Free What Happened to Ivy by Kathy Stinson Page B

dead flowers off their stems and drop them to the ground.
    Last night, was Dad trying to say he did what he did because he loved Ivy? How is that supposed to make sense? I’d sure never try to claim I fed her those worms because I loved her.
    In my hand is something soft. I look down. The crushed, blood-red cardinal flower in my fist wasn’t ready to be plucked. Lobelia cardinalis . I gather the dead blossoms from the ground and take them to the compost bin in the backyard. It works better if there’s garden stuff mixed in with stuff from the kitchen.
    The compost bin is almost full. What’s in the bottom of it, crawling with earthworms, is ready to be used.
    Removing it with a shovel, I breathe in the moist decaying smell of it, then take it out front and spread it over the ground between some shrubs. I dig it in with my hands, crumbling it together with the dry earth. I do it slowly. It takes a long time.
    It’s quiet here in the garden. I love how the sun warms my back and the top of my head, how the light shines through petals and leaves creating multiple shades of green, pink, yellow, and blue. I love how all of it helps me stop thinking.
    At a flash of movement in my peripheral vision, I glance up.
    Rushing toward me is Hannah. Every inch of her skin is glistening. Strands of sweaty hair stick to her face. She hurls herself to her knees beside me, practically collapsing against me.
    “I needed him to be better,” she cries. “I thought he was perfect.”
    The back of Hannah’s shirt is damp beneath my hands. She smells like summer even though she’s been running.
    “But you wouldn’t lie to me, David. Why would you? I just…” She wipes her face across my shirt. “I just didn’t want to have to believe you.”

Chapter 25
    All I can do is hold her. She doesn’t try to say anything more and I can’t speak at all. What is there to say now, anyway? I’m sorry. I’m sorry, too. Hannah’s breathing gradually returns to normal and she eases herself away from me.
    “I have to go,” she says, standing up and brushing dirt off her knees.
    As she’s crossing the street to go home, I can see I’ve left grubby handprints on the back of her shirt. My shirt’s still damp from where she was leaning against me.
    There’s nothing left for me to do in the garden right now, so I hop on my bike, ride out to the nursery and talk to a guy there about delivering some mulch. On the way home, signs at the mall shout ‘Back to School Blowout Specials’. Hard as it is to imagine being back at school, I’m going to need paper and pens and stuff, so I go inside.
    Parents are hauling kids from one store to another shopping for new shoes and backpacks, and going for fries and slushies. A couple of girls I’m sure never noticed me while Ivy was alive eye me from behind a rack of sweaters, whispering behind their hands. As I’m passing the fountain, a little kid breaks free of her dad’s grip and wobbles toward it. He scoops her up and flies her through the air back into her stroller.
    I load up on paper and pens and binders at the department store and realize I won’t be able to carry everything on my bike without my backpack, so I put everything back on the shelves and leave.
    Pedaling up our street, something doesn’t look right. Closer to home I can see that the purple phlox near the sidewalk is all bent over. A small mound of mugho pine has been flattened. I see as I ride closer that a long board is lying haphazardly across them both.
    Up near the house, Dad is leaning into a crowbar. Ivy’s wheelchair ramp – what’s left of it – twists crookedly away from the wall. Gaping bolt holes scar the bricks where the ramp used to be attached to the house. The delphiniums and coreopsis and other plants lie crushed on the ground. Dark circles of sweat soak the armpits of Dad’s t-shirt.
    “What are you doing?” I yell. My heart is pounding like a jack-hammer.
    “Taking down the ramp. What’s it look like I’m