If Only

by Jennifer Gilmore

  Dedication

  For Julian

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part 1

  Bridget

  Ivy

  Ivy

  Bridget

  Ivy

  Bridget

  If Only

  Ivy

  Bridget

  If Only

  Bridget

  If Only

  Ivy

  Bridget

  If Only

  Ivy

  Bridget

  If Only

  Ivy

  Bridget

  Bridget

  Bridget

  If Only

  Ivy

  Bridget

  Part 2

  Ivy

  Joanne and Andrea

  Ivy

  Ivy

  Ivy

  Ivy

  Ivy

  Nelly Hellman

  Ivy

  Lulu

  Ivy

  Joanne, Andrea, and Ivy

  Ivy

  Ivy

  The Girls

  Ivy

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Jennifer Gilmore

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part 1

  Bridget

  March 2000

  Will the sweetness swallow all the bitter? Is that a way to start a letter? I knock the pen against the side of my head like I’m taking a cartoon test and I’m cartoon-thinking. What would I say? If I were to write a letter, I mean. My pen—pretty, peach-colored. It says Be Brave along the side.

  “Really?” I had said to Dahlia when she gave it to me. I’d held it out to her, like I wanted to give it back.

  “Really,” she’d said. “My mother gave it to me when I started getting into coloring books again.”

  I’m wondering this—sweet bitter—while I’m waiting for Dahlia now at the café. I have no idea. I mean I’m sixteen, but I am not a total mess. I have done things I’m not proud of, I’ve made some bad choices, true, but I am not on drugs and I’m not about to start now. My family will help. I can do this, I am thinking, but I am also thinking that I can’t. Do this. Not even for her.

  I know it’s a her.

  She is.

  “Bridge,” Dahlia says. “Hi, honey,” she says, shaking off rain. She takes off her hat. There’s that smell of rain, too. I know you know it.

  “Thanks for meeting,” I say.

  This is our winter place now, but we’re inching toward spring. We like the table in the nook that hangs over the creek. It’s out of the way here, an extra ten-minute walk, but we do it and when we do we know it’s serious.

  “Of course. What’s up? Why so crazy urgent?”

  “You want hot chocolate or something? Cider?” Also they have amazing hot chocolate.

  “What’s up?” Dahlia asks me again. “Your hair looks good by the way.” She reaches out and pulls the chunk of pink I dyed last night. My private celebration I think. Because last night I’d decided.

  But anything changes my mind. All kinds of thoughts. People. A photo in a magazine. A girl with headphones alone on the street. A woman holding a wobbly toddler’s hand.

  “I want to keep it,” I say.

  She looks up. “That’s insane. You can’t. You and your mom already decided. We decided. Are you insane?”

  “When I think about it I can’t stop crying. I can’t.”

  “Let’s look at some more profiles from the agency. You will find the right people. They will be the right parents.”

  “Will they be, though?”

  “My mom’s adopted,” Dahlia says. “Remember?”

  “Gorgeous Lulu! I always forget that part about her.”

  “Closed. All the paperwork. She’s got no idea who her birth parents are. Could be anyone. She looked for a long time. This is so different. The baby will know who you are. She will hear you laughing. My mom always says mine was the first laugh that she recognized.”

  But what if I never laugh again? My heart, I think, is breaking. Dahlia’s mom. I can’t help but think of her dad, Raymond, too, all messed up from the Vietnam War like so many of the fathers in this town. Mine, too. They got drafted—no choices at all. Go there. Kill people. Come home. What kind of a choice is that?

  Our mothers aren’t friends anymore.

  Their mothers were best friends, too. Valerie and Lulu. Both their boyfriends went away and came back, changed. That’s when my mom got religion but Lulu stayed the same, I think, stayed long hair and Joni Mitchell and Janis Joplin and peace signs, long as I’ve known her.

  This kind of breaking heart, though, mine, it is different than when Baylor and I broke up. That was an all-over-my-skin-hurts, I-can’t-move thing. Even my teeth. Like I had the flu or something. Like I needed my mother but I didn’t need my mother I needed Baylor. Just to hear his name, still. All kinds of feelings. All the songs are true: the heart breaks. Because what if you can only do it once? Love. Once. Like that’s all the universe lets you have. To protect you.

  But turns out this is worse. I wonder now, watching Dahlia, who doesn’t have to think of any of this, which makes me hate her for one second, will my heart just be breaking forever? Over and over and over again?

  “I can raise this little person,” I say. It doesn’t come out strong at all. I don’t sound like anyone’s mother.

  “There is more for this baby out there,” Dahlia says. “If you love your baby, you have to be able to see that. Give it a future.”

  “Her,” I say, smiling. “Not it.”

  “I know.” Dahlia grins back at me. “You can choose it for her. And she can know who you are.”

  And what’s so great about that, I’m thinking. Who am I?

  I want time to tell me what to do. The more time I don’t decide, things get decided for me. Like having an abortion. It’s too late. So that’s not a choice now either. It’s been too long. And even if that was not the choice for me, I am not judging anyone now. We are all just trying to live through this without breaking, you know? We are all doing the best we can and I understand every one of us. I love us all. Will anyone else? Love us, I mean. Love me. Ever again. Who could?

  So which one am I? The one who keeps her or the one who lets her go?

  It becomes less confusing to me the more I say it, the more Dahlia says it. It is so hard to think of the future. When I saw those pink lines—the ones I jumped over into positive—I wish I could explain it. I had thought pink meant it was a girl. (Yes, seriously.) And then I have to think about what’s in front of me. Baylor and I were already broken up, and I knew I could get him back with this, this—he is not a mean person or anything, but he so doesn’t love me. And now, this growing thing. Every morning I woke up crying. I still wake up crying as soon as I remember that nothing has changed.

  I need to decide.

  Next to us, at the table by the window that looks out onto all the evergreens, a lady is crying. It’s almost like she’s doing it for both of us. She’s weeping. There’s a painting of bluebirds in a nest that hangs above her head and another lady reaches out and takes her hand and it feels so sweet to me I want to go over and hug them. Actually I want them to come over here and hug me. Like take me up and just make all this all go away in a way my mom isn’t doing. At all.

  My mom thinks what I did was wrong. It’s hard for her to understand me. Believe me that goes both ways. I mean, if I had a kid, which I almost do, I would be more understanding. Baylor says he’ll break up with Rosaria and marry me. He is a good guy and that is the right thing to say but that’s the wrong thing to do and the reason is wrong. I know all this, but part of me—most of
me—would still really like Baylor back. I would like him away from Rosaria that is for sure. My parents have money, I mean not piles of it or anything, we’re not rich at all, but we’re okay. We have a house and a car and growing up I had a dollhouse and a bike with a pink banana seat and roller skates with their own key. I could do this, I think. But then I think, this is no life for any of us. Least of all, you. I look down at my belly like it can hear my thoughts. Like you can. You you you. Who are you? Who will you be?

  I am growing in every way I can. Someone needs to tell me the answer and it is not Baylor and please don’t let it be my mother.

  Dahlia is snapping her fingers at me. “Bridget!” she says in between clicks. Her nails are painted dark green and I can see the colors of them moving through space. They match the evergreens on the outside. “Let’s look at more of the profiles. Maybe you haven’t found the right people yet.”

  Do I look at her blankly?

  “To give the baby to.”

  Give? How could I. I know Dahlia’s right and I can see the answer there, waiting, delivered. One day soon I will put her in someone else’s arms. I will answer someone’s prayers. I will be wanting for the rest of my life. That is true love and even I know I might never get it again. Even I can see that.

  “How’s the letter?” Dahlia says.

  I roll my eyes.

  “Just say, well, whatever you want to say. About how much you love her. Because you do love her. That’s why you have to let her go.”

  I feel the tears streaming down my face again, salt salt salt. I lick them when they reach me. Potato chip tears.

  “Who told you that?”

  Dahlia cocks her head. “I don’t know,” she says. “That’s what my mother says about her first mom. You’re showing a little, by the way.”

  I am half-disgusted; half-thrilled but I can’t say it. “Now?”

  “What is it? Three months?”

  I nod. “And a half.”

  “You could start?” says Dahlia. “The letter. It could be kinda fun.”

  Fun? Nothing is fun anymore. I grimace.

  She urges me with her head. “Writing. You could start.”

  I want to say: Be Brave. To both of us. Write it on this lined paper, on my skin, over my broken heart. But it’s already on this stupid pen and that makes it impossible. That’s what I feel, though. Be brave. Am I talking to her or to myself? Be a warrior, I want to say.

  Meet me on the other side.

  “Maybe you want, like, one beautiful letter that says everything,” Dahlia says.

  I look over at her. She is so pretty, Dahlia, like her mom. She wears makeup—really dark eyes sometimes, or even purple, which somehow works on her, I don’t know how—but she also is pretty just in her Hello Kitty onesie, reading magazines next to me on the couch. I reach out to touch one of her long curls. Boing. “Boing,” I say.

  I crumple the blank sheet into a tight ball.

  “Wait!”

  “It’s wrong,” I say. “It’s all wrong.” I throw it at her.

  “You can really tell now,” she says softly, looking at my belly.

  “Heard you the first time,” I say. I am willing that part away.

  My father can’t look at me. At the dinner table his eyes are just fixed straight ahead. Chews his food, holds his fork in folded hands beneath his chin. Up and down, up and down. What would he even be like with her? Will he hate her or love her? I do think sometimes with boys—men, I guess—you just can’t tell. Girls, we are always just on the side of love. We are. Everyone is a bird with a broken wing. Here is my wing. It is broken. It has always been broken.

  Mom thinks that’s because I don’t go to church regularly. And that drove me to Baylor.

  “I know,” is what I say out loud. How can I say it? Every little thing is about this decision. One thing sways me one way, one the other. Those pink strips. I am tiptoeing along it, tightrope-walking. I can still see that moment when my life changed to this. “I can’t believe I have to do this in summer.”

  “Baby doll dresses.”

  “But at least no school. I mean, no one noticed.”

  Dahlia gives me a side look, the one that goes with the smirk.

  “What?”

  “People know,” she says quietly. “Come on.”

  I don’t say anything. Of course they know. I know that. I just was pretending. I was pretending that when this goes away it will never have existed at all. It won’t even be gone by the time school starts.

  I look down. It’s still cool enough for boots—Docs—and I can still see the tips of my toes. I wriggle them in my hot boots. My feet are swollen. I feel myself becoming someone else. I am growing and growing. I want to stop it; it’s too fast for me. I want to kneel down and pray; I want the answer there, on some altar, our altar, where once I used to stand and sing, where once a pastor touched my forehead with water. There it is, my answer, maybe the Lord is telling me, maybe I can see it there, my answer.

  Maybe I was born a sinner and maybe this little person was sent to save me.

  From what?

  “Baby doll dresses and long sweaters,” Dahlia says and already I am dreaming.

  If only, I’m thinking. But if only what? If only what. That is what I want to know.

  Ivy

  2017

  This is what she gave me: a quilt stitched with roses, the fabric stiff as cardboard, never washed, packed away. A pink dollhouse, new and shining; inside it there are so many rooms. And inside those rooms is wooden furniture: chair, couch, bed, television, bookshelf, sink. How many times did I rearrange all this? Slide the beds to the living room, TV in the library. Bathtub in the bedroom. But it’s all the same because it’s so easy and light to move pretend stuff around. And the rooms aren’t real anyway.

  A photograph that I have pasted into a silver locket. I keep it on a string in a jewelry box and I wear it around my neck when I am angry. I have a letter, that came with me. Proof of purchase, I guess. I have all the things that say: You were not abandoned, you were not left, you are special, you got chosen.

  Your parents are the parents who raised you from the moment she left you.

  When she was sixteen. I am sixteen now. Patrick’s band, the Farewells, played last fall in the backyard beneath a striped yellow tent, in case of rain. It rained. It always rains here. “We are the Farewells,” the lead singer, Alex, said into the mic at the beginning of the set. So serious but no one was listening.

  Deviled eggs and cheese fondue. Buckets of lemonade. The Farewells and their flasks of whiskey, their earnest punk pop. Claire with a bottle of Coke in each patch pocket of her dress.

  Sweet sixteen. My moms came out and danced like it was the wedding they never had. Our dogs ran in circles and sneaked table scraps until they passed out beneath the food carts.

  I am grateful for my life. I wouldn’t want it another way, to be someone else. But you wonder, about everything. Who else could I be? Anyone, really. It could have gone any other kind of way, which is a weirdness I can’t get over.

  Sometimes I admit I want the her of her; on the bad days it doesn’t just sit there, it becomes me, the way I want to know. All the possibilities. Those days the words sting more: the ones you don’t know about. Like when I overhear the lead singer of Patrick’s band, Alex, refer to his little brother as an idiot and then, he says, he’s so got to be adopted. There is no way that kid is related to me.

  I mean, I’m right here. Alex? I think those kinds of words matter.

  People: Don’t say “gay” to describe something dumb. And don’t say “adopted” to say someone’s dumb either. All of us, we can hear you.

  We are right here.

  The photo, an actual photo you can hold: my moms and my birth mom and me, this little package with a red face wrapped up in a blanket with the faintest pink and blue stripes. There I am at the center. I am the prize. I have never not felt that way. Like the most-ever-wanted prize. The photo hangs on the wall by the stairwel
l, along with photos of my moms and my grandparents, and everyone as a child. The grandparent children photos are most remarkable to me because they’re, like, colored in. There is one of Gram up there, and she’s got this mass of black hair and she’s only a year old. And her huge blue eyes are shaded actual blue. And then this colored-in pink lipstick. It’s bizarre. That and the photo of my grandpa Harry, who I never met, playing tennis at Columbia University in a V-neck sweater—those are my favorites.

  In the photo with my birth mom you can just see the side of her face—you can’t really see her so well but it looks as if she’s been through some kind of a war. Her hair is all over the place, like she’d woken up from thrashing to nightmares. There’s a streak of purple in it. The eye that you can see in the picture is swollen, or maybe that’s just how her eyes are. I never knew her, after. She wears a hospital gown. There’s a plastic bracelet around her right wrist. It might say her name or it might say my name. How would I know the difference? Is there a difference anymore?

  But you can’t tell who she is from the picture. Like, what would she be wearing on the outside? Little tight skirt, overalls, maxi dress. You can’t tell what she’d put on to become herself. What kind of a girl she is. She’s just young. Insanely. To be a mom, I mean. The age I just became.

  We have the same mouth, though. I can see even from half of it what her whole smile might look like.

  My moms are dressed like my moms. Mom looks so pretty. Her hair is all black then and cut blunt, straight as a razor blade slashed across her chin. She has the loveliest hair, shiny and straight. Not like mine. I only look like me, though no one would ever notice it. I move my hands like they do now. I smile when they smile. We laugh at a lot of the same things.

  But not everything. And I laugh totally different. I have never heard anyone with my laugh. Patrick, I say, tell me what I sound like.

  “You,” he says.

  “Well, I want to sound like someone,” I say, and he doesn’t get it.

  Where do I get these eyes, then? Gray blue. I think they look empty. Moms have dark eyes, both of them.

  So I have the rough quilt and the dollhouse, but sometimes I think the only thing I got from her really was that mouth, these features. The me of me but not the I.