EPILOGUE: Only Rain
In the spring, Calvin accepted a plea agreement. His sentence was four years in state prison, followed by probation. Lorna received eighteen months and was ordered to complete a parenting and anger-management program. Neither challenged the protective order.
I skipped the sentencing. Instead, I took Ivy to the zoo.
Near the penguin exhibit, she sat on a bench eating a soft pretzel and swinging her legs. Rain no longer made her flinch. She had stopped needing the hallway light left on at bedtime, although she still preferred her door open. Dr. Ames, the gentle therapist she visited every Thursday, kept a bowl of smooth stones on her desk and said Ivy was doing remarkably well.
“Mommy?” she said. “Yes, sweetie?” “Am I allowed to still love Daddy?”
I had spent months preparing for that question. Somehow, I still wasn’t ready. I wrapped an arm around her.
“You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel,” I said. “You can love him. You can be angry. You can feel both at the same time. None of those feelings is wrong.”
She considered my answer with the seriousness she brought to everything. “I think I’m mostly sad,” she said. “And a little mad.”
“That sounds about right.” “Dr. Ames says it’s okay if it takes a long time.” “It is.”
She settled against me. A penguin dove into the water, and a small, bright giggle escaped her. The sound went straight through me.
That evening, I discovered her at the kitchen table with a pencil and a sheet of lined paper. As I entered, she shielded it with her arm. “What are you writing?” “A list.”
“Of what?” After a moment’s hesitation, she pushed the paper toward me. Things I want to do when I am ten: 1. Learn to ride a bike without training wheels. 2. Get a dog. 3. Have a sleepover. 4. Tell Mommy everything. Always.
I read her list twice, then picked up the pencil and added one of my own underneath. Things Mommy promises: 1. To always listen. 2. To always believe you. 3. To always come.
I turned the sheet so she could read what I had written. She read slowly, her lips moving. Then she reclaimed the pencil, carefully drew a star at the bottom, and placed the page in the drawer beside the refrigerator, where we keep what matters.
In June, we brought home Biscuit, a scruffy, ridiculous mutt who managed to eat one of my shoes during his first week. That summer, Ivy learned to ride her bicycle. I ran down the street behind her with a hand on the seat, then released it. She traveled forty feet alone before glancing back and noticing me standing there with empty hands. She wobbled, laughed, and kept riding.
Pete came to her tenth birthday party. I had sent him a letter of thanks, and he had replied with a brief, shy note. On impulse, I invited him. He arrived carrying a cupcake and a stuffed bear, then lingered awkwardly at the edge of the yard in a polo shirt until Ivy walked straight up to him.
“You’re the one who came in the ambulance,” she said. “That’s right.” “Thank you for noticing.”
Pete’s eyes shone. He crouched until they were at the same level. “I should have noticed sooner,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t.”
“You noticed on the second time,” Ivy replied with a child’s generosity. “That counts.” He gave a damp little laugh. “I’ll take it.”
Later, after the guests had left and orange sunlight slanted across the lawn, Ivy climbed onto my lap on the porch swing. Biscuit stretched across our feet.
“Mommy?” “Yes?” “It’s raining a little.”
I looked up. A gentle, warm summer rain had begun, dotting the porch rail and pattering softly against the roof. “Do you want to go inside?”
She considered it, then shook her head. “No,” she said. “It’s okay. I like it when I’m out here with you.”
I drew her closer. Rain fell over the grass, the garden, and the yellow porch light. I listened, and for the first time in a long time, it was only rain.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real-life themes. Names, characters, places and events are fictionalized, and any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. Images are for illustration purposes only.
