Elvis Takes a Back Seat

by Leanna Ellis

  Alone I carried the burden for nursing first Mother, then Stu. I’ve always been grateful I could help them, love them, care for them. But I also know this terrible fact about myself now: I don’t want to take care of anyone else. It sounds selfish, but I can’t help the way I feel. I’m tired. Exhausted from loving, from losing too much.

  I wonder what Ben will do about Ivy’s predicament. I don’t know how he feels about abortion, if that will be an option, although it makes my stomach tighten into a hard knot. Will Ivy even want to have the baby? Will she raise it? Give it up for adoption?

  Ivy’s situation makes it easier for me to understand the predicament my mother was in. And Rae. I ache for all of them. I want to reach out to Ivy, but I’m not sure she will accept my compassion. I don’t know what to do or say anyway. A part of me, a part I’m once again ashamed of, wants to turn and walk away.

  Seeing the bag with the glasses I purchased on the pew, I carry them over to Ben. He stares at them. “I thought you could use these.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “You need reading glasses. And these, well, I thought they’d remind you of Stu.”

  “They do that.” He laughs but then puts them on. I admit he looks ridiculous. But when he looks down at the Bible, he says, “Hey, I can read the words now.”

  “Good.” I pat his shoulder.

  The door where Myrtle disappeared earlier opens. Rae’s fingers pause, resting on the piano keys. Guy looks over his shoulder. Only Ben speaks as he takes off the Elvis spectacles. “Well? Can I see my daughter?”

  Myrtle nods.

  I move over to Rae and tap her shoulder. “Maybe we should leave. Let this be a private family matter.”

  She stands with me, closing the piano as I give Ben a hug. “It’ll be all right,” I whisper in his ear. “It will.”

  “Ivy wants you two to stay,” Myrtle says.

  “But …” Ben hesitates. I sense he wants to be alone with his daughter.

  Myrtle’s eyes deepen with sympathy. “It was her request.”

  Ben motions for us to all sit down again. I move a few feet from Ben and settle back onto the pew. I don’t want to be intrusive. Rae sits back on the piano bench.

  “Okay,” Myrtle says, opening the door again. “Come on, it’s okay.”

  Ivy walks through the door, wearing the same thing she wore yesterday when I last saw her. She looks tired, her face mottled red and streaked with black mascara. My gaze automatically moves to her abdomen, where she has her hands clenched tight, but I can’t detect any roundness or slight baby bulge. A part of me hopes she’s mistaken, but remembering our constant stops on the drive to Memphis, I know she’s not.

  Ben walks toward her, his motions stiff and awkward. He holds out his arms to her. Then he waits, lets her make the next move. She glances at Myrtle, who gives a slight nod, then back to her father. Her eyes fill with tears that spill over to her cheeks.

  “Oh, baby,” Ben says, his voice hoarse.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m so sorry.”

  He enfolds her in a tight embrace, rocking her from side to side as I’ve seen him do since she was a baby. But now he can lay his cheek on the top of her head. He shushes her.

  “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. I don’t want you worrying about anything. Anything at all.”

  * * *

  EVENTUALLY BEN LEADS Ivy to a pew and settles her under the shelter of his arm. Rae stays at the piano, with Guy leaning on the upright. I sit next to Myrtle on the steps leading to the altar.

  “Was it Heath?” Ben asks.

  “Dad!” Her tone is that of a normal hormonal teenager.

  I notice Ben’s hands clench and every muscle tenses.

  “Now Ivy,” Myrtle says, interrupting, “your father is going to have questions. That’s natural.”

  Ben gives her a nod of thanks, but his jaw flexes in an effort to withhold his riotous emotions.

  “But maybe we could focus on a neutral topic,” Myrtle suggests. “For now.”

  “Like the weather?” Ben asks. He peers down at his daughter, his brows pinched together. “Does he know?”

  Ivy looks down at her hands. “Yes.”

  “And what did he say?”

  She shrugs. “He … he said it was my fault. That I was stupid.”

  “We’ll just see about that.”

  Ivy places a hand on her father’s leg. “Dad. Please don’t. Just let him go.”

  “She doesn’t want anything to do with the baby’s father,” Myrtle says.

  “Well, what are you going to do? Deal with this alone?” Ben asks, frustration sharpening his tone.

  Ivy hides her face in her hands and starts crying. Ben’s anger melts. He glances at me, looking helpless.

  “Ivy,” I say, “you’re not alone. We’re here to help you. And—” the words catch in my throat. I can’t say what Ben said, that God’s right there helping. I can’t. “You know,” I add, “there are lots of options. But nothing has to be decided today.”

  Ivy snuffles. Rae brings her a tissue, but the girl keeps her face averted.

  “Ivy,” I say, “we just want you to know we’re here for you. We care about you. And we’ll be with you through this.”

  Each of the adults surrounding Ivy murmurs agreement. Then the room grows silent, except for Elvis singing “I Believe.”

  “Rae had a baby out of wedlock,” Ben says.

  Ivy looks up then, stares at Rae, as the rest of us do.

  “It’s a bit old-fashioned to say it that way.” She shrugs. “But it’s true.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ben says, “I shouldn’t have—”

  She waves her hand to stop his apology, her charm bracelet jangling. It’s then I notice one of the charms laying flat against her wrist. The silver sparkles. It’s in the shape of a baby’s bootie. “It’s all right. It’s the truth.”

  “How old were you?” Ivy asks, curious yet wary.

  “Nineteen.”

  “Oh.”

  “But this was forty years ago. So I was very naive. And times were different. It’s more accepted now. It wasn’t then.”

  “What did you do?” Ivy asks.

  “I had the baby. I had no choice there. Then I gave it to someone else to raise, someone who had a home, who was ready for a baby, who needed a baby. I never had that need. Although sometimes in the years since I’ve had a longing. But need … is different. I was too young, too stupid to raise a baby. I would not have been a very good mother.”

  “How could you do that?” Ivy glares at Rae. “Just walk away!”

  I hold my breath, expect Rae to put the girl in her place. I sense Ivy’s anger should be directed at her own mother. But Rae is the closest target.

  “It wasn’t easy. But I couldn’t imagine myself as a mother,” Rae says. “I knew my limitations better than anyone. And I had to think of what was best for the baby.”

  Ivy wraps her arms across her stomach.

  My heart contracts, thinking of two girls, pregnant, trying to make the right decision. And so young to make such a grown-up one.

  “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” Rae says, her voice cracking, her gaze sliding toward me.

  Ben gives a small shake of his head, as if he’s still coming to grips with the news. I suspect he hopes for adoption, for Ivy to give up her baby. But I give him credit for not having asked that of her yet.

  In my bones I feel Rae’s loss, as I lost a baby of my own but not of my own accord. At least her baby had a life to live. But I know the agony, the emptiness that never goes away.

  “My mother thought like you,” Ivy says, her tone bitter. “She didn’t want to be a mom.”

  Ben leans away from his daughter to look at her face. “You don’t know that.”

  “She left, didn’t she?” Ivy’s tone is jagged with anger.

  “There’s a difference,” Rae says, “in not wanting to be a mom and in not feeling capable.”

  “I’m not
going to abandon my baby!” She covers her belly with her hands. “I’m not! Ever.” She glares at Rae. “No matter what any of you say.”

  * * *

  “IT’S TIME TO GO,” Ben says. “We’re all tired and we need some rest.”

  My heart feels heavy as I look at Ben’s defeated expression. He’s wise not to respond immediately to his daughter’s challenge.

  Myrtle and Guy seem pleased with the results of the reunion. Guy retrieves Ivy’s backpack and suitcase from the back room and hands them over to Ben. Myrtle gives everyone hugs.

  “Thank you,” I say, with her arms wrapped around me. “Your kindness will not be forgotten.”

  “You help them, okay?” Her gaze pierces me.

  Even though some part of me flinches and I want to withdraw, how can I not help? I love them both. Yet how can I promise such a thing? What will it demand of me? Will

  I even have anything to give them?

  “You have much to give,” she says, then hugs me again.

  Then Myrtle moves on to Rae, saying to her, “You have wisdom to share. Hard earned. Share it now, you hear?”

  Finally Myrtle enfolds Ivy in her arms, whispers maternal things in her ear. The girl crumples into her, tears staining the thin white material on the older woman’s shoulder. “You’re gonna be just fine. Just fine. You keep in touch with us, all right?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Myrtle laughs and hugs Ivy close again. “I like a girl with manners.”

  Turning to Ben, she opens her arms. “All right, Daddy-o.”

  Surprising to me, Ben almost falls into her arms, hugging her close. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you for giving my baby back to me.”

  She pats his shoulder. “Oh, fiddle. We do like happy endings. Everything is going to be all right. You just keep remembering that.”

  He nods, his throat working up and down.

  The silence on the way back to the hotel throbs. How can I argue with Ivy’s sense of rightness, the desire to do the opposite of her own mother? I felt that in my early years. My mother acted stiff and undemonstrative, self-righteous. I yearned for more. Did I choose Stu, a very physical male who liked to touch and hold, to help me be the opposite of my mother? Or was it something I yearned for deep inside? Was I looking for some kind of fulfillment? Did I depend on Stu the way Ben leans on God? The way Stu held to his beliefs no matter what?

  Piled into the Cadillac, I’m halfway back to the hotel when I realize I forgot to ask Guy or Myrtle about the shrine to Elvis and if it’s missing a bust. I flip off the stereo as I’ve had all I can stand of the King. The thrum of the engine sounds like a lion purring.

  I park at the back of the hotel. I grit my teeth at the sound of Elvis singing some rockabilly song that surrounds the hotel. It’s another reminder of what I haven’t yet accomplished with the bust.

  Together we troop upstairs. None of us slept the night before, and the strain and fatigue show in our faces. I wonder how families survive when a child disappears for years or is never found. For the first time in a long while I have something to thank God for, and I offer a silent, hesitant prayer of gratitude.

  Since none of us is hungry, and Myrtle fed Ivy earlier, we separate to our own rooms, our own thoughts. Ivy closes her door first. Ben settles on the sofa with a pillow and blanket I found in a closet. With his head and feet sticking off the ends of the sofa, he looks like one of those pigs in a blanket my mother used to fix on Sunday mornings before church.

  “Maybe you should sleep in my bed,” I suggest, then realize how that sounds. “I’ll sleep here.”

  “No way. I’m not going to put you out any more than I already have. I’ll get a room tomorrow.”

  I pat his shoulder. “You’ll stay here with us.”

  “Thanks,” he whispers.

  Tears fill my eyes and I swallow hard, then sniff, “It’s going to be okay.”

  “I know. Although it doesn’t feel that way now.” He leans back into his pillow and closes his eyes.

  I don’t understand his unwavering faith. Stu had the same, but it didn’t work out for him. It wasn’t all right.

  Ivy’s door opens then. Ben practically leaps off the couch. “What is it? Are you okay?”

  She stands in the middle of the sitting room, her hands on her hips. “Where is my mother? I want to see her. I don’t care what she wants. I need to see her, to talk to her.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Love Me Tender

  Ben steps toward his daughter. “Come here.” His voice is gruff but tender. He takes her into the sitting area. “I should have told you a long time ago.”

  Ivy stares up at him, a mixture of defiance and aching need. She crosses her arms over her chest. “So, where is she? If she wants—”

  “We’ll just …” I back away, knowing this needs to be between father and daughter. But the nearest bedroom is Rae’s, so I take her arm and move in that direction.

  “Stay,” Ben says.

  “Tell me where my mother is! Do you even know? Do you care?”

  “She’s dead, Ivy.” Ben pauses but holds his daughter’s shocked glare. “She—”

  “You’re lying!” Ivy’s outburst shatters the room.

  Rae squeezes my arm.

  Ben looks stunned, hurt, as if she slapped him. “No, Ivy. I’m not. Your mother died the year after she left us.”

  “I don’t believe you! It’s not true.”

  “That’s your choice.”

  “But …” Tears choke Ivy’s words. She looks at Rae and me then back to her father. “How? Why?”

  “I don’t know why, Ivy. I wish to God I did.”

  Ivy’s shoulders begin to shake. Her whole body trembles. I know that feeling so well. I reach out to her but stop when she says, “How? How did she die?”

  Ben looks away.

  “You can tell me. I’m not a baby.”

  He nods, his mouth a pencil-thin line. “I know. It’s …” He looks down at the floor, his face reddening, tightening with emotion, then back at his daughter. “She killed herself, baby. I don’t know why. But she did.”

  Ivy starts to back away, bumps into the corner of the wall, then wheels around and stumbles toward her room. The door slams shut. Through the thin hotel walls I can hear her choking sobs.

  Ben sits down hard on the coffee table. I go to him, put a hand on his shoulder. His cotton shirt is damp with sweat.

  “You did the right thing,” Rae says. “She’ll mourn, but she will heal.”

  “Did I?” Ben looks up at me, his eyes rimmed red, the green irises darkened with unshed tears.

  “Yes,” I say. “Let me go to her. Okay?”

  He nods, unable to speak. I embrace him, putting my arms around his shoulders. In spite of the painful moments, he feels sturdy and strong.

  * * *

  “IVY?” I KNOCK on her door. “I’m coming in, okay?” I can hear muffled weeping, and I open the door and enter the darkness of her room.

  She’s sprawled across the bed as if she simply collapsed there. She clutches a pillow to her, has buried her face in it. Her whole body jerks and shakes with sobs.

  I put a hand on her back as I sit next to her. I can feel her trembling. Slowly I smooth my hand along her black hair, down her back, over and over, the action comforting me probably more than her. Her snuffling, congested sounds fill the room. Her grief consumes her, penetrates the defenses I’ve built. Suddenly I taste my own tears. I cry for Ivy, for her pain, her loss of never knowing her mother, and for Gwen who will never know the beauty of her own daughter.

  I’m not sure how long I sit there beside Ivy, but eventually there’s a shift in the grief tide. She reaches out a hand to me. Then suddenly this young woman is in my arms and I’m holding her, rocking her, feeling her tears and grief pour out. I mutter useless, senseless words, knowing nothing can ease her pain. The tears will bring acceptance and eventually healing. Or so I hope. Over the past year I’ve grieved not only Stu but a
lso our dreams. Ivy is now grieving her little girl dreams, dreams so basic—the need for a mother. Her cries claw at the wounds in my own heart.

  When she finally collapses back onto the bed, I hand her tissues as I blow my own nose. There’s a washrag on the bedside table, probably the one I brought her when her stomach was upset, and I use it now to wipe the tears off her face.

  Suddenly she sits up, stares wide-eyed. “I’m gonna barf!”

  “Okay.” I grab a trash can and hold it with one hand in front of her as she heaves up her grief. With my other hand I pull back her hair. “It’s okay. Don’t worry. You’re okay.”

  When she slumps back onto the bed, I set the trash can near the door, my nose pinched from the rancid odor. “I’ll get you some water and be right back.”

  Out in the hallway, the lights are off but suddenly Ben is there. “Is she—”

  “She’s fine. I’ll stay with her tonight. In case she needs anything.”

  “Did she … ?” He looks at the trash can.

  “It’s okay, Ben. She’ll be okay.” I empty the trash can into the toilet. Then I gather more tissues, a glass of water, a wet washrag.

  Back in Ivy’s room, she sips a little water then falls back on the bed, exhausted and spent. I bathe her face and neck. She whimpers some, tears seeping from her closed eyes. But eventually even that stops and she sleeps. Folding back a corner of the comforter, I cover her. Then I move Ivy’s iPod and backpack out of the armchair beside the bed and curl myself into it.

  It’s lumpy and too small, but exhaustion eventually overwhelms me and I sleep, waking periodically through the night to check on Ivy.

  * * *

  THE DREAM COMES in waves, like the foamy surf creeping onto a sandy beach, filling my subconscious from I don’t know where. I wonder if dreams are a figment of our imaginations or if those who’ve died before us visit us through dreams.

  My mother sweeps into mine. She wears a swirly blue dress that ripples about her like sea grasses rolling with the gentle sway of the ocean. We simply look at each other as underwater divers might through masks. When she begins to fade, drifting off, slowly, slowly, slowly, I feel my insides rocking like the wake of a boat. It’s then I realize she carries a baby with her, curled against her shoulder. Is it mine? Or hers?