss, of her friend Isabel. I feel like I’m suddenly an adult, grown up in a way I don’t want to be, and I long to be a kid again, free and easy.

We sit on the wall outside the ice cream place and swing our legs. Two spoons. One tub. That kid-feeling I just longed for rising up through me.

Ivy says, “Mom’s being … Christ, I’m sorry to bring this up. You’ve got your own stuff … going on.”

“No, I could do with something else to think about.”

“I had a rough morning.”

“With her?”

“Yeah. She was, you know, drunk again.” Ivy pauses. “Why did you tell your granny about that day by the river?”

“I just said your mother was … I didn’t go into details. Not about that. I was upset. It was pretty awful.”

“Mom freaked out. Told me we were leaving and I didn’t even have time to get my clothes, let alone think. She wouldn’t let me call you or see you, say goodbye, nothing.”

Our ice cream is melting. I lick mine quickly.

She says, “It was … after that living with her was … at first, well, it was day to day. Mom stopped drinking. I honestly thought she was done. You know. She’d gone further than before. I mean, trying to kill herself. The drinking didn’t seem so normal anymore. Does that even make sense? She really tried. She did. She still had stacks of money from her inheritance.