House of Ivy & Sorrow

THIRTY





My phone keeps ringing—whether it’s Winn or Gwen or Kat I don’t care. I shut it off. When I can’t sleep, I stare at my ceiling. A long crack begins at the chandelier, and it slithers out toward the window, stopping short of the frame. It reminds me of a lifeline. My nana’s lifeline, almost out the window.

Stupid crack.

I burrow into the sheets, into the darkness that is at once comforting and full of sorrow. There’s a knock at my door, but I’ve sealed it shut with my sense of taste. I don’t need it anyway, since I’m not hungry. “Jo, it’s time for dinner,” my dad says softly.


I don’t answer.

His footsteps trail off, the creaking stairs signaling I’m alone again.

I can’t stop thinking about Mom, though I should be thinking about Nana and how to fix the mess that is my life. But I don’t know what to do. Listen to Nana, who lied and sacrificed herself? Find Levi, who, despite his knowledge and presumed goodwill, probably wants to use me? Or keep fumbling around trying to find answers on my own, which I prefer even though it’s probably reckless?

Nothing feels right anymore.

My pillows smell like Mom, I swear, even though her scent left the house long ago. Her soap was lavender, and it made me gag up until she died. Some memories are fuzzy, but that smell stands out against the haze. I remember the homemade lotion, purple like her pendant, and how her whole room would smell like lavender after she put it on. That scent still belongs to her, and each time I take it in it’s like she’s here. But she’s not.

She never will be.

And now Nana . . .

I curl into a ball, trying to get that smell out of my head. The smell of missed hugs and motherly advice. Of moments never shared and dreams once bright. It seems like it’s everywhere, so thick that it saturates my lungs and tastes bitter on my tongue.

“Carmina! Get down here right now!”

My eyes fly open.

A girlish laugh fills the air. It’s familiar, but I don’t dare believe it. I pinch my cheeks, trying to wake up from my crazy dreams. The stress has finally gotten to me—I’m officially insane.

“Carmina Lucille Hemlock, get your fanny on the ground this instant!”

I pull the covers off, recognizing that tone even if her voice has a younger sound to it. There, on my cracked ceiling, is a projector-like image. It’s lavender-colored, a bird’s-eye view of two women—Nana and Great-Grandma Geraldine. I know it, even at this distance, because of their voices. The other thing I immediately notice are the two scrawny legs perched on a broomstick. They wobble as a little girl tries to stay balanced in the air, and she laughs again.

It’s Mom.

I can’t breathe. This isn’t possible. I shake my head, but there it stays, the scene playing out before my eyes. Mom soars out from under the interstate bridge, and the fields are endless before her. I can feel her sense of freedom, of having the whole world at her fingertips.

As she flies and flies, I notice a small wisp of purple smoke. It trails all the way to me, to Mom’s glass pendant resting on my chest. I gasp when I touch it and the image disappears, like I put my hand over the projector light.

Luckily, I didn’t ruin whatever spell I triggered. I’m not sure how I got it to work, but I hope it gives me something—anything—before it wears off.

The scene changes. Mom is outside the ivy house with two young girls who look like Tessa and Prudence Craft, with their long, fair braids. They comb through the brush in a manner I quickly recognize as snake hunting. Prudence lets out a bloodcurdling scream, and Tessa laughs as Mom pulls a serpent from Pru’s ankle. At a second glance, I realize it’s plastic. Even I laugh at that. Prudence afraid of snakes? I have to use that information.

After watching a particularly homey Christmas, complete with chestnuts roasting on an open fire, I am pretty sure this is a store of Mom’s favorite moments. I’ve never heard of such a charm, but I want to kiss it. I don’t, because it might stop the reel of lavender memories.

The next is another familiar scene—a Halloween Ball, with witches packed into every corner of an old house. Mom is with the Crafts again, and they’re laughing as they consume enormous caramel apples covered in chocolate and nuts. Mom stops, her sight focusing on a girl sitting in the hallway with her head to her knees.

“I’ll be back in a second,” she says to the Crafts.

Mom sits next to the girl in the hall, who jumps. Her eyes are watery, and I’m guessing blue from their pale hue. Her hair is fair as well, and stick straight. “Who’re you?” she says to Mom in a timid, high voice.

“I’m Carmina Hemlock. What’s your name?”

The girl’s eyes go wide with what I think is recognition. “Anastacia Black. But everyone calls me Stacia.”

I freeze. Here she is: the girl I’ll never meet, but who clearly has everything to do with what has happened to us. And she’s Levi’s mother? But his hair is so dark, and his eyes are almost black like Nana’s.

“Do you like caramel apples?” Mom asks.

Stacia wipes away her remaining tears and nods.

Mom plucks a rose from a nearby vase and turns it into a big, juicy apple. She hands it to Stacia, who offers the smallest smile. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“That can’t be true.”

Stacia eyes the apple as if Mom gave her a purebred Persian kitten. “I’ve never had any friends.”

“I’ll be your friend.”

“You really shouldn’t.” Her eyes are the saddest I’ve ever seen in my life. They tug at me, as if they’ve witnessed more than any little girl should. In that moment, I understand why Mom never let go of Stacia Black.

Mom tilts her head. “Why not?”

Stacia takes in a deep breath, the kind that comes before one shares a secret, but then someone bangs on my door and the lavender images are gone. I shake the pendant frantically, as if that’ll reactivate the spell. Nothing happens.

Another knock.

“Go away!” Rubbing the pendant, I push back angry tears. I lost the only connection I’ve had to my mother in years. I want it back.

“Jo, please.” Though Kat’s voice is muffled through the heavy wood, I can tell she’s upset. “I know you’re hurting right now. I’ve tried to give you the space you need, but something happened. And I don’t think it was an accident.”

She’s not lying. When I let myself feel more than my own grief, there’s something in her that is nearly frantic. I force myself up and break the spell on the door. Kat’s face is tear streaked and tired. “What happened?”

Her lips quiver as she tries to keep it together. “Gwen’s house caught fire in the middle of the night, and she didn’t wake up.”

I should say something, but the words won’t come. All I can see is the picture Levi sent, his cruel words on the back.

I spy with my little eye . . .

I can’t ask if one of my best friends is dead.