Page 8 of Salvation (Rising From the Ashes #3)

Ivy

F our weeks pass in Benton Falls, in which I’ve spent my time, bouncing between trying to go through my grandparents’ things and avoiding the manila envelope that my long-lost great uncle dropped off at my doorstep, but avoiding the envelope only leads to me staring at the white walls, trying not to go insane.

In the end, I’m not sure which one it is that finally causes me to break.

After Charles left, I placed the envelope on the counter, and it’s been there ever since, taunting me.

I can’t bring myself to open it because I know that whatever is in there is another secret that will change my life.

Again. It will change my life again. At this point, I really shouldn’t be surprised.

I’m only thirty-two, and I’ve had so many devastating changes in my life that I should be used to it. But somehow they still hurt every time.

So when I couldn’t handle staring at it any longer, I grabbed my keys and drove to the hardware store, determined to do something about the white walls—especially since it seems it might be the only painting I can manage. My canvas remains disturbingly blank.

Now I’m back with a paintbrush in hand, plastic rolled out over the door, and a mental block that apparently applies to walls too, because all I can picture is my grandmother’s pinched scowl if she were ever to see yellow walls in her home.

With a growl, I throw the brush down, splattering paint everywhere, then gasp when some of it flies up and hits me in the face.

This town is not good for me. I don’t know what I’m doing here.

I could’ve hired someone to sort through the house.

I have a fiancé waiting for me. A career.

Although that one may be questionable, seeing as I can’t even paint a wall, let alone a canvas.

But even still, I have a life waiting for me outside of Benton Falls.

Those old wounds I’ve been looking to heal are more irritated than ever, so what am I doing here?

I’ve almost convinced myself to pack up and go home when a knock comes from the front door.

Sighing, I wipe the splatters from my face and try to arrange my appearance into something presentable. My clothes are rumpled and my hair a mess.

The importance of my appearance was ingrained in me from the very first night I slept in this house. My grandparents claimed it was a reflection of them. The wildness of my curls was always a point of contention because no matter how hard I tried to tame them, they would never stay tucked away.

Another knock, and I make the decision, dropping my hands from my clothes and walking to the door to answer it just the way I am.

Swinging open the door, I find Della Rae standing on the other side with a plate full of cookies.

Campbell’s mom is the nicest person I’ve ever met, but I always resented her a little after I left.

I thought she would be the one person who would make her son do the right thing, but one look in her eyes, and it’s obvious she didn’t know.

Campbell never told her.

I must have been standing there staring at her for longer than I thought because she smiles and says, “Well, are you going to let an old woman in?”

“Of course,” I say, jumping into action and opening the door wider for her to come in. “Sorry, you caught me by surprise.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to come see me even since I heard you were in town—I figured you had some sortin’ out to do—but when you didn’t show up, I figured I’d better come to you.”

Shame burns my cheeks. The woman in front of me was more like family to me than my own grandparents, but I’d written her off and assumed the worst just because her son had let me down.

“I’m sorry,” I say, letting the sincerity flow into my voice.

“It’s alright, dear. Sometimes we need people to take the first step and come to us,” she says, patting my arm. “Now, how about a cookie?”

A wide grin spreads across my face because cookies with Della Rae never meant just cookies.

From that very first time, it always ended with Della Rae imparting her advice to me, and honestly, with the mysterious contents of the manila envelope haunting me, I could use some Della Rae advice right now.

“I would love that. I’ll pour us some milk.”

In the kitchen, she takes a seat at the table, while I grab glasses, pour the milk, and then return it to the refrigerator.

“So,” I say, closing the door with my hip. “How have you been?”

This feels normal—like how things are supposed to be—except it’s not. Mine and Campbell’s secret sits between us, and it feels wrong that she doesn’t know. But at the same time, that secret is filled with trauma and devastation—so maybe it’s better this way.

“I’ve been great, dear. Ali is getting married next year, and Isaiah gave me some grandbabies that keep me busy. I love them to pieces. Now, if only I could get Campbell settled down to give me a few, I’d be set.”

Pain lances through my ribs. I have to remind myself to breathe and suppress the urge to tell her the truth, because it would only hurt.

I’d have to admit that, at one point, she did have another grandchild.

For the best five minutes of my life, she had a beautiful granddaughter—and at the end of those five minutes, I’d lost the last piece of me that mattered.

Standing beside the table, I force a wooden smile on my lips.

“I would have thought he would be settled down by now,” I say, handing Della Rae her glass of milk, if for no other reason than to avoid her gaze. “He always seemed like the type to want a family.”

I try to keep the resentment out of my voice, but it bleeds into the edges anyway.

When I look back up at Della Rae, there’s no doubt in my mind that she heard it.

Setting her milk down on the table, she tilts her head and studies me.

I try not to shift under the weight of her stare, but eventually, I break, looking away at something on the other side of the room.

“He did.”

My eyes snap back to her. There’s meaning in the way she’s staring at me, but her view is skewed by the things she doesn’t know. So, I throw her a lifeline.

“Well, I’m sure he’ll find someone soon, and you’ll have all kinds of grandbabies running around.”

The words taste like acid on my tongue because the only person I’d ever imagined Campbell having babies with was me, but I’ve moved on, and he should, too. So I spit them out even though they leave a bitter taste in my mouth.

Della Rae wraps both hands around mine, offering me a comforting squeeze.

“I’m sure you’re right, dear.”

There’s a sparkle in her eye that scares me a little, but I smile back at her anyway. Her hand shifts so that she’s no longer offering comfort but instead, looking at my ring, and when she looks back up at me, tears have replaced that spark.

“I always thought maybe one day you’d marry my son, but even though you’re not, I hope you always know that I think of you like a daughter.”

An ache forms in my throat, and I swallow against the pain.

I’m not sure she would feel the same if she knew the truth.

I force out a thank you, and Della Rae pats my hand before letting it go.

Sitting in the seat beside her, I take one of the cookies she offers me while I try to avoid the fact that she’s still staring at me.

“Are you happy, Ivy?” she asks.

And I don’t meet her gaze when I say, “Yeah, I am happy.”

I don’t think she believes me, but it’s okay because I don’t believe me either.

______________________

After Della Rae leaves, I grab the envelope from the counter along with another cookie and march outside to the back porch. I need the sun on my face to remind me I’m alive for what I’m about to do.

Della Rae’s question about my happiness hit me hard.

If I’ve learned anything since my grandmother’s death, it’s that I don’t know what makes me happy.

My whole life, I’ve spent my time trying to please everyone else, and the only way to move on from that is to finally face things head-on—starting with whatever secrets are hidden inside this envelope.

Except I find myself hesitating again as I sit on the porch, letting the sun warm my face. I don’t know what I’ll find in here—what secrets my grandmother is apologizing for. There wasn’t much she sheltered me from. I wasn’t coddled, so I know whatever it is will hurt.

The idea scares me so much that I nearly convince myself to go back inside and set the thing on fire in one of the many fireplaces, but I know what awaits me inside—white walls and a life where I am never fully myself.

So in one quick motion, I shove the cookie in my mouth and use both hands to rip open the envelope.

Pulling out the contents, I scan over the first page—a birth certificate. I have my copy at my house, but a death certificate also accompanies mine. I’ve spent a reasonable amount of time staring at both, my eyes blurring as I read over the date that matches on each document.

Confused, I move on to the next document—another letter—and that’s when I fall apart. The air whooshes from my lungs as I read it—once, twice, three times—but even on the third time, I can’t comprehend what I’m seeing.

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head to clear the tears blurring my eyes. “This can’t—”

I frantically flip through the rest of the pages, trying to make sense of it all, but nothing makes sense.

My entire body trembles so violently I can hardly hold onto the papers, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t force the air back into my lungs.

The world spins in a circle until all the colors blur into a darkness so black that even the sun’s rays can’t reach me.

My heart slows then speeds up, beating so hard I’m afraid it might explode.

This isn’t a secret. It’s a betrayal of the deepest kind.