Page 2

Chapter Two

Ivy

“Stop fussing, Ivy. It’s fine.”

I roll my eyes and continue my task of fixing the corners of my grandfather’s hospital bed, a hand swiping beneath the mattress to smooth out the fold. If he isn’t allowed to come home then the least I can do is make sure he is comfortable.

“You would think they would know how to tuck in the corners properly at least. Nan was the head nurse here for, what? Thirty years? She’d be disappointed at the slipping standards if she saw them today,” I huff out, running my palm over the sheets again.

“Or, she would tell you to relax. Ivy ...” I lift my head, meeting Pops’ concerned gaze. The edges of the harsh blue, the same exact shade of my own, soften before I drop my gaze back on the perfectly tidy bed corner that I’d just undone only to re-do. “Will you sit down?”

I huff again, tucking in the last section of the hospital sheet before falling into the chair at his bedside.

“How was the bar the other day?” Pops asks.

“I don’t want to talk about the bar,” I grumble.

“Well, I do. Look at me.” I find his gaze again. “You heard what the doctor said. It’s time we think about the end now. I need round the clock care. I am not putting that on you. When we find a nurse, I will come home. For now, I am here.”

“ I could take care of you at home.” My voice barely registers louder than a whisper. Pops leans over to cover my hand with his .

“Ivy, you’re young. You’re smart, beautiful, and you have an entire life ahead of you. You should be out living your life. Not caring for an old man two wobbly steps away from death.”

I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes. “Don’t.”

William ‘Billy’ Booker was an American All-Star. From high-school football, to college, and on to the pros. Pops’ career had been what most would consider hall of fame worthy. Drafted out of college, he played for the Packers, the Chargers and, finally the Broncos over a fifteen-year career. He gave it all up when he and Marie Booker—the love of his life—had their son, Matthew.

My dad.

Nan used to tell me stories about the birth of my dad. He’d been their miracle baby, the one they were told would never happen. The way Nan would tell it, they had finally settled into the knowledge that the dogs would just have to do. So much so, that she hadn’t even realized that she was pregnant until she’d been four months along.

The miracle baby that had put an end to one of the most consistent and greatest careers in early American football.

Pops gave it all up in a heartbeat.

I’d never forget those stories, about how my dad had grown up with Pops at home and Nan working as a nurse at the hospital downtown. Nan had been a football wife for fifteen years. Once my dad had been born, she’d insisted on going back to work full time and Pops had been thrilled to stay home. A football in his hand since before he could walk, my dad was slated to be the next great American All-star.

Or so says Pops.

Pops coached his little league team. Been there to take him to his junior pro games, every weekend of the season, all over the east coast. Had sat in the bleachers yelling at the referee with all the other football parents through high school. Had done the same when dad had played for Harvard in college. Would have done the same when he’d gone pro.

Would have .

Matthew Booker died at the age of twenty-two as the rumored number one draft pick for the Boston Broncos, husband to my mom, Sara, and father to a growing toddler—me.

A few months after my third birthday, my parents were driving back from New York. Nan and Pops had given them a weekend away as an early Christmas present. My dad had been travelling for football, on the road for a string of away games before the break. Mom drove down to meet him but they decided to come home early. Dad hadn’t been home properly between games and classes for a few weeks by then. He wanted to come home and start his break early, with his daughter. So they’d left, ignoring the weather warnings, eager to get home to their baby girl. Eager to get home to me.

Snow had been falling for hours, covering the ground. The fog had been dense. From the way the truck driver had told it, no one should’ve been driving in that kind of weather.

I still wonder if he meant himself, too.

Mom and dad never made it home.

“I want to see you living, Ivy. Really living. Not taking care of me, or planning lessons for four-year-olds, or spending your weekends talking to old geezers like you do at the bar.” I tighten my fingers around his.

“I am living.” It’s a weak defense at best. I know I’m not. I know Pops is right.

“Playing cards with me on a Sunday and watching old reruns of Friends is not living. You need to have fun!”

I smile weakly, the corners of my mouth twitching as I grip his hand in mine. His skin is wrinkly and sun damaged but his hands still show signs of the hard work he did years ago on the field. Scars that haven’t healed quite right. Bones distorted just slightly after being broken over and over again.

I sigh. “Playing cards with you is fun.”

“Oh Ivy. I’ve let you down if you think that is fun. I worry about you. ”

Again, I huff, the laughter in my chest bubbling a little. “I worry about you. ”

Pops shakes his head at me, smiling as he says, “You are so much like your mother. It still surprises me, even after all these years. She always hovered over you and Matty like you were about to break any minute.”

“I know. And dad would say: you need to live a little. ”

“He’d tell you the same.”

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m old, Ivy. It happens.” He smiles sadly at me, his thumb running over my knuckles as my hand sits tightly in his.

Nan and Pops did their absolute best to raise me. They never made me feel like a burden. They loved me, gave me anything I’d wanted in life, cheered me on as I achieved my goals and picked up the pieces when I’d failed. They never second guessed the decision to raise me after my parents had died. And they had never hidden them from me either. The house is filled with memories of my mom and dad.

I had never not been able to ask questions. I knew what their life was like, their quirks and their habits. My grandparents had painted as vivid of a picture as they could for me growing up.

I knew them as well as I could.

But those memories aren’t my own and the hole in my heart still gapes. It feels as though parts of me are missing and so far, I have had no luck figuring out where to find them.

Though I’ve long since learned how to live with the pain.

I had clung to Pops when Nan passed away a few years ago. It was my freshman year of college. I’d been living in the dorms, partying a bit too hard but studying even harder, when I’d gotten the call. I moved home the next week and hadn’t left again.

Pops is all I have left.

“Don’t say things like that. I need you to live forever.” I try to give him my most convincing watery smile.

He laughs in his low chuckle, reassuring me, “I’ll do my best kiddo. ”

The door to his hospital room creaks and a blonde nurse pops her head through the gap, eyeing the two of us softly. “Sorry Ivy, visiting hours ended a while ago and they’ll have my head if they find you here.”

“No worries,” I reply. I turn back to Pops, getting to my feet before pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Ivy …”

“It’s Sunday. We have to play cards. It’s tradition.”

“Fine, but come in the morning. That will leave your afternoon free to go out with some friends.”

“Pops, I—”

“No buts. School goes back soon, then you’ll be too tired out from those rambunctious toddlers you teach. Promise me?”

I sigh, meeting his gaze and allowing the sea of blue to wash over me. I lift a shoulder in defeat.

“Fine. I will see you in the morning.”

I wave to the nurses behind the station, their large coffee mugs steaming as they prepare for a long night ahead. Pops was admitted two weeks ago after a stroke. They’re still monitoring him daily and ensuring he takes his medication. He’s so forgetful these days. If only I was able to be home more he’d probably be able to come home. But Pops won’t let me quit my job as a teacher or take a leave of absence.

So, we decided to compromise.

He stays in the hospital and I get to huff about it.

We’ll find the right nurse, eventually. Nan gave me high standards when it comes to his care, being a nurse herself, and candidates that will be professional and not pry too far into our life are few and far between. For now, he’ll have to stay under the care of the doctors.

My attention waivers at the buzzing in my pocket. I pull out my phone.

Katie: Where are you?

I sigh. The back-to-school celebration drinks planned at Pats has been sitting in the back of my mind for days now. I don’t really want to go .

You need to live a little.

The voice in the back of my mind isn’t Pops’, although I like to imagine that they may sound the same if dad had lived to grow older. As hard as I try, I can’t remember my parents all that much. I don’t have any memories of dad talking to me, just the interview tapes that I watch on repeat and the home videos I obsess over. It’s his voice, the one from the tapes in the back of my head urging me to just suck it up and go for a drink with my friends. It’s always his voice that pushes me to do things, like he knows I’m likely to hide away for the rest of my life. I listen.

It might only be my own subconscious manifesting as his voice but I always listen.

Ivy: Leaving the hospital now. I’ll come for one drink.

Katie: More like five, please and thank you.

Ivy: Two, tops.

Katie: Make one a shot and you have a deal.

Ivy: Fine. Deal.

Katie: Yay! See you soon, Booker.

Katie was my roommate for the three months I’d lived on campus in freshman year. We had just been getting to know each other, the tentative path to friendship forming when Nan passed.

She hadn’t questioned the three in the morning phone call, hadn’t questioned the flurry of movement, the rapid tears falling down my face.

She had simply slipped her shoes on, took the keys from my hand, and driven me to the hospital. She’d stayed till the next night, giving me a shoulder to cry on. She’d never asked questions, or for an explanation when my parents had never shown up, or when the nurses all knew who I was the moment we walked in.

She’d been a friend. Never asking or needing to know more than whether I needed something to drink or eat. She didn’t pry or get curious—something I’ve come to learn must have been difficult for her because she truly loves gossip—and we’ve been attached to one another ever since.

The bar I walk into is a far cry from the one I closed up just a few nights ago. Then I was shuffling out the loud bachelor’s group just after eight in the evening, now it’s practically bursting. You wouldn’t think it’s the same bar.

Music makes the windows shudder with the deep base. I take a breath as I tug open the door to prepare myself. I recognize most of the people crowding around the bar. Most are teachers from the school, some with their partners, some without.

I force a smile at the office administration girls huddled in a booth by the door, heads close together clutching cocktails tightly in their hands. ‘Girls’ is probably the wrong word for the four women in their late fifties who only ever come to these things so they can learn the gossip firsthand, then spread it later.

Making my way to the bar, I spot Katie behind it, drunkenly pouring herself a beer.

“You aren’t supposed to do that anymore.” I laugh as I tuck my small bag and jacket behind the bar for safe keeping. A perk of being best friends with the owners’ daughter.

Katie flicks off the tap, her smile glowing as she looks up at me. “You came!”

“I told you I would,” I yell over the music.

“I never know with you, though. Half expected you to bail at the last minute.”

I frown. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a shit friend lately— ”

“Don’t. I know you’ve got stuff going on with Billy.” She throws her arms around me, squeezing me in a hug. “It’s okay. I just miss you. Let’s drink!”

Katie pushes the newly poured beer into my hands and watches eagerly as I take a large gulp, laughing as a trickle of beer escapes down my chin. Her laughter is infectious and the heavy weight that has been sitting on my chest since arriving at the hospital earlier today begins to lift.

A rush of fresh air flows through the bar as the door opens. The hair on the back of my neck stands. A shiver trickles down my spine. Chills skim over my skin. I look up, my breath catching. The butterflies in my stomach take flight and I can’t help but stare.