Chapter 9 - The Rebuilding of Ivy
By late March, the chinook winds had melted the heavy snows, turning the foothills into a vibrant expanse of emerald grass and pale purple pasqueflowers.
I had stepped down from the grueling night shifts in the emergency department, accepting a position as the medical director of an urgent care clinic in Louisville. The hours were eight to four, Monday through Thursday. No more missing Christmas mornings. No more falling asleep at the bottom of the stairs. No more twelve-hour gaps where my daughter was left in the care of someone who saw her as an obstacle.
The foothill house had been completely cleansed.
With the help of Andi, Blair, and my parents, we had spent the entire month of January repainting every single wall. The cold, sterile grays and whites Marlene had insisted upon were replaced with warm terracottas, butter-yellows, and deep forest greens.
Natalie’s botany sketches were back on the walls. Her copper pots hung above the kitchen island.
And on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, Howard’s repaired glass hummingbird caught the afternoon sunlight, casting tiny prisms of cranberry-red light across the living room rug.
Beside it sat the kindergarten star Coral had saved from the trash.
Ivy flourished.
The change in her was not overnight—the trauma of being locked out of your own life takes time to unravel—but with weekly art therapy and weekends spent learning to ride Howard’s quarter horses in Longmont, the shadows beneath her hazel eyes began to disappear.
One sunny Saturday in April, we spent the afternoon in the backyard, building a raised cedar garden bed beneath the twin aspen trees Natalie had planted during her pregnancy.
Ivy was wearing dirt-smeared overalls, her brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, holding a packet of sunflower seeds.
"Dad?" she asked, patting the rich, black soil down with a small green spade.
"Yeah, star?"
"Do you ever think about Marlene?"
I paused, resting my hands on the handle of my shovel. "Sometimes. Mostly, I feel sad for her."
Ivy looked up, her forehead furrowing in genuine confusion. "Why sad? She was mean."
"Because she was so busy trying to look happy that she forgot how to actually be happy," I said, crouching down beside her in the warm dirt. "She had everything she needed right here. She had two great kids, a beautiful home, and a family that was ready to love her. But she threw it all away because she couldn't stand sharing the room with someone else's memories."
Ivy considered this for a long moment, turning a black sunflower seed over in her fingers. "Coral texted me yesterday from Texas."
"She did?"
"Yeah. She said her dad bought her a rescue dog. A border collie named Buster. She said Buster sleeps on her feet every night so she doesn't get cold." Ivy smiled, a soft, genuine smile that reached all the way to her eyes. "She asked if she could send me some dried bluebonnets to press into Mama’s botany book."
"What did you tell her?"
"I told her yes. Because Mama loved bluebonnets. And Coral didn't break the bird."
I reached out and gently smudged a spot of dirt from the tip of her nose. "You have your mother's heart, Ivy Jane."
May you like
"I have yours too, Dad," she said, leaning her head against my shoulder as we sat together in the dirt, the afternoon sun warming our backs.
***
