Ivy

The second bit of bad news came at 6:11am. Good news seldom arrives at this hour; only births and deaths. Most people haven't even started their morning routine yet. I, on the other hand, had already been awake for hours.

"She's had what we refer to as a chemical overdose. It's potentially fatal this time."

Those were the only words which I retained from the doctor's phone call. His voice felt uncomfortable, not too dissimilar to the one who had called to notify me of my mother's passing only a few hours earlier. It struck me that neither piece of news was particularly surprising. There was no great shock or sense of inconsolable loss. It was an irrefutable truth that we had already lost Mum to dementia a few years ago.

I drove quicker than usual to the hospital to see my sister. Although we had lost touch some time ago, the idea of her being alone at this time didn't seem right. She didn't even know about Mum yet and now was certainly not the time to tell her. Would she even be conscious? We weren't particularly close, even as children, as she had always held the slightly skewed opinion that I was the favorite. She claimed on more than one occasion that Mum only wanted one child, and that Ivy was an afterthought. A mistake. A burden.

As I pulled up to the hospital and turned off the engine, I caught sight of the object which had been troubling me for the past 18 months. In one of her more lucid moments, Mum had quite vehemently insisted that I was to give Ivy her little black book when she passed on. I was not to open it until then, she had instructed. Not wanting to disrespect her wishes, I had kept it hidden in my car underneath the front passenger's seat. I reluctantly reached for it and bundled it into my duffel coat pocket.

When I reached Ivy's bedside, she was in a dreadful state. Her eyes were not open, but I could see that they were bloodshot and sunken into her once youthful face. Her face was pale and jaundiced with all the features of a wraith, but none of a young woman. The same mouth that used to tell such witty jokes and invent such wonderful stories, was now home to a few stained and rotten teeth. Her arms carried mangy scars of obvious conflicts; unending cycles of brutal debt collectors and unpredictable partners. This creature was not my sister. This body belonged to someone who no longer existed, and had not existed for many years. Nevertheless, I took my place on the chair beside her bed and rummaged in my pocket for the only reason I had bothered to come here.

Inside the little black book were scrawled a number of things; addresses, doodles, a recipe for stuffed courgettes. Mum's elegant handwriting was almost like a font in its consistent form. Suddenly, among the various fragments I found a section of prose; a letter penned to Ivy. I somehow felt that if I read aloud to her, I could almost pretend I was telling one of my own children a story. I swallowed the nervous lump in my throat and began:

To my beautiful daughter Ivy,

I know we haven't spoken of late. Please don't take this as a sign that I don't care. This letter was incredibly difficult to write, so I hope that you will take the time to read it.

I hoped that you would not have to read this letter, as I desperately wanted to make amends before I left this world. I have always loved both you and Aiden equally. You were destined for such greatness. As a child you would read for countless hours and then sing songs about the worlds you had discovered in books. I was always exceptionally proud of you and the fascinating way in which you saw the world.

When your father passed away, I know that it was hard for you both. Little things began to change over time. We didn't go on holiday as often and the purse strings were tightened so we could still afford decent meals. Over the years, I managed to save up enough money to leave both you and Aiden something for when I pass on. After the sale of the house where you grew up, the amount is roughly $20,000 for both of you to share. I know that this is not a fortune, but I hope it will be appreciated nonetheless.

I wish that I could tell you that I am proud of everything you have achieved, but I cannot deny that at one point in my life I was exceedingly disappointed in your choices. You had all the opportunities that others are so often denied, and tragically you instead chose to fill your head with poison rather than knowledge. As such, although I will always love you unconditionally, I can no longer trust you. I have therefore made the difficult decision to transfer your money temporarily to Aiden until such a time as you are sober and stable enough to spend it responsibly. I trust that he will do right by me and relinquish your money when you have earned it.

I hope that this letter finds you somewhere safe and warm, where you can try and rebuild your life. There is nothing I regret more than pushing you out of mine. Without you, my life is more hollow, more empty and more broken than I imagine yours could ever have been. I forgive you for all your errors and I don't blame you for your actions. Please don't feel that I ever harbored any resentment towards you. I couldn't bear the thought of you feeling like we never got the chance to say goodbye properly.

Until we meet again.

All my love,

Mum

I sat there for what seemed like a lifetime. I blinked slowly and my eyes scanned over the letter again and again, just to make sure I was reading it correctly. I couldn't help thinking about all the times Ivy had taken advantage of Mum's gentle nature. The time when she broke into our house and stole all the copper wiring she could find to repay a loan shark. The time when she turned up unannounced to one of Mum's dinner parties and humiliated her without any sense of remorse or dignity. The time when she turned up at my own house with an enormous open wound on her face and angrily demanded to see my children.

I stood up slowly and looked at Ivy, but saw no one that I recognized. Instead I saw her namesake; a creeping plant that at first glance seems marvelous, but has the power to disintegrate entire homes brick by agonizing brick, as it seeps into every crevice until the home is uninhabitable. As I walked away from her, the better part of me really wanted to pass her the notebook.