What Happened to Ivy by Kathy Stinson Read Free Book Online Page A

always do – together in a way that doesn’t include me.
    I’d like to say to the neighbor from down the street, ‘Losing a sister is no picnic either.’ Instead I nod politely and say, “Excuse me. I need to get something to drink.”
    On the way to the kitchen, I pass Murray, the kid I babysit, sitting in the hall with a book about trucks across his lap. His mom, Tina, is in the kitchen, washing up a few dishes. “This is so sad, David. I’m so sorry.”
    “Thanks.”
    Tina takes her hands out of the sink and dries them on a towel crumpled on the counter. “Listen, David, I know you said before you went to the cottage that you could take care of Murray tomorrow afternoon while I paint our front door, but if you’d rather not, I certainly understand. The door can wait.”
    The whole scene here – the people, the formal clothes, the small talk, the fake food – feels totally unreal. “No, I’d like to. It’ll feel sort of, I don’t know…normal. You know?”
    Murray’s mom nods sympathetically, which is almost harder to take than people who don’t understand, so I head back to the dining room.
    I hoped Hannah would come over after the funeral, but I haven’t seen her. An old guy with a kind face is standing alone, looking at a display of photos that my parents must have thrown together sometime since we got home. For a sec I think it’s Will. But it’s not.
    Two gaudy bouquets flank the photo display. It includes stuff like Ivy grinning broadly on Santa’s knee and Dad holding Ivy up on Livingston’s back so she can ride him like a horse. Ivy gazing at bubbles I’m blowing for her in the backyard. There’s one of Ivy trying to blow out the seven candles on her birthday cake, too. I always ended up blowing out her candles for her, right up to her last birthday. She should have had more than eleven.
    Talking to the old guy might be better than standing around like a piece of furniture. But it doesn’t matter. He’s moving toward the front door now. He’s leaving. Good idea.
    I’m dying to yell through the crowded rooms, ‘Would you all just hurry up with your stinking little sandwiches and go home!’ and see everyone scramble for the door like ants when someone disturbs their hill.
    But no. The torture continues.
    “I hear your Lucas is off to university in the fall.”
    “I wonder if Anne will go back to work now.”
    “It must be reassuring to know their little girl is at peace.”
    That ‘peace’ idea again. As if anyone can know that dead people are at peace. Maybe dead people are just that. Dead. And maybe there’s no right thing for people to say when someone dies, just a hundred wrong things.
    A woman I don’t know, someone Dad works with maybe, walks up to me and smiles. “Really, it must be a relief , in a way.”
    Make that a hundred and one. I hate the woman’s too-bright lipstick and the smudges of make-up on the side of her neck.
    And I hate that she is right.
    “We loved her,” I say. “And you’ve got something green stuck in your teeth.”
    Across the crowded room, someone laughs. I have to get out of here. When I turn, I see Hannah over by the stairs to the side door. She’s changed out of her funeral clothes into a light shirt and pants. Her mom says something to her and Hannah nods. When her mom leaves her, Hannah looks right at me. Her eyes are blue and sad and beautiful and I have to be with her.
    I tip my head toward the hall. We slip through clots of people and disappear into Ivy’s room.

Chapter 16
    Ivy’s pajamas are still hanging over the dropped railing of her crib. Her pink blanket lies in a heap where it landed the last time someone got her up, before we went to the cottage. As we stand there together, being with Ivy’s things, Hannah knows somehow not to say anything. It’s nice.
    The little nubs on Ivy’s blanket are soft under the tips of my fingers. With anyone else, I’d be embarrassed to lift it to my face, but for some reason with Hannah