37. Three A.M.

Ivy woke out of a dream in the middle of the night. She didn’t know if it’d been good or bad, only that it left her alert. She looked at her clock. Three a.m.

She wondered what her mother was doing. She imagined her in the orange jumpsuit she’d been wearing when Ivy saw her last week. Mrs. Marsden had picked her up and taken her to the jail. They went through security and a guard led them to a visiting room. Mrs. Marsden patted Ivy’s shoulder when her mom came out, then went and sat by the door. Ivy and her mom perched across from each other in low padded chairs that were built to look comfortable, but weren’t.

I thought you’d go back with the Everses, her mom had said.

Ivy didn’t feel like explaining about that. They put me with Beryl.

You like her? This Beryl?

Yes.

Heavy doors clanged; the guards stood watchful. There was a chemical smell. Some cleanser, probably. Her mom sat quietly, looking at Ivy.

The food’s not too bad, she said after a while.

That’s good.

Finally really quitting the cigarettes. Don’t have a choice, you can’t have ’em in here.

That’s good. That you’re quitting, I mean.

It’s hard to sleep at night. Noisy. I could do with a shot of something, but of course you can’t have that either. Ha.

I’m sorry.

Her mom shook her head. I don’t sleep at night anyway.

She’d smiled sadly, and then it was time to go.

It was strange, how her mom was in jail—for now, anyway—for hitting George, but had ended up coming home not all that long after shooting Ivy’s father. The two things were so different. Except that they both happened in the same kind of moment—one of her mom’s crazy angry moments.

Ivy imagined her mom sitting on the edge of a bunk, her head hanging down, her hands clasped together. She imagined her jiggling her leg and wishing for a cigarette. She imagined her getting into an argument. That’s what she did when she was mad, or scared, or bored, and it’d be boring in there, especially for her mom, who didn’t have hobbies like drawing or reading or weight lifting. Only now—how did Ivy know?—maybe she did.

Ivy reached out a finger to touch the clock’s greenly glowing face. She breathed in and out slowly. She told herself to think happy thoughts, or better yet, not to think at all.

Her mind refused to obey. It kept generating pictures: her mom picking up the gun; her mom holding baby Ivy nestled close, like Mom Evers held Daniel in the pictures Grammy had brought. Her mom looking at her pleadingly; her mom throwing her notebook across the diner. Her mom reaching into a popcorn bag and her mom plowing down George’s garbage cans. Her mom sitting on the edge of a bunk, lonely and frightened . . .

After an hour Ivy threw the sheet off and poked her feet into the slippers Beryl had given her. The mailman had brought them a few days ago. She shuffled across the room and down the stairs to the kitchen. She would fix herself a cup of tea. Beryl always said to make herself at home. For once, Ivy would.