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
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
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