Page 41 of Salvation (Rising From the Ashes #3)

Ivy

Sixteen Years Old

W hen I was little—and my mom was still alive—I had the prettiest pink room.

We picked the color together, and she let me help her paint it.

I haven’t thought about that room for a long time, but for the past few months, ever since finding out that the baby growing in my belly is a girl, I’ve dreamed about it.

It’s the kind of room I want her to have—one where she feels safe and loved because outside that room, she’s already going to have a thousand challenges.

A single, teenage mom. An absentee father.

Grandparents that I never wanted her to grow up around, but inevitably will.

And that’s all before she even makes it out of the womb.

But if I can give her this one thing, a place to escape, maybe it won’t leave as many marks.

I’m standing in a room with four white walls.

One room of ten, actually—all with white walls.

But where it usually feels like a prison closing in on me, all I see in this room is the potential to be something more.

The tall windows allow natural lighting to shine in on the hardwood floors, and in the evening, it has the best view of the sunset.

Dropping my sketchpad on the floor, I follow, although not quite as quickly.

With a grunt and a leg cramp, I manage to get myself situated, ready to draw.

I could have sat at the desk in the corner, but I wouldn’t have been able to think there.

Sitting on the floor with a sketchbook in my lap is part of my process, even though I have to sketch against my stomach instead of my lap nowadays.

As I draw, I begin to hum, and just like she always does when I hum, Willow kicks against my stomach, causing my pen to jerk across the paper and leave a stray line.

“Hey, knock it off in there,” I say, flattening my palm against my stomach and smiling. “This is for you.”

Taking the eraser to the mark, I start again and then spend the next half hour dreaming.

In my mind, the four-poster bed is replaced with a beautiful wooden crib.

The walls are painted in a soft pink—all except the one behind her crib.

On that one, there’s a hand-painted willow tree that looks as if her name is carved into the bark.

Willow. That’s what I have decided to name her because beneath the willow tree is the only place I’ve ever felt loved—even if that love ended up burning to the ground.

I swallow as an onslaught of pain crashes into my chest, making me ache for things that are no longer mine—that were never really mine to begin with.

A single tear rolls down my cheek, landing on the paper, right over the heart I drew around Willow’s name.

Not wanting to ruin it anymore, I dash the others away with my hand and take a deep breath, slowly releasing.

The pain subsides, but not completely. It’s an ache beneath my skin that never fully goes away.

Setting my sketchbook to the side, I place both hands on my stomach and imagine the pain being worth it once I have this little girl in my arms.

I wasn’t sure if I could do it at first. The day we left Benton Falls, I left a note for Campbell, and every day for a month, I waited by the phone, waiting for him to call and swoop in and save me.

After a month, it finally hit me that he wasn’t coming.

I spent the next couple of months mourning him, but that all changed the day I had my first ultrasound.

I heard the heartbeat, and then when the ultrasound tech asked if I wanted to know the gender, I nodded with tears filling my eyes.

After that, I’d promised myself I’d do whatever it takes to make this life good for her.

“You and me, Willow,” I say to my stomach. “It’s me and you.”

“Really, Ivy,” my grandmother’s voice floats from the doorway, “why do you insist on doing that? The baby can’t hear you.”

Instead of getting up off the floor, I turn my head enough to look at her and shrug. “I think she can, and I want her to recognize my voice.”

It shouldn’t surprise me that her lip curls up in distaste—there isn’t an ounce of motherly instinct in her body—but it still makes me a little sad. People say it takes a village to raise a child, but Willow will only have me.

“Do get up, child. It’s not polite to speak to someone from the floor.”

Turning my head so she can’t see me, I roll my eyes and grunt my way into a standing position again. “Is there something you need, Grandmother?”

“Yes. Your grandfather and I have a meeting at the church tonight. We will not be home until late, but Liza will be here to cook you dinner. I should not have to say it, but I will. Do not leave this house.”

The condescending way she says it makes me want to rip my hair out.

Other than to go to my doctor’s appointments, I haven’t left the house in months.

My grandfather can’t stand the idea of someone finding out his granddaughter is pregnant out of wedlock.

There have been many times I thought I might go insane—locked away in a prison of my own making—and yet, I have no authority to say anything because I need them.

“Yes, Grandmother,” I say from between my teeth, willing it to be the end of the conversation so I can go back to my ivory tower, because at least there I am not faced with disdain. Except, a conversation never ends until my grandmother is ready.

She eyes me and then looks at the sketchbook still lying on the floor. I want to scoop it up and hide it, to protect my dream for Willow, but I can’t move that fast—and it’s too late anyway. She’s already seen it.

I wait for her to say something about it, but to my surprise, she just looks back at me and says, “Make sure you eat.”

It’s so out of character for her that it takes me a minute to realize she’s leaving the room. But by the time she makes it to the door, I come to my senses and realize it’s now or never to ask her permission to decorate the room.

“Grandmother,” I say before I’ve fully made up my mind to do so, but when she turns back to me with her brow arched, I decide the only way to approach this is with confidence. She’ll eat me alive if I don’t. “Would it be alright if I decorate this room for Willow’s nursery?”

In another uncharacteristic move, her eyes dart toward the hallway before grabbing the door handle and softly closing it, trapping us inside.

“How do you plan on paying for the decor? It isn’t cheap to decorate a room, and your grandfather will not foot the bill.”

I nod, already knowing that would be the case.

“I will get a job. I don’t plan on buying anything extravagant, mostly just paint, and I can paint the walls myself. I’ve been working with my art tutor, and I’ve gotten pretty good. She even mentioned that I might be able to make some money if I try to sell them.”

Her lips purse, but it’s not her normal look of condescension. In fact, it looks like she’s considering my request.

I hold my breath, prepping myself for disappointment, but seconds later, she surprises me for the third time today.

“I suppose you will need a place to bring her home—” If she planned to say anything else, she isn’t able to because for the first time in my life, I hug my grandmother.

Rushing forward, I wrap my arms around her neck.

It’s awkward, not just because my stomach sticks so far out that I’m practically a foot from her, but also because I’m not sure my grandmother has ever been hugged.

After a moment, though, she wraps her arms around me. Awkwardly patting my back.

“Thank you,” I whisper, hopeful that this means I can add one more person to my village.

______________________

Everything hurts. My body. My heart. My soul.

I haven’t slept in days, and as I lie here in the middle of the night, staring at my ceiling, I don’t know that I ever will again.

When I close my eyes, all I can see is my daughter’s.

Beautiful, honey eyes that looked like mine.

Lips that looked like Campbell’s. She was the perfect mixture of us, and now—and now—I can’t even admit my reality in my head.

Hot tears burn my face, but I don’t move to wipe them away.

They could drown me, and I’m not sure I’d care.

They soak through my hair onto my pillow as I rip my gaze away from the ceiling, trying to find a new focus point that will hopefully put me to sleep.

But all I see is white walls, and they are closing in.

Ripping off my blanket, I stand as quickly as I can after a fifteen-hour labor and three days in the hospital. I was miserable for the last half of my pregnancy, ready to be free of my pregnant belly, but I’d give anything to have it back now. Because at least then I’d have just a little more time.

Padding across the room, I quietly open my door and slip into the hallway. The house is quiet, just like it always is, but I wish it were loud. Loud enough to drown out my thoughts.

I keep my footsteps soft as I walk to the door across from mine.

My hand goes to the knob, but then I stop, unable to make myself turn it.

This has become my nightly routine. Every night I tell myself I will go inside the nursery, and every night I stop right where I am because I know the moment I do, all the dreams I dreamed in there will be gone.

Anger bubbles up, slamming into me with the force of a hurricane, and I slam my fist against the door, hitting it three times in succession. The tears come faster, my heart speeding up as I try to breathe through my nose.

I hate this room. I hate this house. I hate Campbell Richards. I hate it all, but most of all, I hate myself. I failed as a mother, and I’ll never forgive myself for that.

A door opens down the hallway, but I don’t look to see who it is. I should because if it’s my grandfather, it will only make things worse, but I can’t bring myself to care.

“Ivy,” my grandmother’s voice calls through the darkness. “What are you doing out here? You should be in bed.”

It’s the softest she’s ever spoken to me, but that’s only because her words are laced with pity. Something I didn’t think my grandmother was capable of.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I say, still staring at the door.

“I understand this is a difficult time—”

I cut her off. “You don’t understand,” I roar, finally turning to face her.

She’s standing in her robe with her hair up in rollers.

I’ve never seen her like this—vulnerable without the armor of makeup and clothing she puts on.

Maybe it should make her more relatable, but it doesn’t to me.

I glare at her with all the hatred thumping through my heart because I hate her, too, and she’s the only person here for me to take it out on.

“You didn’t cry when your daughter died. You thought it was an inconvenience.”

Grandmother’s face rears back like I slapped her, and my fingers curl into a fist, almost wishing I could hit her because at least then someone else would hurt with me.

My shoulders heave up and down, the anger burning hot beneath my skin. Grandmother’s mouth opens and closes, but if she’s waiting for an apology, she won’t get one from me. She steps toward me, and I stiffen my shoulders, refusing to back down.

I don’t know what I expected her to do, but it never crossed my mind that she would wrap her arms around my neck and hold me together.

I resist it at first, standing stiff in her hold. I don’t need her pity. I don’t want it, but the longer she holds me, the more my shoulders sink until my head rests on her shoulder and tears soak into her robe. Her arms tighten around me as I sob, her fingers stroking through my hair.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers over and over in my ear, but I don’t understand what she’s apologizing for.