Private Feelings

Ivy

From an overhead perspective, I imagined it looked like something you'd put in a painting.

I was home now, in bed, curled up on my side in my long shady room. Three tall windows reached up to the ceiling, casting three tall shadows across the honey-colored floor. A seemingly endless amount of rain rolled down the exquisite panes of glass, and every now and then, another burst of lightning would tear through the daylight, throwing a quick flash throughout my personal domain. The shadows of blowing branches and innumerable raindrops decorated the walls, which eventually made me wonder what the mansion looked like from outside.

In time, I figured it was probably akin to what you'd see in one of those little snow globes — just without the snow. For now, anyway.

According to the forecast, things were going to get worse before they got better. I'd been hearing about this storm every now and then — I just didn't really seem to care.

Of course, that kind of feeling wasn't particularly new...I didn't really seem to care about much of anything these days.

The hospital called it a full recovery. I called it a partial one.

Physically, I was the very same person. Emotionally...I had noticed a change.

I'd lost something in the healing process, and it was something I wasn't certain that I could ever get back. The solution lied in finding it again. The problem was that I wasn't sure where to start looking.

Snuggling deeper against my pillow, I closed my eyes and lied still. I was wearing a loose purple nightgown, and my hair was fastened in a thick ponytail. For once, I paid little mind to its current condition.

Several items around my room were lying untouched, having received much less attention than I'd planned on giving them all semester. I didn't care about the jewelry. I didn't care about the earrings. I didn't care about the CD collection, the blu-ray player, the flat screen TV, or even the computer.

And as much as I hated to admit it...at this very moment, I didn't care about the sound that was coming from the phone — even though I had a good idea of who was calling.

Moments later, I heard the familiar click of the answering machine, followed by the sound of my very own voice. I listened closely, listened carefully, noting how bold and driven I'd been when I made the recording — and noting how much quieter I'd become these days.

I'd lost something in the healing process. I'd lost something, but I didn't know what.

Then the recording ended, and the response began.

"...It's me again," said a boy with a sluggish, almost irritated tone.

Josh.

"Listen, I'm sorry I haven't been able to make it over for a few days, but — in case you've forgotten — we're supposed to be at least calling each other on a regular basis. Remember what we said on the day you were released?"

I opened my eyes, realizing the question was rhetorical. After all, the day hadn't come that long ago.

"...Ivy? Are you there? Are you listening?" He waited. And then, he sighed. "Ivy, come on."

I closed my eyes.

"Just pick up the phone and talk to me. Just what is it that you think you've 'lost' exactly? Just what is it that's left you feeling 'empty'?"

If I couldn't answer that question for myself, there was no way I could answer it for Josh.

Another sigh came. "Anyway...I'm here when you need me." He hung up.

My eyes slowly opened, a little damper than they'd been before. It wasn't long until I closed them up again.

I spent the next few minutes in complete silence, trying not to move or even think too much. Then another sound came — a knock at my door. "Come in," I said quietly, almost too low to be heard. Seconds later, I heard someone approaching the bed, but didn't bother to see who it was.

Not long afterward, a soft voice filled the room, the soft voice of my maid Fran. "You haven't finished your dinner."

I hadn't even started it.

"The doctors said you shouldn't miss meals."

"...I know." Two words, short and simple. It was all I really felt like uttering.

With a sigh, she collected the tray of food on my night stand, and, from the sound of things, began making her way toward the door. "I'll be heading home now." I imagined she wanted to reach her house before the storm worsened. "My vacation also begins today." And that meant we wouldn't be seeing each other for a while. That meant I'd be spending a lot of time in this big house alone during winter break.

Unless, of course, I took her up on her previous offer — unless I had her delay the vacation until later. The idea was certainly tempting. Following my recovery, my dad had left town on business again, and my mom was, well...my mom.

Fran paused at the door, then cleared her throat and repeated herself. "The vacation that we discussed..." she spoke gently, compassionately, "it was scheduled to start today." I could hear the implied question in that sentence. She was asking if I wanted her to stay, asking if I wanted any company. It was another case of someone reaching out...and it was another case of me pulling away.

"Have a nice vacation, Fran," I said quietly, remaining still. "Take care of yourself."

After a pause, I heard her speak again, heard a trace of pity in her voice. "Thank you." With that said, she quietly exited. While she was leaving, however, I could hear someone else coming in.

Following a bit of silence, which I assumed included a stare, the latest visitor sat down on the side of my bed, a short distance from my back. "I got a message from Josh," said my mom. "He tells me he can't reach you on your cell."

My voice was slow and quiet. "I haven't been answering it."

"He's also been trying your room phone."

"I haven't been answering that either."

"Why not?"

I didn't say anything.

After a while, I heard my mom state something familiar. "The doctors said this might happen," she paused. "They predicted something like what you're going through right now — they said that it's only normal for recovering victims."

I closed my eyes. The idea of becoming a statistic wasn't very comforting.

"And that's why you should try talking to someone about it," she touched my shoulder. "It can be a professional — or it can be me. You know that, don't you? You know I'm always here for you." Her words trailed off briefly. "I know that I've been busy with work lately..."

I could tell what was coming next: She was about to mention something she called "our little system." It was established when I was younger, and it's still going strong today.

"...But if you need me," she continued, "all you have to do is give me a call, and I'll be right over."

My mom worked in another wing of the mansion. She practically lived over there. It was where she joyfully produced and reviewed several of the latest designs — all while chatting with some of the world's top designers via e-mail and her cell phone.

When I was a little girl, "our little system" required me to make a phone call across the house and leave a message for her myself. If the matter was "important enough," she'd walk over to see me right away. Otherwise, she'd call me back, offer a few comforting words, and leave the rest to my current maid — or my grandmother. Then she'd promise that we'd talk more when we met up at bedtime — providing I even got to see her then.

Her words came again. "You know that I'm available, don't you?" She spoke cautiously, as though she didn't want to upset me. We'd certainly had our share of friction over her "system" through the years, particularly since I'd become a teenager.

"...Right," I said quietly. Deep down, part of me resented how she'd become so readily "available" after I'd been sent to a hospital. Right now, however, I just didn't feel like bringing that resentment to the surface.

She paused again. "Really, Ivy...tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong."

"You're not talking to your boyfriend. You're hardly eating. And when I try to make more time for the two of us — something you've always claimed I don't do enough of — all you respond with is, 'right.' It's clear that something's bothering you." She rubbed my shoulder. "The doctors talked about this. You're suffering from post-traumatic—"

"Mom, I'm not suffering from post-traumatic anything, all right?" I pulled away from her touch, remaining in my curled-up state as I faced elsewhere. "Remember I told you that during the recovery, I felt connected to Grandma somehow?"

"I remember," she said softly.

There was a pause before I could continue. It took a while before I could figure out how to phrase what I had to say next. "It felt like she was telling me that I needed to make some changes when I 'came back.' And I tried doing that, I really did.

"The thing is, it seems like I lost something in the process. And because of that, I'm beginning to feel kind of...empty, inside."

She was quiet for a moment. "Why?"

I pulled my arms closer to my chest, and lowered my head toward them. "I don't know. That's what I've been trying to figure out. Until I do, I can't talk to Josh, I can't talk to a professional...and I don't really feel like I can talk to you."

More silence filled the room.

"Mom, I'll be okay," I finally said. "Just go back to your work. We both know you want to. It's all right." I paused. "...I'll be okay."

After a while, I felt her stroking my hair softly. Then she finally rose, and began walking toward the door. "You know it's just the two of us here, right? Fran's on vacation," she said. "If you need anything, or need to talk about anything—"

"I'll call you."

She quietly left. Afterwards, I snuggled up against the bed, closed my eyes, and listened to the raindrops fall.

Around one hour later, I was awakened by the sound of the phone ringing yet again. I didn't reach for it, because I didn't want to talk to anyone. All I wanted to do was remain still, close my eyes, and prepare to go back to sleep.

The familiar click of the machine arrived, followed by the familiar girl in the recording.

And then, after the instructions, the quip, and finally, the beep...I heard the last thing I could've possibly expected to.

"Ivy? Are you there?"

My eyes quickly opened. The voice on the other end was Reed's.

Something was happening. Something was wrong. Her tone was weak, panicked, and shaky.

"Ivy...if you're there..."

As she spoke, I heard a lot of static, a lot of noise, and a lot of rain.

"...Need your help. I'm outside." The static came again. "...Outsi—" She began to cough.

I quickly picked up the phone. "Reed?"

There was no response. A particularly loud clap of thunder — one of the loudest I'd heard in a while — got me to glance out a window. And that was when I saw it. The rain was coming down much harder now than it had been before. I'd rarely seen such a heavy downpour. Flashes of lightning filled the sky, all while the loud beats against my windows sounded off throughout the room.

Quickly, I sat up and tried again. "Reed? Reed, where are you?"

There was no response.

I began speaking louder into the receiver. "Reed, are you all right?"

Nothing.

Hanging up, I flung the covers aside and pulled myself out of bed. The drowsiness was jolted away by the coolness of the floor against my bare feet. After collecting my cell phone, I headed to the door, trying to piece together everything that I'd heard. Reed was clearly outside, but where? While hurrying down the steps, I began dialing her number in hopes of finding out.

Entering the main lobby of my home, I headed toward the front door while her phone rang, curious as to what I could spot while peeking through the hole. It was then that I noticed the sound of a nearby ring tone...one that was sounding off in accordance with the very ringing in my ear.

My eyebrows lowered, my lips parted. Reaching out, I quickly unlocked the door and opened it. Right there at my feet, I found Reed — cuddled in the doorway with her back pressed to one side, and the tips of her shoes pressed to the other — donned in a mere sweater and thin black pants. She was soaked from head to toe, and constantly fidgeting, looking up at me with half-open eyes.

Two hours later, I felt her fidget again. This time she did it softly, gently.

Night had fallen, and a faint orange glow now filled my room. Reed was under the covers, and I was over them, staring down at my crossed legs while I held her tightly in my arms. She was now wearing a set of my pajamas, and the top of her dried head was tucked just under my chin.

Her eyes began to open, and she murmured a little.

Looking elsewhere again, I slowly spoke up. "Do you feel all right?"

"I..." She paused, probably letting everything sink in. "I'm...how did I...get...?"

"Hmph," I let out a faint chuckle, "well, you came upstairs and then sort of just...collapsed on my floor. Got water everywhere."

"...Heh...sorry about that," she said weakly.

Letting her go, I slowly stood and looked her over, checking her status with my inquiring eyes. Then, licking my lips, I began walking to the other side of the bed, toward the night stand. I couldn't explain it, but it almost felt like something was compelling me to do what I was presently doing — something that reminded me of my grandmother.

"And..." the usual firmness of her voice was returning now, "...and you were cuddling me?"

"Well don't go getting any ideas," I said with a tilted head and raised eyebrows, "I only did it to keep you warm."

Reed chuckled, and I briefly looked away with a small grin of my own. "Oh, man," she moaned, sitting up and rubbing the bottoms of her hands against her eyes briefly.

While she took a moment to look the pajamas over, I picked up a square, silver tray. "What were you doing out there?"

"I was out for the day, getting ready for break, then I got caught in the storm on my way back to campus. This was the closest place I could turn to, so I tried calling you, and...and..." Reed looked down at the tray as I placed it over her lap, carefully positioning its legs around hers. Afterwards, I removed the cover from the plate, revealing a steaming bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. "Th-Thank you," she said, glancing up at me.

I felt myself beginning to blush, and quickly diverted attention. "How did you even get my home number?"

A hint of awkwardness crossed her face. "I asked Josh for it a few days ago. You weren't answering your cell, so..." She briefly trailed off. "I hadn't tried calling before, because he said that you weren't answering this phone either."

I tipped my head, quietly looking at the floor.

Though I'd lowered my gaze, I could tell that Reed had begun watching me closely, staring with those deep, curious eyes of hers. "Everything all right?"

I glanced her way, then turned elsewhere. "Fine."

Reed just stared.

Pulling my hands behind my back, I intertwined my fingers. "You should probably eat that before it gets cold. I'm not in the mood to run down to the microwave again."

Lifting her spoon, she kept her eyes on me while testing the soup, slowly taking in her first swallow. It was clear that she was still interested in having her question answered.

With a sigh, I took a step forth, paused...then slowly walked over to the bed, sitting down on the foot of it. Looking toward my lap, I watched my fingers for a moment. "It's just that...ever since you got here I've been..." I slowly shook my head. "I think I might have figured it out," I mumbled to myself.

"Figured what out?"

"This is going to sound weird, but when I was recovering in that hospital, it felt like I briefly reconnected with my grandmother."

Reed paused before speaking. "No...no, that doesn't sound weird. That doesn't sound weird at all."

I kept my back to her, feeling my cheeks going red again. "She asked me a question: Who in your life is worth going back for? What relationships, what friendships, ultimately matter the most?" My words began coming slower. "And so..." I briefly bit my lower lip. "Anyway...I eventually realized that there was a deeper meaning behind all of that. I realized that she was telling me to let go of the hatred I'd felt."

Reed was quiet, and I could tell that I'd definitely piqued her interest. "...So..." she spoke cautiously, "have you succeeded in doing that? Have you let go of the hatred?"

I watched the floor again. "I've been getting there," I said simply. "I knew it wouldn't happen over night...but I have been getting there."

She kept listening.

"But the thing about that..." I glanced at a mirror, catching sight of one of my serious eyes, "is that it left me feeling like I'd lost something. It left me feeling empty."

Reed's tone was just as I'd expect. "Empty?"

I lowered an eyebrow. "I think I finally understand it now," my head began to slowly nod. "For quite a while, my drive in life, my passion, revolved around my crusade to bring down Billings.

"When I walked away from that...I was left feeling empty because a part of me started to long for what I'd lost: A sense of purpose."

We both became quiet for a while after I said that. In time, I finally turned around and faced her, finding that Reed's eyes were half-curious, half-understanding as she watched me.

Eventually, she broke the silence with a fair question: "Ivy, why seek purpose when you can have peace?"

I slowly rolled onto my stomach, spread out on the edge of the bed while propping my chin up in my hands. "I've always been an achiever, Reed. It's in my blood," I eyed the night stand. "When I was younger, I thought I was never good enough to hold my mom's attention, so I spent all my time thinking of ways to win it." I began gliding my legs above my back. "The point is, I can't not have a purpose — not right now, anyway..."

Reed lowered her gaze to the tray.

"All I can do, for my grandmother's sake — and more importantly, for my own — is try to have a better purpose than I had before."

She looked back up at me.

And then, I began reviewing what had brought me to this realization to begin with.

While doing so, my mind was drawn to the events of the past two hours. I recalled the sense of worry I'd felt upon finding Reed on my doorstep. I reviewed the sense of relief I'd felt upon helping her heal. I examined the sense of pleasantness I'd felt upon cooking her dinner. And finally, I remembered the sense of pride I'd felt upon warming her, comforting her, and seeing her awaken.

There had been something interesting about watching her recovery — about knowing that I'd been responsible for it, that I'd brought it about. The whole thing actually felt kind of...nice?

Staring calmly at Reed, I pulled a strand of my ponytail back behind my right ear. "And I believe I know what that purpose should be," I said. "For now, I think I'll just try and help other people out a little whenever I can."

Then something strange happened: Reed began smiling at me. "Well then," she said, speaking rather warmly, "let me just say that I'm deeply honored, and deeply grateful, to have been the first."

Licking my lips, I made an awkward face and slowly glanced away. "Sure," I shrugged.

It looked like we were facing those private feelings again. Would I ever know why they left me so tense? Given all that had happened in the hospital, you'd think that I wouldn't feel so uneasy about my growing friendship with Reed. For whatever reason, though, I still did. Why, exactly, I wasn't certain, but among the things I was certain of were the following: It was nice to know that someone had been the catalyst for this decision. It was nice to know that someone I'd explained this to understood. And it was nice to know that someone already believed in my new purpose.

In all of those cases, that "someone" happened to be Reed Brennan.

But with that thought in mind, I also knew — once again — that this "growing friendship" thing would simply require time.

Then I looked out the window, and realized that time would be on our side. "Whoa..."

Reed caught my stare, and glanced over her shoulder. It was then that her expression began to resemble mine. She set the tray back on the night stand. Moments later I crawled right beside her, and we both sat up on our knees while clinging to the bedpost. Turning toward each other, we briefly locked eyes, then directed our attention to the window again.

Amidst all that had happened, we'd failed to notice that the rain had stopped. In its place, just as the forecast had predicted, was a heavy snowfall that was coming down almost as strongly.

Staring outward, I felt a few slow words leaving my mouth. "Good thing it's the beginning of winter break."

Reed began to nod, managing only a simple mutter. "Um, huh..."

"...Because it appears that you're going to be here for a while."