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“Ivy, what’s wrong?”
Still wrangling to get out of the suit, I hold back the cry of frustration that overwhelms me, but he bats my hand away, tugging the suit off my shoulders. “I, um … I have to …. I have to hurry …” I ramble, tugging a pair of jeans and a bra from my shelves. From the hangers, I yank down a blouse, holding it to my chest as I finally split from the pressure. “She’s dying. She’s dying, and I’m going to be alone.” The tickle of a sob flutters in my chest, and I surrender to it.
Arms envelope me before I can stop him, as if I would, and I weep into his chest.
“I don’t know what to do.”
“You’re going to get dressed. And I’m going to drive you there tonight.”
It feels good to be given direction, so I do as he says, dressing quickly, all the while watching him slip on his white collar and tuck in his shirt. We race out the door to his car, and he drives us what feels like an eternity from my apartment to the nursing home, only ten minutes away.
The woman at the front desk recognizes me and ushers me along without signing in. The halls are quiet, and my whole body is shaking uncontrollably, noticeable when Damon takes my hand. We reach the far corridor, but Anita has tears in her eyes, shaking her head as she approaches.
“I’m sorry, baby. She’s gone.”
Body shuddering with a sob, I let her pull me in for a hug. “I need to see her. I need to.”
With a sniffle, she nods and releases me from her embrace.
“I’ll wait out here, Ivy.” Damon squeezes my hand and takes a seat on one of the chairs set in the hallway.
The room is quiet when I enter, my stomach twisting with anxiety, as she remains concealed behind the drawn curtain. I round the footboard and find her lying peacefully in bed, eyes closed as if asleep. Heart racing, I focus on her chest. Did it move? Did her hand twitch?
But I know my mind is so desperate at the moment, it has me seeing things that aren’t real. Things that’ll never be real again.
She’s gone. And I’m alone. And all I want right now is to hear her laughter again. I want to shake her awake and beg her to tell me the stories of skipping school to go to the movies. To tell me not to hate my mother for being so selfish and immature, as she always did. To beg me to forgive my father, because carrying the burden of grudges is too heavy for a woman wearing three-inch heels, as she always said.
I kneel down beside the bed and take her cold, wrinkled hand, wishing I had one more second, to tell her how sorry I am for being the pesky, petulant child she was forced to raise on her own.
But I already know what she’d say. The same thing she always said to me when I was growing up. She’d tell me the most wonderful things in life are blessings we don’t see coming.
I glance to the side, where her radio sits silent, and I flip it on toLes Feuilles Mortesby Juliette Gréco. With my head resting against her hand, the tears that slip down my temple dissolve into her skin below me.
“Are you okay?” Damon’s deep voice draws me out of my thoughts, to where he stands on the opposite side of her bed.
That’s when I notice the pictures plastered all over the wall, telling the story of her life, the many women she took in, the children she practically helped raise alongside her own. Her friends. And pictures of her, of course, back when she was a teenager, just having crossed the ocean to make a life here. Alone. No mother, father, grandmother. Nothing but self-determination and strong wit.
I am her granddaughter. Born of the same determination. And if she can survive alone, then so can I.
Offering a nod, I lean forward to kiss her hand, and more tears blur my view. “She never gave her last confession. I never gave her the chance.”
“Perfect contrition is a love of God above all other things, and as such will save her from damnation, Ivy. He knows her heart. Don’t worry.”
“That’s all she asked of me, and I failed her. I failed her because I was selfish. Because I—”
“You wanted to keep her a little longer. You loved her. There’s no need to be sorry for loving her that much.”
Sniffling, I wipe the tears from my eyes, unable to look at him. “For the funeral … will you … I mean … is it possible that you can …”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
I nod and lay my head against her shoulder, just as I did when I was a child and she would comfort me. Across from me, Damon kneels at the side of her bed and takes my hand.
“Saints of God, come to her aid.
Come to meet her, angels of the Lord.
Receive her soul, and present her to God the Most High.”
