Where the Ivy Hides

by Kimber S. Dawn

  For some reason, every time, and I haven't figured out why, but during every session, as the camera flash pulses in sync with the drugs in my veins as well as the bass spilling from the speakers, I always pretend it's Ryker behind the lens or canvas. I guess it's probably just more abandonment issues. I digress, I know.

  But it’s in rare moments like this that I find my heaven.

  And I think, when I die... this is where I want to end up.

  I’m well on my way to my norm on a rainy, fall night on the beach along the back of Delilah's house when he happens again. And just like every time he happens, my world alters.

  My wet clothes are glued to my body as I flop down onto the ground and lie flat on my back making sand angels. My short hair is wet with sand matted all in it, but I don’t give a fuck.

  It’s like it always is when the moon is right and Delilah has the white wine and coke flowing…nothing can touch me.

  Nothing but him.

  “No, no, no…play that one. Karen’s favorite.”

  The crowd around the camp fire gets loud with laughter and someone screams, “Pussy control? Her favorite song, is Pussy control, Ives.” Laughter echo’s the night again and if I cared enough to correct them and ask for Purple Rain, I’d probably forget.

  “Whatever,” I mutter, trying to remember my earlier inner dialogue before deciding to concentrate on the stars and constellations above, this time, trying to remember which constellation was mine and Ry’s. Did he have the...? Yeah, he had the little dipper tattooed across his left rib cage representing me, and I had the big dipper inked in the exact same place. But I don’t think the constellation I’m studying is either dipper…maybe I’m looking at Pegasus. Maybe. I forget that the seasons change what stars I’m looking at.

  And sadly, when he spoke to me the last time and said every time I missed him all I had to do was look up at night and see our stars…it was a lie. The stars change. Based on when you look and where you look from, they fucking change all the time. In all honesty, I’m probably looking at Cepheus, the most boring, non-relevant to me and Ryker, constellation.

  You know what? Fuck constellations.

  When I go to stand up, the ground under my feet tilts and I’m down on my hands and knees, laughing at the irony and crying for the same reason.

  I ask the sky the same thing every night, “Why won’t you just let me go? Just please, let the shit in my veins take me across that shifty line in the sand! Can't my heavy eyes rest and never wake? Please, God. Fucking, please. I'm too tired.”

  And in the next moment, I feel Ryker Killian’s strong arms surround me and I snuggle into his crisp button-up tailored dress shirt. I inhale and immediately, I’m fucking home.

  The world doesn’t cease to exist until his words register that shred me apart.

  “Can’t let ya go, baby girl. Can’t let it happen. Goddammit, why do ya have to be such a fuck up, and why are ya looking for me in the stars, Winter Ivy? Huh, love? Because, you’re fucked up. And this shit stops, right the fuck now. You want me to have you, fucking all of ya? Fine. I will.” His deep voice reverberates against my frail, cold body tucked against him.

  I feel like I’m floating. And as long as Ryker keeps me clutched to his chest, he can carry me wherever. I don’t care.

  “Please, don’t leave me, Ryker. I can’t live through it again, I won’t,” my words slur so bad, even I barely make them out.

  “Then like I said, baby girl, you want me to have you, I will. And I wouldn't be lettin' ya go.” His voice chokes out right before my consciousness does.

  When I wake, the pain I feel rivals any pain I’ve ever felt. Actually, I can’t ever remember hurting so fucking bad a day in my life. Box days included. Every muscle contracts to the point of agony, seizing my body. Every joint aches. My legs feel like ants are crawling and biting them underneath the skin, and my stomach cramps feel like hunger pain, but the thought of food sends bile splashing up the back of my throat.

  “Where the fu…” These are the only words I can muster before the excruciating pain of what I can only imagine to be another seizure racks its way through me.

  “Tsk, tsk, child. You can shut your mouth, young lady, and thank your lucky stars that self-important Irish prick of a boyfriend of yours got you to the most incompetent, yet in his defense, nearest hospital to where ever the hell you currently hail from. He said, San Destin? Really, Ivy?” Blythe’s tone is dripping with disgust and if I could think straight, or get fucking high enough to numb the pain, I’d tell her exactly where she can go and precisely how hard she can go fuck herself. But for now, as sober and in hell as I currently am, I’m forced to let it slide.

  Especially when Ryker’s voice cracks through the still silence of the room moments later.

  I hear a chair’s legs scuff linoleum at the same time I hear quiet accusations, and I’m unable to make out their words until a door slams and all I’m left with is the sound of Ryker’s exhausted sighs and apologies.

  “Sorry. I tried like hell to keep her from coming. I even threatened to pay for you to file for emancipation, but that just sent her into hysterics…and you know, Blythe and hysterics." He's quiet for a long while before he continues, "I’m glad to have you back amongst the living. Even if you are going to fucking hate the hell out of me for the next few weeks.”

  He won’t look at me. He’s either lying or hiding something when Ryker David Killian won’t look at me. But there isn’t a damn thing I can do or say about it because another round of convulsions has my teeth clenched so deep into my tongue, speaking, even days later will be a task.

  It’s only been seventy-two hours, but God, it feels like seventy-two days. The pain. The nausea. Those two are the reasons I won’t make it out of this rehab bullshit alive.

  And Ryker was right.

  I fucking detest him.

  Even though he’s done nothing but bend over backwards, bringing me food I can’t eat and flowers I can’t stand the smell of. He’s swathed me in new and freshly laundered down pillows and blankets.

  Yet still, I fucking detest him.

  I detest the smell of this hell. The cold showers that barely leak well water, the time spent here, even. I hate every minute that passes, and I remain within these four pale salmon walls. But more than anything, I hate the motherfucker responsible for me being here. HATE.

  And every day, I cut below the belt, saying the meanest most hurtful things possible, hoping to hand him half the agony he has bestowed upon me. But every fucking next day, there he is…again, with hope in his eyes and a smile right beside it.

  I hate him.

  The meds they keep shoving down my throat don’t help, if anything they lull me to sleep during their bullshit idea of ‘counseling’ and ‘therapy’. God, I swear, between the meds and therapy, it’s no wonder I barely weigh eighty-seven pounds.

  I can’t sleep. I damn sure can’t eat. Then again, I haven’t felt like I wasn’t sick for a lot longer than my shitty seventy-two-hour stent here.

  So when my counselor asks me, “How long has it been since you’ve looked in the mirror, really looked and seen the real you looking back?”

  My only answer is as brutal as it is truthful, “I’ve never…I can’t remember. Honestly. I can’t…”

  Mr. Dawson is pretty cool. If people in their thirties and forties who look like a cop and are employed as substance abuse counselors can be cool.

  “Honesty is all that I ask of you, Ivy. Now, I know days one and two are hard, can you tell me how you're doing on day three?”

  I sound as childish as a school grade kid when I speak, “Day three is as bad, if not worse than days one and two. And speaking of the third day, isn’t seventy-two hours the longest you can ‘legally’ keep me here?”

  His tone transforms from genuine to sarcasm…at least to me it does. “Do you know why you’re here?”

  Through clenched teeth I mutter, “Yes, because you’re keeping me here illegally and against my will. Th
at’s why, motherfucker.”

  After flipping through a chart on his desk, his voice barks across the table as he adjusts his rimless glasses and begins to list my history, “At the age of ten, you were brought in to the Sacred Heart in Pensacola for cutting so deep you nicked your femoral artery. You were treated, but left without the knowledge of the doctors and nurses treating you. At thirteen, you were dropped off at the ER sliding doors, in the middle of a hypovolemic shock seizure caused by your cutting habits. You were treated, and again, left against medical advice in the wee hours of the night.”

  He flips through more pages, “This type of occurrence is repeated twice more. Then, let’s see…” After looking through the file from front to back, he slides his glasses from his face and slowly sets them on top of the file before settling his serious eyes on mine.

  “I see two drug charges, methamphetamines at the age sixteen, cocaine at the age seventeen. And those are just the charges I can find here in Florida. Now, to your earlier statement about me keeping you here, ‘illegally’, Ivy, would you like to explain the three suicide attempts that are also listed on your patient chart?”

  I’m pissed that moments ago, I actually compared this shrink to a fucking human, a cool human, at that. I’m pissed that he’s blaming me for shit I really didn’t have any control over at the time. I’m also pissed because I don’t like how right he currently sounds and how wrong I do.

  To anyone else reading that rap sheet on his desk, yes, it looks bad. Okay, it looks really fucking bad. But to me, I remember those moments in my life. Every cut I remember. Every time the cops stopped me, warned me, and then later arrested me, I remember the need to make it go away, and by it I mean everything, hence the suicide attempt list.

  No, I am not a model citizen. But hell, come on, really? “Really, Mr. Dawson? How about the shit that happened before the hospitals and authorities started documenting? Is there a little summary at the top of my chart? One about the hell I lived through before my ten-year-old self accidently cut an area that surfaced an artery I didn’t even know existed?”

  His eyes sadden. “No, I’m sorry, there isn’t. But that’s why you and I are here. To find out what happened so we can get you back on the path of healing. Physically and emotionally. Would you like to try to fill in some of the holes in your patient chart with me today? I really think it’d help.”

  I glance at the clock and release a pent up breath, “Nope. Sure don’t. Look,” I nod towards the wall where the clock hangs. “My time’s all up for today, Mr. Dawson. Until tomorrow.”

  I have to move very slowly in order to keep from wincing from the pain as I rise from the chair and turn to exit.

  “Ivy…Cage? You were adopted by, was it your mother’s sister or your father’s?” His words root my feet to the floor.

  Without turning around, my head tips to the side before I clearly speak, “My Aunt Blythe adopted me. Blythe Cage. Ask her.”

  I don’t look up once from the taupe and white checkered floor tiles as I pass the people in the halls on my way back to patient room number 13.

  Chapter 4

  My heels nervously click against the hardwood floor of the church’s small auditorium as the second to last speaker drones on about her beloved, mythical five-year sobriety chip, and I’ve never been so certain I would pass out from anxiety before than I am in this moment.

  Until Ry’s hand settles on my knee before squeezing. “Easy, love. You got this.” My eyes meet his through my grown out bangs and everything else in the room goes still. “You got this.” His Irish lilt is a tad thicker than usual.

  Like water in a jar. I think that’s in a country song Reese made me listen to once, but there are really no other words to express the calmness that blankets me. I smile and mumble to him, never breaking eye contact, “I’ve got this.”

  And I do. It’s been one fucking hellish three months, but I made it out alive, and as of right now, I got this. The pride I feel thrumming through me is unparalleled to any high I’d rather feel. I don’t have five years like Debbie up on the stage does, but my ninety days makes me feel just as proud.

  Dr. Dawson and I’s love/hate relationship, and Ryker’s unshakable determination are the only two things I can attribute my little success to. I don’t know where I’d be without either of them, but mostly my Ry. I wish I could squelch my lingering reservations about him, but like Dr. Dawson explained, I have trust issues that run so much deeper, and the only fix for that is time.

  Of course my retort was that a line and a shot are much quicker fixes, but he didn’t find the irony in that joke very funny.

  The announcement of my name and applause pulls me from my thoughts, and immediately I feel Ryker’s hand at the small of my back.

  “Ya know, I’m proud of ya, love. Now, go knock ‘em dead, Las.” After he kisses my cheek, he places my hand in the crook of his arm before escorting me up the stairs and then stopping just out of sight on stage behind the curtain.

  Without thought, I turn the podium towards the right of the stage where Ryker stands and Dawson, Delilah, Reese, and Jaci all sit in the front row.

  I’m not speaking to Jaci or Delilah. And to be completely honest, I’m not really speaking to Dawson or Reese. Ryker’s eyes mine settle on before I speak.

  “Hi. I’m Ivy and I’m an addict. I ahh…well, I don’t really like to talk much about myself, so this is going to be short and sweet. Or short and to the quick, really. Okay, so I have this great guy, and he fixes me over and over. I think that’s his only mission in life, or the only one he’s taken on, and…” Shit, the agitation is almost so bad it makes me itch. If that makes any sense. “And ahh…a couple months back I fu…sorry, I messed up again, and like always he was there to save me. For two out of the last three months, I’ve hated him. Said things that…damn, oh…shi-, I mean, shoot, sorry.” I think it’s best I just walk from the stage right now. I wanted so badly to be able to get through this, not for me, but for Ryker. But as much as I want hi, to be proud of me, I think it’s time I leave. Now.

  And I try, but when I turn to leave, there he fucking is, saving me again. One hand at the small of my back and his other resting on my arm as if to tuck me to him, he leans in and whispers, “You have got this, love. Show them.”

  I clear my throat, grit my teeth and make myself stand a little taller, then begin again, “I said things no one should ever say to another person, much less someone that you mean the world to. I’m not here for me. What I’m trying to say, is I’m here for him. I owe him my life, and I’m going to fight like hell to make sure I pay that debt.” I look up at Ryker and dreaded tears pool in the corner of my eyes. “Thank you. You don’t…” We shake our heads in unison, saying ‘no’ to opposing reasons. Mine being a lack of words and his being this apology isn’t needed. But I whisper anyway, “Thank you.”

  Then I turn to the audience, out of respect for fucking Dawson, of course, and make it known, “I didn’t fully cuss in church. ‘Hell’ is in the bible, and I’m certain it’s been spoken its worth in here. Just wanted that clarified.” I raise my chip in the air and smile, looking right at Mr. Dawson. “Thanks for three months, Daws.”

  Settling back into life sober is hard. Settling back into it with Ryker, sober, is a lot easier than I thought it would be. Ryker's already rough around the edges, and now he rarely speaks, and even then most of the time he's so frustrated, his accent is too thick to understand what he's saying. We fight, but it's not his fault. No, it's because I'm a bitch and I feel safer when I'm pushing him away. If either of us had the emotional maturity to recognize and then initiate a productive conversation, we'd probably make it.

  But we don't. And all I see is the familiar beginnings of an old cycle. I just pray, I'm strong enough to resist the cycle’s catalyst and remain sober. I also question if resisting and not using, will be enough this time. Enough to make believe he'll stay when everyone else always leaves.

  I really want us to work out this time...I'm
too much of a realist though to lie to myself.

  Today is his sister’s wedding and the second weekend I've been out in the real world. The hopeful side of me wants to be good and really, really wants to keep Ryker happy and with me. But the realist in me acknowledges that while I may stay away from drugs, me having a drink again is probably in my near future. I never thought alcohol was one of my demons, I haven't had just a few drinks before and hit rock bottom. I know, it may sound like excuses to you, but I'm only fucking twenty-one. And a life without any substance to self-medicate, even though I'm already medicated, is not a fucking life for me, not one I want to live.

  Ryker walks through the old front door of his garage apartment with the last three boxes. "What room do these go in, love?" he asks.

  I watch as his tall frame invades the small space of the living room and wonder in awe how the hell I was the girl he decided to strap himself to. "In the bedroom, baby, I'll unpack it when we finish with these."

  He heads in the direction of one of the only two doors inside our apartment and sets the boxes down in our room.

  As I look around at all the boxes Delilah FedEx'd over yesterday, I'm surprised at how much shit I've accumulated as a druggie vagabond. I know eight dream catchers, three two foot bongs, and five autographed posters by various one hit wonders aren't considered important possessions to most people, but this shit is mine. And that means something.

  "Ivy," Ryker calls from twenty feet away in our bedroom as he's walking towards me with a pair of glass slippers hooked to his middle and pointer fingers. "Why in the hell do you have a pair of glass slippers?"

  After winking with a smirk, I never miss a beat answering, "To wear when I finally meet my prince charming, of course. How would he find me if I don't leave one behind?" I go back to unpacking my dream catchers.