So she told Ivy everything. She told her about her joyful, short-lived stint as an art major; about her sudden redirection; about her utter failure to rebel in any way, ever. She explained how her growing dissatisfaction with her job had built up inside her over the years, secretly, shamefully, until it all came to the surface in the form of resentment and blame as soon as her father died.
“I mean, who blames their father for something like that? It’s awful. I should have just taken charge of my own happiness.” Mary Ellen blinked furiously at the ceiling. “I don’t know why I’ve had this constant, obsessive need to put it all on him.” She covered her eyes with her hand, the pain in her leg all mixed up with the pain in her heart. “God, I’m just the worst,” she moaned.
“No you’re not.”
“I am, though.”
“Everybody does that shit to themselves. I do it.” Ivy folded a throw pillow in half and shoved it under her cheek. “I hate my ma for being sick. Okay? I am literally the worst.”
Mary Ellen tilted her head to the side. “She’s really sick?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sure you don’t hate—”
“Yes. That’s how I am. She feels awful and that makes me feel awful and that makes me mad. I know I’m going to be stuck at home taking care of her and my gran for the rest of my life, and that pisses me off worse than anything. For a long time, I hated myself for being that way, but now I just accept it. It’s who I am: a shitty person. A shitty person who does shitty shit.” Ivy sat up abruptly, grabbed their cereal bowls, and went to the kitchen. Mary Ellen heard the clatter of dishes being tossed in the sink, and it occurred to her that this was the first time she’d ever seen Ivy pick something up and put it away.
“Ivy,” she called toward the kitchen, “you’re not a shitty person. It’s normal to feel angry at people you love. It’s just the feelings you have… It’s not who you are.”
“Says you.” Ivy flopped back down on the sofa.
“Yes.” Mary Ellen felt confused. “Well, I told you I was going to start letting go of things. I’m trying.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“What happened to your dad? How did you kill him?”
“Oh. Lord, it wasn’t like that. It’s just…” Mary Ellen shifted her position on the sofa ever so slightly, which caused a jolt of pain to travel up her spine. She gasped and tried to focus her mind on the story, which was helpful in terms of taking her away from the situation at hand. “I started avoiding going out there. I kept coming up with excuses, because there was all this stuff building up inside me, and seeing my father just… I don’t know. It threatened to bring it out. Stuff I didn’t want to deal with.” An aftershock of pain made her wince.
“So how did he die?”
“In the bathtub,” Mary Ellen whispered. “He’d gotten so weak. I didn’t realize it; he never wanted to admit how frail he was. But he couldn’t… He couldn’t…” She pressed a hand over her eyes. “Oh!”
Ivy was quiet. Mary Ellen took some deep breaths, trying to get herself under control, but it was too much, she was too worn out, she was in too much pain. The image of her father, naked, alone, trembling, dying, was more than she could bear. And now—now! Her punishment!
“He couldn’t get himself out?”
Mary Ellen nodded. “The neighbor called the police, when the newspapers started piling up. He died of hypothermia.”
“That sucks,” Ivy said.
“Yeah.” Mary Ellen took a long, shaky breath. “It does.”
“But I mean, it’s not like you did it to him. It was an accident.”
“I should’ve checked in on him. I should’ve realized he was too weak to live on his own. I should’ve called.”
“Well.” Ivy twisted her fingers around themselves. “I guess we have something in common, huh.”
“Yeah.” Mary Ellen extended an arm toward Ivy, pointing a finger at her. “It doesn’t mean we don’t love them.” She let her hand fall to the floor beside the sofa. She felt so tired. “I wasn’t very good at taking care of him, but I never stopped loving him.” She closed her eyes.
“I’m no hero, you know,” Ivy said, sounding far away. “I get scared.”
“We all do,” Mary Ellen murmured, swiftly dropping off to sleep.
• • •
Mary Ellen felt herself melting into the earth like a dead leaf under the snow. Would Matt be able to see her, she wondered, if he came now? Or would he pull back the blanket to find her turned wet and black, smelling like rain, old lettuce, and ripening snowdrops, a few veins still visible, the rest sinking swiftly into her bed of soil? Matt. She pulled him close, tucking her nose under the nape of his neck, drawing her knees into the backs of his knees, slipping her ankle into the hollow just above his heel. There he was, solid and real, her companion under the snow, ready to fetch some water if she asked, ready to bring the shaky glass to her lips. Just as he’d wiped applesauce from the girls’ reddened cheeks, always able to find that last dry spot on the bib, he would dab at Mary Ellen’s thin skin too someday, and she would stir honey into his tea. He liked it that way.
The ice was still flowing. She could see its molten, sensual progress over the stones, and she gave herself to it. She flowed toward the bend in the creek, and it was so smooth and gradual and soft that she thought, What a lovely way to travel, and wondered why she didn’t do this more often.
• • •
When she awoke, the world was gone. The only thing that existed was the pain, like a black hole sucking everything into its insatiable depths. Mary Ellen realized she’d been moaning for a while; now, she began
