“Ivy,” Blake says in a steely voice. “Go walk Costanza. Now. We’ll talk later.”
I can’t even look at either of them, can’t do anything more than sit here, hugging my knees and trying not to completely fall apart.
Twenty-five
Blake
When Ivy leaves, joining Aaron and Costanza outside—who will jointly make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid—I make sure the door is locked. Kim is in no shape to be interrupted, and we clearly need to talk about what’s happening. Ivy’s reading assignment is still up on the computer facing the room, but given how mad she is, I don’t think she’s going to be back to do homework any time soon.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have even told her that much, but she was asking how I could know things would be different this time, and I felt like she needed some kind of reassurance. I didn’t want to tell her the whole truth, because that’s yours to tell her when you’re ready, but—”
Kim holds up a hand for me to stop. “It’s fine.”
But it’s clearly not fine. She’s folded up into a shape that resembles one of those origami frogs, and her breath is so shallow she’s almost panting.
“Kim,” I say. “Talk to me.”
She shakes her head and hunches down further into the couch. “Ivy’s right. I should tell her. I need to tell her. What kind of mom am I that I haven’t told her?”
I move closer and put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re the kind of mom who is still working stuff out.”
“Yeah,” Kim says. “And I never seem to get it right, do I?”
My heart breaks, and I run my fingers down her cheek. “None of us do. We’re all just working through it.”
“Sure,” Kim says, but her shoulders are still shaking. She turns away from me, curling up into a ball like a possum. “You’re probably right. Give me a minute, and I’ll be ready to do . . . whatever it is we’re supposed to do next. Could you check if the shoot is on schedule?”
I freeze, anchored to the spot. I immediately think that she doesn’t want me here, that I should turn away and do as she asks and assume that I’m just in the way.
I’ve made that mistake before, so many times. It terrifies me that I might get it wrong now, but I can’t do that to us again. “You’re doing that thing,” I say. “That thing where you push me away.”
Kim looks up at me, horrified, and I hate myself for accusing her of that. She hasn’tgoneanywhere, and I have no right to make her talk to me if she doesn’t think I can—
“You’re right,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
She’s quiet for a moment, breathing slowly and deliberately, and I think this may be some kind of treatment that she’s learned in therapy. I realize, then, that I don’t know the first thing about her treatment. I know she takes medication and has done therapy, but other than that—
“Does breathing like that help?” I ask.
She nods. “Yeah. It’s a focusing technique. It keeps me grounded in the moment. My therapist says that anxiety is about the future, it’s about all the things that might happen. But here in the moment, nothing terrible has happened yet. I haven’t driven you away again yet. I can still change it.”
Oh, god. I get down on the floor, kneeling in front of her, and take her hands. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll never do that to you again. Never.”
Kim’s face crumples and tears leak out of her eyes. “Maybe you should. I’m broken, and I hurt our family, and I can’t even tell my daughter the truth about why her parents got divorced.”
“I’m pretty sure a lot of kids don’t know the details about why their parents get divorced. Ivy’s mad, but that doesn’t mean she has a right to know everything about our personal lives.”
Kim’s voice is small. “Yeah, okay. But her mom having OCD is a big thing. It’s her medical history. I’m going to need to tell her eventually.”
I close my eyes. “But I had no right to push it on you like that. Ivy was asking me all these questions about whether we were going to get divorced again and why I left and how I knew it was different now. I thought it was important to explain it to her, but I also didn’t want to tell her things that are yours to tell when you’re ready.” My voice breaks. “I’m sorry, Kim. I’m so sorry.”
She shakes her head. “It’s okay. I’m not mad at you.”
“Maybe you should be,” I say.
“Maybe. But I know how Ivy gets when she asks questions. She’s a little interrogator sometimes.”
I smile. “I don’t know where she gets that.”
