She slips the vial into her purse. "No, nothing you say is understood, I can't understand a bloody wanking thing ya say, but don't worry, I do get the gist. How's Sherry holding up?" She looks genuinely upset aside from her forced lighthearted words.
"As good as can be expected, I guess." He smiles sadly at me and reaches for my hands.
Once his hands are clasped with mine, he glances at Delilah before turning his attention towards me, "I told her we'd go to her apartment, her mum needs us to gather her toiletries and some dress. A pink one?"
I nod, knowing which pink dress he's asking about, but still digesting what it is I'm about to do. "Delilah, you wanna come, or-"
She jumps up from the bench she just sat down on, "No. It's cool. I'm gonna go. I gotta pick up Nic at ten, his gig at Baby's is over and he's still car-less, so...I'll probably see you in the next few..."
She looks at me, ashamed, but I nod again. Because it's just too awkward of a situation to do anything else, really.
Chapter 6
Each day that passes feels like a paused breath, a slow step forward in an endless line of many. One of my best friends died and the other is missing her funeral...because he's in a coma, in a hospital, hundreds of miles away.
I pause, breathe, and pause again.
Ryker has me tucked to him on a church pew towards the front, and through the tears falling, I see Blythe attempt to slide into the pew before he looks directly at her and jerks his head, 'no.' I don't see Blythe again, not during the ceremony or the burial that follows. All I really see is Ryker, because every time I turn around or move to leave, there he is. There he always is.
In the months that follow, it doesn’t take long for me to teach myself Reese's business end of the shop.
And thankfully, at Reese's father's insistence, Paul comes in to help me out with the business aspect of things in the evenings after Lucky Pipes closes.
Even more surprisingly, Delilah started working every Saturday for me so I could continue my painting classes.
It's hard, and everyone is pushed to their limits, but dammit, other than forward and without any new news from the doctors about Reese, I don't see any other options, so forward we go.
I just pause.
Then breathe.
And move forward.
One day at a time.
Delilah also comes in almost every day during the week and much more now than before. She says coming to work at the stupid bike store must be growing on her. On Wednesdays and Friday's, she's usually loaded down with to-go food bags and new dark acrylic paints that I'm supposed to be using to pour my pain out across a canvas.
And I will, one day. It's just a little hard to talk chatty, wine chugging, soccer mom's into painting anything else besides Fleur de lis and crosses on shitty chevron backgrounds.
When she comes barreling her way through the shops glass front door, loaded down with Chili's to-go bags, I'm excited to see she hasn't forgotten how much I love lunch, precisely at the current time.
"Hey, bitchacho's, eleven o'clock. Straight up. On time." She sets the bags down on the desk then turns around, her eyes land on mine. Squinting she smirks, "Hell, I gotta do my part to feed this kid you're freaking carrying. God knows without me, Ryker would let the two of you starve."
Ninety percent of the time, I ignore whatever falls out of Delilah's mouth, and ninety-nine percent of that time, I'm caught off guard by whatever it is she's saying. So it takes longer to process the importance of her words. It had to filter through bullshit central first, for Christ's sake.
I've mowed through the Cobb salad, half an order of fries, and I'm biting into my Big Mouth burger when the bite lodges it's self in my throat.
I croak, "Fucking wait. Wha-What?" Just as Ryker steps in from the side bay.
"Delilah." He nods before leaning over and brushing his lips across my big-mouthed stuffed cheek, " Ivy, me, love." Then he stands back to his full height, grabs a stool and a to-go box and sits down beside me behind my desk.
"Ya girlies cuttin' out early today, ay? It's Friday. Maybe drinks and a movie?"
I watch in morbid fascination, and it's almost as if I'm not really even there. It's like a damn out of body experience.
The days and weeks prior click into place until the timeline in my mind resembles a period of more than two months.
Holy. Shit.
The funeral...I thought the stress of the funeral, Reese, the shop... I just assumed I would start again next month, or the next, once the stress wore off.
It's the damn memory of the fucking antibiotics I was taking the week before the accident that sends the controlled chaos in my mind into full frontal, heavy metal jacket, mad max kinda chaos, and all I can manage to do is stare.
Shit.
Shit. Fuck. Damn. Hell.
I'm fucking pregnant. At twenty-one years old, I've lost one, possibly two, best friends and somehow, even sober, I still winded up the one thing, I never wanted to be...fucking pregnant.
I can't even pinpoint when it happened, my day to day life has been so fucking hectic. I couldn't pinpoint it, if my life depended on it.
"Ivy? Bloody hell, Delilah, did ya forget to tell ‘em no onions? Hon, here." He gathers my to-go boxes, rattling off some Irish jibber when Delilah bursts out laughing.
I do what I do best, I bolt. I don't even know where I'm headed, I just start walking. I walk through the glass front door, down the few steps, across the parking lot, and turn left when I get to Third Street. And I just keep fucking walking.
I don't want a kid. I've never wanted a kid. Never. When the girls in elementary school wanted to play house and dress their babies, diapering their little plastic wet asses, I passed. I was out. I didn't want it.
I went outside. I found Reese and we went to the woods, dammit. Fuck kids. All of them, the little ones, the middle ones, and the bratty know-it-all older ones. No.
I cannot be pregnant.
I just can't.
I don't know the first thing about parenting, for fucks sake, I don't even have any parents! How can I know?
I hear his feet slow from a jog to steps before I feel his big hands circle the tops of my arms and I stop where I stand a few blocks down from Lucky Pipes. I know three things right now, and three things only...
I'm fucking pregnant.
I'm scared to fucking death.
And I can't fucking drag another breath into my lungs until he tells me he will fix this. Because, dammit, I know I may say I don't like being the one who always needs to be fixed, but right now, I do. I like it when Ryker’s there to put my pieces back together.
No. Scratch that. I love it. He makes me whole.
"I know we're young, hon, and I know that I always said I wanted a little Lad one day...but ya know, just yesterday, I was thinking how bad ass it'd be to have me a lassie, strong and quick witted like her mum, but patient too like her ol pops. Ya know?"
I almost fall apart where I stand, when I blurt the fourth thing I know, "Ryker, I can't raise this baby. I just can't."
His smile may slightly waver, but it's gone too fast to tell and his calm accepting smile stays steady when he chokes out, "Even if I had to let her go so I could catch her mum, I'd be proud that I got to call her mine for the short time she was in your belly. There's other ways, Ivy. Let's focus on the other ways. Maybe they'll let ya pick out her parents, ay?"
And just like that, I'm back together.
I'm fixed.
I'm whole.
Without speaking a word I step up on my tiptoes then turn in his arms until I can tightly link my arms around his neck.
He leans his face down to mine and softly kisses my tear-soaked eyes. "Please, don’t cry, love. We'll be okay, you'll see."
It doesn't take long to get used to something that scares the living shit out of you when you're happy. And when you're in love.
I'm not one to flash my small successes, but I gotta be honest when I say how surprised I am that there wasn't at l
east one suicide attempt in the twenty-four hours that followed the positive pregnancy test. And I was sober?
Yeah, I was surprised.
Ryker makes it easy to find contentment and success in the small things. He usually also rattles on about a whole other list of Irish jibber and tall tales he heard his grandpa always say, but the contentment and success in small things is really the only one that rings true. To me, anyways.
It's my birthday and it's unseasonably warm. I'm dressed in my norm, tight black leggings paired with an oversized t-shirt and some slip-ons. When I see Delilah's black civic pull up in the parking lot. I gather my bags, slinging them over my shoulder and head out the door, telling Paul, "Let Ry know I left with Del, and I'll be home by midnight. Night, Paul."
I step out into the humid night and smile as I breathe in. I pause for a second.
Then I step forward, off the last step and slide into Delilah's car seconds later.
"Sup, mami!" She turns down The Weekend blaring 'I can't feel my face when I'm with you', and starts throwing shit from the passenger seat to the back.
I laugh at her, "Not much. Damn girl, can't you afford a maid, relatively easy, for this kinda square footage? "
She cuts her eyes at me, "Fuck you. If you weren't so scared I'd try..." Her bitch look strengthens, "and succeed at fucking your hot AS FUCK Irish boyfriend, I wouldn't be sleeping in my bitch ass car!"
Her traffic weaving skills get less aggressive as we hit the interstate headed towards my place of employment, Le Painting with a Twist. Our conversation continues its ta-te-ta until she whips into a handicapped parking spot.
After I get out and I grab my bag, I crawl her ass about it for the hundredth time, "Go park over there, you know Kim will fucking kill you if she sees you parking here!"
Kim's the boss, and she's cool...she's just, well, the boss.
It doesn’t take long for the class to fill, and while everyone finds their own best friends to stand beside, me and my best friend make our way around the tables, checking the supplies, and still talking shit to each other about her living arrangements.
"Delilah, your parents own every art studio south of the state line and every paint gallery and museum in south Florida. Fuck it, buy yourself a Painting with a Twist, THIS Painting with a Twist, and I'll live there with you. Be your lesbian life partner, and split whatever child support we could get from Ryker for this kid with you, if you did that. Don't try to play on my heart strings, sweet tits, because I don't have any."
I wiggle my fingers at her, gesturing for the extra brushes in her hand.
She blinks a few times before handing them to me. "Here. Hold these. I gotta go potty," she says.
See...like I said, I ignore ninety percent of what she says, I can't afford not to.
Of course, it's another fucking faux distressed wood background with three letters representing initials, or God knows what, that I'm having to teach. But it's cool, I still get lost in the strokes of the brush. As long as it glides, I can paint anything.
It's well past nine thirty and most of the stragglers have moseyed from the building and into the parking lot when it dawns on me...shit. I haven't seen Delilah. Did she leave while I was painting? It wouldn't be out of the ordinary for someone, or a lot of someone's to walk out of my class and it go unnoticed while I'm painting.
After the rest of my brushes are tucked into their specific pockets and my paints are stowed, I gather my bags and head towards the bathroom at the back of the class studio. Before I make it half way through the class, Kim passes through from her office and flips off half the studios lights, asking, "You and Del heading out?"
I’m not sure why, but uneasiness settles in the pit of my stomach causing me to stop dead in my tracks and I tilt my head to the side for a second.
I pause.
And I breathe.
Then I step forward, once, twice...and on the twentieth step, my hand clasps around the door knob and turns.
It only takes one step back for me to realize I’m looking at my best friend sprawled out across the bathroom floor with her pale yellow dress hiked up over her head, lying in a pool of foam and bile dripping from her mouth, as she hemorrhaged from her eyes and ears around her last few breaths.
And I screamed. As loud as I could. Right before my temple smacked the stained cement floor and everything went black, I fucking screamed.
Chapter 7
I've thought long and hard about this, and I'm beginning to notice it's becoming a common thread with my thoughts around the same time as tragedy. Make of that what you will, but what I'm saying is, if God isn't mad at me, then it's personal and Satan's my dad.
Kidding... No, what I'm saying is time doesn't work like it's supposed to, and who we love can hurt us more than our own worst enemy, and where I am and where I'm going will never be in my control, but fuck it, it's life...what am I gonna do? Bitch? And for what? It won't help.
So I just keep stepping. Onward and forward we go.
I ended up having to be transported to the same ER as Delilah, in the ambulance directly behind hers.
Three days later, I buried another best friend with stitches along my hairline and a handful of PRESCRIBED prescription pain killers in my belly. After the service, when Ryker asked what was the cause of my upset belly, I quite smoothly slipped my addict lying tongue back in place before subtly brushing it off as probably just the baby.
And then on the exact day I get a random FedEx package from Delilah, a month after her death, Ryker comes running up the steps, two at a time, and barrels through the front door.
"Holy mother of Christ, Ivy, love! The doc rang Paul! Reesie boy's awake! Come on, grab ya things, hon."
So I do. I grab my bag and slip my toes in my shoes. Seconds later, I'm on the back of Ryder’s bike, clutching his back as we zip through traffic towards the hospital to see my best friend for the first time in almost six months.
And not once does my mind go back to the cellophane sealed dark cedar chest with an ornate intrinsic Celtic knot as a lock and key that came labeled in white gold from Tiffany's.
Oh, but it will. Almost every item, some more in particular than others, will soon have the importance to decimate my very foundation.
Searing away the memory of every drop of blood and sweat and every damn tear shed between as I built it, brick by brick.
After a life time in the waiting room, Rachel and Paul walk out of Reese's patient room, huddled together. When Ryker sees Paul he stands, keeping ahold of my hand as we approach them. When we’re close enough to speak quietly, I ask around the lump lodged in the back of my throat, "Can he have visitors?"
Rachel nods and falls against me, crying and thanking God for miracles as I awkwardly try to console a sobbing mother. I don't have a mother; I don't know how to console them!
Thankfully Paul shoo's Ryker and I towards the door after they exchange only a few words.
And I...
Okay, look. I'm not a bad friend. I just don't do well with things like comas and death and fucking pregnancy. So I'm rocking two outta three, it ain't bad. The first and probably last time I saw Reese, he looked bad.
Bad enough that I knew I would be more help NOT playing nurse and just taking care of the dead friends’ parents and the conscious friends left over.
It was a valid executive decision when I was originally going through this, and it was never reassessed.
So when I see him. It hurts, a lot more than I could really afford it to. It fucking hurts.
The cuts that marred his forehead and left eye are healed and all of his bruises are gone. But the weight he's lost and how close to death he looks almost does me in. When Ryker’s hand presses against the small of my back, its steadiness gives me courage and I quietly speak, "Good morning, sleepy head. How ya feel?"
And I can't honestly tell you if it was Ryker’s hand on the small of my back or Reese's smile, but I'm willing to bet it was the later, that wove my common tragedy thread that day with
the knowledge of this, where I am and where I'm going will never be in my control.
The rest of our conversation consisted of Ryker talking shop as Reese stared at my barely visible baby bump with a definite look of concern on his face.
It's after visiting hours when the night nurse comes in to administer Reese’s pain meds and asks us to leave so he can rest.
As Ryker’s straddling his bike waiting for me to get on, I finger the three or so Percocet in my pocket for only a split second before grabbing them and swishing them down with a prenatal vitamin and the last swig of coffee in my cup. I toss the cup in the trash can and hop on the back of his bike.
I don't feel guilty as the bike pipes roar underneath me when we pull away.
I don't feel ashamed when the pills have fully kicked in and Ryker has me draped across his massive frame, fingering my hair as we lay in bed watching the news anchor welcome back one of Holley, Florida's own, the twenty-five-year-old local bike shop owner who recently fell into a coma after a fatal incident that left one dead and many injured.
I really feel nothing at all when the man of my dreams kisses the top of my head and whispers, "I'm so proud of you, Ivy, love. You've been dragged through one thing after the next and there you are. I told ya I'd catch ya. So bloody proud."
I wish I felt something. Anything resembling remorse. But I didn't.
Because I can’t.
And the only thing I was thinking was, Damn. I wonder how long I can keep lying to myself. Just how far can the word 'prescribed' be stretched. I mean—I had a prescription. And I could easily get another one. It's much easier to just get them from Slim, the body tech at the shop. I'm there every day and so is he. He said he doesn't really need them. And one last thing, how much time will I let myself pass on AA meetings until Ryker notices and questions it.
I'm willing to bet he has enough going on right now that me and my meetings aren't at risk of any attention from Ryker, any time soon.
As life settles and time slowly begins to pass us by again, we begin moving forward. Reese sold half of his partnership of Lucky Pipes to Paul, and when I finally accepted the white gold Celtic inspired wedding band as a PROMISE RING, Ryker signed over half of his partnership of Lucky Pipes to me.
Where the Ivy Hides Page 5
