And as for Agnes, she just made herself scarce, staying out most nights with her friends, sleeping at her boyfriend’s house. Ivy begged her to be careful, but she knew Agnes would end up pregnant any day now. She’d just let it happen, whoops, and that would be that—the next eighteen years of her life scripted out with the kind of certainty nobody wanted but everybody was always happy to accept.
They were stuck—all of them—and it was the kind of thing that just fed on itself. Ivy could see that plain as day, but she couldn’t make them see it, as hard as she tried, as loud as she yelled and pleaded and slammed around the house trying to wake everyone up. In the end, all she could do was swear she would never let it happen to her. Not then, not now. If she couldn’t get away in a car, she’d damn well grow wings.
Ivy lifted her head and stared at her pale reflection in the glass. She imagined herself geared up like the smoke jumpers she’d seen online, some of them women: helmet, pack, harness. The jumpsuits were thickly padded, with high, stand-up collars, making jumpers look bigger than they were. Ivy lifted her arms, making a strongman pose, baring her teeth. She knew how tough the training was supposed to be; she’d read about how few rookies made it through. But that was okay—she was ready to push herself to the limit and show everybody what she was made of. No one had ever asked that of her before. It was about time somebody did.
12
The 3:00 a.m. headache was distinctive. It was always accompanied by a dry mouth, a rumble of nausea, and wave after wave of self-castigation: This has to stop. You’re destroying your body. It’s not even fun anymore. You’re acting like an alcoholic.
Mary Ellen groaned and pulled a pillow into the crook of her body. The thoughts were coming faster now, pummeling her from the inside. You’re weak… You’re self-indulgent… You can’t have one glass of wine like a normal person. You really want to be more like Justine? Try a little self-control.
She tried to remember the details of her conversation with Rose, hoping she hadn’t said anything stupid. She remembered giving her a lot of advice about college. The girl probably didn’t have anyone to help her navigate that world; all the same, the information wasn’t much good if it came from someone slurring her words and reeking of gin.
Four counts in through the nose, four counts out through the mouth. Tomorrow she would make a fresh start. She needed to start taking pictures, any pictures. There was no point in pretending to be a serious artist if she wasn’t going to try producing some actual work. It was hard, yes, but she had to stop making excuses and just create something, anything. Tomorrow was a new day—a day when she would stop feeling sorry for herself and start acting like the person she wanted to be.
She could see a glow under the bedroom door; Rose had left the hall light on. Mary Ellen got up to turn it off, then noticed that the girl had left her bedroom door ajar. Was she scared of the dark? She acted tough, but Mary Ellen sensed a certain vulnerability under the surface. She peeked into the room, the way she’d always done when her girls were young, before they hung a DO NOT ENTER sign on their door. Rose turned her head sleepily toward the light and half opened her eyes.
“Sorry… I was going to turn off the light,” Mary Ellen whispered. “Unless you want me to leave it on?”
“Okay.”
Mary Ellen crept back into the hall, flicked off the light, and returned to her room. A few moments later, she heard Rose’s footsteps, and another click of the light switch. The glow of the hall light leaked, once again, under Mary Ellen’s door.
• • •
Mary Ellen began with a healthy breakfast, a couple of Numbitol, and lots of water. After eating, she lay down on one of the sofas for a while, letting the food settle, finishing one of Justine’s books on postmodernism. Then she unrolled her mat and ran through a few slow, easy yoga sequences, breathing deeply through her nose, trying to ease the pressure under her skull. The downward dog caused all of the blood to rush to her head, which was painful, so she moved quickly into the warrior pose, which always made her feel like a soldier on the side of a Greek vase. Arms as straight as spears, neck long, legs powerfully planted, she felt a surge of courageous resolve. Things were going to be okay. Today was going to be different.
Rose was still asleep, so Mary Ellen left a note telling her what was available for breakfast. She cleaned up her own breakfast dishes and wiped down the counters, scrubbing the sink and drying it with paper towels. Finally, she put on her coat, hat, boots, and gloves, only then realizing she had to go to the bathroom, requiring her to take it all back off. She spent a long time washing her hands, gazing into the mirror as if in a trance, enjoying the feeling of warm water on her cold fingers. Finally, after applying hand lotion and giving it some time to absorb, she put her coat back on, shouldered her camera, and headed out into the overcast chill.
Mary Ellen stood on the back deck for a few moments, staring into the splintery, sickly forest. She couldn’t imagine a less photogenic place. What did Justine love about it, besides
