Chapter 4
Ivy knew she had had too much to drink, but she hadn’t cared until after she hung up the phone and thought about the conversation with her father. Surely, he knew she had a good reason for getting smashed? She was not a candidate for rehab. Was this the reason for his early-morning visit tomorrow? Was he going to stage some sort of intervention? She hoped not, because she didn’t really have an issue with alcohol. It just numbed her for a while, allowed her to block out memories of the tragedy she had suffered, and, most of all, allowed her to sleep. Or pass out. Either way, it worked for her.
She eyed the clock beside the bed. Eight o’clock was much too early to call it a night, so she reached for the remote and turned the TV to a news station. She listened for a few minutes, then switched over to a travel channel. She was a few minutes into a program when a commercial for Macintosh Air splashed across the screen. She turned the TV off, tossing the remote to the floor. Would the nightmare never end? Would she be reminded every single minute of every single day of what had happened eight years ago? Yes, she thought as she rolled over to the edge of the bed. This was her life, and unless she decided to end it, which she was too cowardly to do, she had better accept it. She wanted to move on, knew she should, but could not. Or maybe the truth was that she would not. For if she did, what would that say about her? As a wife? As a mother? She could not even begin to imagine where to start, even had she wanted to. There was absolutely nothing that could draw her away from the life she had made for herself. It might not be for most, but so far, it had worked for her, and she did not see herself changing anytime in the near future.
The future, her future, terrified her. Deep down, a part of her knew she could not go on this way forever, but where to start? How? When her thoughts turned to the slightest possibility of a real future, her mind would shut down. This was a betrayal in every way, she tried to rationalize with herself. It was not fair to her children or John. Then the nagging voice of reality would edge its way in: They’re dead, and she had best move on.
She sat up in bed and looked, really looked, at her surroundings. Closed draperies, chest and night tables layered with a thick film of dust, clothes tossed on the floor. She could not remember the last time she had actually changed the linens. A month ago? Or dusted the furniture or vacuumed the floors? This neglect of basic cleanliness seemed to have a sobering effect on her the way nothing else had. Without overthinking the situation, she immediately got out of bed.
She removed the sheets and tossed them in a ball on the floor. Inside her closet, she grabbed a laundry basket, filled it with the clothes strewn about the floor, then added the sheets on top.
In the laundry room, she filled the machine with hot water, detergent, and bleach, and placed the dingy sheets inside. She sorted the rest of her laundry in small piles according to color. Darks, lights, and whites. When she finished, she went to the kitchen and removed garbage bags, a can of furniture polish, and a bottle of window cleaner from under the kitchen sink. Before she could even begin to question her sudden urge to clean, she made fast work of dusting her entire bedroom. When she had finished, the dresser sparkled and smelled of lemons, and the night tables glistened.
She opened the heavy drapes, then pulled the sheer drapes aside. She shook her head. Grabbing a wad of paper towels, she wiped several dead insects from the windowsill. Unlocking the window, she yanked hard before she was able to slide the window up. The screen was covered with dirt and bugs. She took a deep breath, wanting to close the window, but decided to leave it open. The evening air was cool and refreshing, with a slight pine scent in the air. She had no intention of washing windows, but she knew at some point that they’d have to be cleaned. Until then, she did what she could. She sprayed window cleaner on the sill and wiped away the dirt. Next she vacuumed the carpet, then added the attachment used for cleaning fabric. She ran it up and down the length of the draperies until the dust was no longer visible to the human eye.
She sniffed the room and was satisfied with her work. She looked at the clock. It was half past ten. By now, she was usually seated in front of the television, with her drink of choice next to her, but tonight she just could not. She reasoned with herself that she had to get her act together for her father’s visit in the morning. Then again, that little nagging voice of reason reminded her that her father was not going to look in her bedroom. She would be lucky if he stayed long enough to sit down. Though he had been to her house numerous times in the eight years since the accident, she had never felt the urge to clean. She kept the downstairs area presentable, but knew that if one looked closely, they’d see the dust and dirt accumulating in the corners and throughout. She always kept the drapes closed, but she knew where the dirt was. Before she changed her mind, she ran upstairs for the vacuum and the dusting polish. Two hours later, the living room shone like a star, the floors were free from dust, and she had even vacuumed those drapes as well. She polished the kitchen cabinets, removed some unknown gunk from inside the refrigerator, then scrubbed it clean. She scrubbed the countertops until there was not a single crumb to be found. She put the sheets in the dryer, then did a load of whites, pouring too much bleach on the clothes, but she did not care. She needed clean right now. Clothes and all.
An hour later, when the buzzing of the dryer sounded, she almost jumped out of her skin. The house was always so quiet, minus the low voices on the downstairs television, that she could not remember the last time she had actually heard the dryer’s alarm go off. Normally, she would toss in what few items she actually washed in the machine at night; then she would put them in the dryer before leaving for her morning hike. She was never inside when the buzzing sounded.
“Damn it!” she said out loud. Tears sprang up in her eyes, and she plopped down on the sofa, tired from cleaning. She was . . . She did not know what she was. Lonely? Angry? Sad?
All of the above, that nagging voice of reason reminded her. She needed a drink, but something prevented her from pouring one. Her father would be here in a few hours. She needed to be in her right mind when he arrived, as she did not want to give him more reason than she had already for thinking she was out of her mind. Being drunk now was not going to help her situation one little bit. Later, maybe, but not now.
Before she changed her mind, she forced herself upstairs and took a shower in the master bath. While it had not been totally off-limits, she could not remember the last time she had actually showered in here. Mostly, it was used for late-night visits when she was too tired or too drunk to go to the downstairs guest bathroom.
Fifteen minutes after showering, Ivy had remade the bed with the freshly washed and dried sheets; then she crawled into bed, exhausted. She fell into a deep sleep and dreamed of a little girl who cried every time she heard music playing.