The Evolution of Ivy: Antidote (The Evolution of Ivy, Volume 2)

by Lauren Campbell

  “Ivy.” I look back at the guys to make sure they have walked away. “What’s up?”

  “I … I … well—”

  She’s stone-still. “Ivy?”

  Her face lights up suddenly, and she begins to spit out words almost in a manic way. “I was wondering if—I mean, I know you’re going out with Eliza, but—”

  “Babe!”

  Eliza’s voice draws my eyes across the field. She stands in the breezeway with her hands glued to her hips. I am sure this doesn’t look good, me talking to Ivy like this. I know Eliza was awful to her before, but she was going through some stuff. She broke down and told me all kinds of personal stuff—how her cousin had been molesting her, how her parents didn’t believe her. She had apparently become a huge bitch overnight, and the trauma of what happened to Ivy only made things worse. She already blamed herself for the molestation, and then Ivy not forgiving her and going psycho on her really fucked her up. So, it is only natural that she would be pissed at me for talking to her when she has tried to make amends with Ivy. But I get why Ivy is angry. I know there is more to it, but on the surface, I get it. I know her. She isn’t evil. She isn’t crazy. She has just been hurt, and it has changed her.

  Ivy keeps talking. “I know it’s probably weird because we haven’t talked in so long, but I was wondering—”

  “BABE!”

  Shit. I really don’t want to fight with Eliza, and I really don’t want to hurt Ivy. I’m honestly confused. After all this time of hating me, suddenly wants to talk?

  I turn back to Ivy. “Sorry, Ivy. I uh … I gotta get to practice. Later.”

  I sprint across the field, a heavy weight in my chest once I reach Eliza. She looks ready to kill me. Her eyebrows are stitched together, murderous intent in her eyes, and her lips are puckered to one side. I hug her like always, not wanting to fight.

  “What were you talking to Ivy for?”

  Suspicion and anger hide between her words. I don’t know what to say, so I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Oh, she just … wanted me to tell you she hopes you both can put the past in the past.”

  Instantly, she roars with laughter and glances at Ivy. “Are you for real? Let her know it’s too late for that. No, better yet, have Cory or Dean let her know. I don’t want you talking to her. She can’t be trusted.”

  I turn my head to Ivy again. She has become so withdrawn, so weak. I don’t see the sparkle in her eyes that I used to. I don’t recognize her at all. I have to accept it. The Ivy standing across the field isn’t the Ivy I know. I don’t want anything bad to happen to her, but she is a stranger now.

  I smile at her, noticing the tight clutch of her books when I do, and decide to leave the past behind me.

  In, out, in out. My breath is ragged, scorching my lungs with every inhalation. My shoes slap against the wet sand. I thirst for rest, but I will not stop. I’ll run until my knees give out, until my feet detach from my collapsed legs. The shore is empty because the light of dawn has yet to bathe it. I haven’t slept, but I’ve cried. I haven’t hated, but I’ve wanted to, because I’ve loved—loved so deeply, only to get one rejection letter after another.

  I’m angry. Resentful. Brooks is quite ineffectual—an enigma. He’s still that boy, that boy I loved. I see it often in little things he does, in the way he cares for people, yet he’s swaddled in the cocoon of adulthood. Plagued with worries of what’s right and what’s wrong instead of the simple child-like worry of want. He kissed me last night like he never wanted it to end, the fire in his eyes saying he needs me. Then, he rubbed his cock against me and rejected me once more, and let her distract him.

  How could he make such bold, selfish declarations as to what we could be and not vomit from the sight of another woman’s mediocre breasts? Yes, I saw them when I’d come around the corner, his screen in view. Would he have rejected whatever slut sent him that photo? Would he have laughed if she’d offered her ass to him like I did?

  As pissed off as I am at him, and as hopeless as I feel, I’m even more furious with myself—jumping at any bone he shows me instead of waiting for him to toss it. I’m beside myself with how he resisted fucking me last night. There was no one spectating on the beach, no one to stop us in the room, no one to guilt us. It could have been our little secret—of course, not for long, because once his cock is surrounded by the pussy God made for him, he’ll never escape us. Ever.

  Nor will he want to.

  But I can’t be so impetuous, so careless. Yesterday started as a dream and ended in nightmare, and at my own doing. The give and take of the game is important, but last night I only gave and was left with nothing to take. I must control my greed, pull back on the rope. Why can’t I simply fucking stick with the book?

  When the sun caresses the morning waves, I finally stop running. Drop on the sand, heaving, desperate to catch my breath. Beachgoers with dogs begin to trickle onto the sand, and once my breathing regulates, I get started on calling nursing homes in search of the perfect grandmother for me. Hopefully Brooks will drop me off and go. Get some sightseeing done, visit some attractions while I get to know my chosen lady. But I won’t count on it, so I must be prepared. I’m adamant about wanting someone with no family—less fortunate, in need of company. Only the fourth facility I call has what I’m looking for. The nurse I speak with says she has a perfect match. My lonely granny named Sarah is tucked away just outside Myrtle in Surfside.

  As I’m making an appointment for one PM, a hand falls on my shoulder. I gasp at the touch, my head turning to find Brooks.

  “There you are.”

  I smile. Point to the phone. Relax my eyes as I realize they’re open too wide in horror. “Just a sec,” I mouth. “I’ll be there at one,” I say to the nurse. “Looking forward to seeing her … uh huh … thank you so much.”

  “Your grandmother?”

  “Yes.” I stand, brushing sand off my pants. Tuck my phone in my sports bra.

  “Come in and get ready,” he says, not a hint of a smile on his face. “We’ll get breakfast.”

  He turns. Heads back to the hotel. Leaves me standing alone, just as he did last night.

  We end up at a breakfast buffet joint that looks like it has been around since the ‘50s. It doesn’t look special, but the line is out the door. We wait, conversation absent, and I lose confidence by the minute. I wonder at what point this plan will either give me my reward or fall completely apart.

  After we’re finally shown to a table, we go separately through the line. The food is good, but not great, and buffets gross me out. I’m sure half the people in here had dicks in their hands or their fingers in pussies, and no one washes their hands after sex. I’d have expected Brooks to choose somewhere nicer, but I’m guessing he’s not concerned with impressing me today, given his change in attitude.

  He has barely touched his plate, only having eaten a strip of bacon from it. I stuck with mostly protein when I made mine, though I took a muffin for the carbs, because my run was heavy—one of the hardest I’ve ever done, so I’d rather not pass out later.

  Our sweet, middle-aged waitress asks if we need anything. Brooks requests coffee and the check, though we’ve only been sitting down for less than ten minutes.

  After the waitress drops the bill and says she’ll be back with the coffee, I ask him if he’s going to eat.

  “Not hungry.” He leans back. Sets his phone on the table. Connects his hands behind his head in a stretch. “I’m gonna go ahead and pay.”

  He walks around the corner, tense and impenetrable. When I turn my eyes back to the table, his phone grabs my attention. The screen is still lit, the phone unlocked. Quickly, I tap it to prevent it from locking me out. I snatch it up, looking over my shoulder before eagerly clicking the green and white box to snoop through his text messages.

  A contact simply named “K” sent him a text saying, “Good morning :)” around a half hour ago. He didn’t respond. I breathe a sigh of relief, but am dismayed that there are n
o other texts from “K” to scroll through—like he’s been deleting shit. I don’t find any tits in any of his other texts from female names either. All appear to be perfectly platonic conversations. Except “K.” That peppy good morning and smiley face are unsettling. I lose my appetite, my stomach feeling weak, until I allow myself to focus on the message previews from male names. One from a name I don’t recognize draws my interest as the waitress sets coffee on the table. I open it. Almost scream with anger but then smile with joy.

  Guess who sent me a pic of her tits last night...

  Nice. Lock it down, bro!

  Not sure I’m feeling her.

  Don’t make her wait too long for the D. She might look elsewhere.

  I’m most likely good with that.

  Whew. Not about me, and what a big bowl of ice cream it is to see he’s clearly not interested in whoever she is other than some possible sexting, which still makes me want to pluck her nipples off, bake her a nippleoni pizza, and make her eat it.

  But whatever. I suppose in the grand scheme of our love, it’s nothing, and that’s what counts. Actually, Jared was right. Still, I’m curious about her, because she’s a threat as far as I’m concerned. I try to scroll through texts from others to see if he mentioned the full name of Ms. “K,” but I look over my shoulder and see Brooks coming, so I quickly set the phone back down.

  My heart races as he sits, and I take a sip of his coffee without thinking.

  “Shit, this is yours. Sorry.” I push the coffee to him. Resume eating my breakfast.

  “It’s fine. So, what’s your grandmother’s name?” His voice is dull, eyes avoiding mine.

  “Sarah.” I smile. “Love that woman.”

  After breakfast, we kill time at the house. Lounge around in uncomfortable tension. His demeanor is that of a remorseful person—not for the way he treated me last night, but for the words that he said. He regards me as if I’m a friend. He sits on the couch opposite of me, eyes fixed on the television. When he gets up to get a snack, he doesn’t ask if I want anything. He simply places it on the table and motions toward it.

  After a marathon of three crime episodes, and me being thoroughly bored with forensics talk, we drive to the nursing home. When asked why I said Myrtle when it’s actually Surfside, I shrug. Say it’s all the same here, and he should know.

  The facility is a sparkling white, welcoming building a block back from the water. A tinge of guilt stains me as a nurse escorts two elderly patients down the sidewalk for some exercise. Silently, I scold myself. The trouble a simple Facebook post has led to. The trouble a lie has led to. But at least I’ll be providing some company to this woman. I could make her day, her entire week, her year. This lie could blossom into a good deed.

  I unbuckle my seatbelt. Reach in the floorboard for my purse. “An hour should be enough, but I’ll text you.”

  His brows knit together, and he cuts the engine. “Uh, I’m going with you. I thought that was the plan.”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. “Oh. Oh, okay. I didn’t think you’d want to.”

  “Well, I didn’t plan anything, and don’t particularly want to leave only to have to come right back. Besides, I like old people. They have the best stories.”

  When we get to the doors outside the building, I turn. Place my hand on his chest, the mint of toothpaste on his breath. “Can you give me five or ten alone first, at least?”

  He nods. “Yeah, of course.”

  For the first time today, his words sound human. They aren’t made of steel—they’re soft and pliable. I realize I’m still touching him, so I pull my hand away and walk inside.

  At the front desk, I shakily talk to a friendly nurse named Connie and go through questions and instructions before being led down a hallway to a room nearly at the end. I note the number on the door, and Connie knocks—a faint voice replying. We enter the room. Its pale walls and décor only instantly depress me, rather than make it feel less hospital-y.

  “Mrs. Sarah … you have a visitor.”

  The woman is skin and bones, wiry white hair extending from her head in a perfect fro. Connie asks if there’s anything I need, or if I’d like her to stay awhile, and I say no, but thank her. When she’s gone, I text Brooks the room number and pull a chair close to Sarah, briefly admiring the handmade quilt that covers her bed sheet.

  “Hi. It’s me. Emily.”

  The once-vacant stare begins to warm, her gaze floating to me. “Emily?”

  “Yes, Emily … your granddaughter. Do you remember me?”

  A knock at the door, then it opens. Brooks walks cautiously toward us, and I want to be sick. If she says no, I’m going to have problems.

  “Emily...” My name leaves her lips a breath away from a question.

  Shit. I look at Brooks, his mouth slackening with concern and … pity. I hate that look.

  “I’ve missed you,” I say, my hand reaching out to hers. She squeezes it, the wrinkled, veiny skin cold at first, but quickly warming.

  “Where have you been?” She smiles, big white dentures on display, the spider veins in her cheeks reddening.

  “I’m sorry.” I’m going to hell. I swallow the forming lump in my throat. “I’ll try to visit more. I’ve been busy.”

  Brooks clears his throat, a welcome interruption to the moment. “Good to meet you, Sarah,” he shouts. “My name is Brooks. I’m Emily’s friend.”

  Yay, the Fucking Friendly Friend Zone—an amazing place everyone who’s ever been in love just loves to be!

  Sarah smiles and nods. “That’s nice.”

  She smells like flowers. Not fresh-cut flowers, but like old people perfume—almost like what Eliza will smell like in thirty years if she keeps wearing the shit she does.

  I clear my throat. “I brought you something.” I sift through my purse. Pull out the glass figurine, and place it in her other hand. “It’s Jesus.” Maybe I’m not going to hell. I’m such a good fake granddaughter, bringing her closer to Him. If only my real grandmother hadn’t been such a cold bitch, I could have given her presents like this—strengthened her relationship with God.

  Sarah pulls her hand from mine. Holds Him in both hands, turning Him over, marveling at the tiny statue. “That’s nice.” She smiles. Sets it on the nightstand next to her. “He can watch over me from there now, too. One white Jesus and one black Jesus. Now I need an Asian Jesus, a—”

  “Grandmother...” I interrupt.

  Brooks steps closer to the bed. Puts a sympathetic hand on my shoulder.

  “Well, you know Jesus was really a dark man. He wasn’t white, not white at all. But I’d like to have one in every race, anyway. A rainbow of Jesus! Don’t reckon they have any Asian ones, though, since Asians are almost all Budapests.”

  Oh, dear Lord. This lady is so far gone, the poor thing. “Buddhists, Grandma. Buddhists.”

  She smiles. “That’s nice.”

  I’m now convinced Sarah either can’t hear our responses properly, or she doesn’t process the words. Brooks pats my shoulder. I look up at him, his eyes filled with compassion. Tears saturate mine. I let my head fall to my lap. Let the tears drop on my legs. I’m a terrible person—an awful, wretched woman. What will I become? Now I’m using the innocent. It isn’t right.

  Brooks places his other hand on my other shoulder. He presses his fingers into me reassuringly, and I suck in a deep breath. Blow it out slowly. His hands caress my arms in a way I’ve never been touched before. He knows I’m hurting. Instinctively, one of my hands rises to his. I clasp his fingers. Watch the vacancy in Sarah’s eyes as she stares at the television, a blank smile on her face.

  Suddenly, Brooks’s lips are on my cheek, kissing me softly, before he walks across the room and grabs a chair. Flicks off the T.V. Sets the chair down on the other side of the bed, opposite of me.

  “So, Sarah.” He leans in to her. “Do you have any stories you could tell me? I love hearing stories.”

  The wrinkle between her eyes that formed when he
turned off the television smooths, and her eyes turn to him. She doesn’t respond with her routine “That’s nice,” but says she has lots of stories. My heart begins to pound as I fear she may have clear memories that tell stories of never marrying or of a family that doesn’t match what I’ve told him. Instead, she tells him about the night she and her sister, Mary, both got kissed for the first time.

  I watch him as he listens, his mouth fixed in a permanent smile, eyes lit in a never-ending beam of wonder. The way she looks at him back, the way she responds and answers … it makes me wonder if she has opened up to him because she feels his aura of goodness. There are no more generic responses, no more vacant eyes. She sees him, and he sees her. She hears his words and feeds his interest. I try to break in at times and ask a question, but her eyes never meet mine. Maybe she sees the evil in me, the black hole that occupies where my human heart used to beat.

  “...and then, we both leaned against that back wall of the skating rink, and they just did it. That was back when I used to sneak and wear red lipstick. It was all the rage. Those boys must have kissed us for ten minutes. Mine had that lipstick all over his face after! Mary and I stayed up all night giggling about it. Then, he gave me my favorite flowers the next day—tulips—but by the time he walked the five miles to my house in the sticky summer, they looked like shriveled paper!” She laughs, so gentle, so pure. I can’t help but smile as Brooks laughs with her. He looks at her as if he loves her. As if she’s his, and not merely a stranger he’s never spoken with before.

  “That’s a great story, Sarah. Where is he now?”

  “Oh, we kept going steady. There’s a picture of us in the drawer from our wedding. I don’t remember it, though. I only remember a few things from the past. They say my memory is bad.” She frowns. “I guess it is.”

  Brooks’s smile vanishes from his face. He tells her it’s okay not to remember. We stare at each other. Tears roll down my face. I’ve never felt so ashamed. I’m trembling, my hands tucked under my thighs so they stay still. Brooks rushes to my side. Takes my face in his hands. Asks if I’m okay.