Susie Yang - White ivy

Norman returned from his call. He pulled his chair closer to Andrea’s before sitting down, draping one arm around her shoulder. Both of them assumed a posture of grinning anticipation, as if waiting for Ivy to say Cheeeeese and take their photograph. She excused herself. Moments later, she heard their footsteps tread quietly up the stairs. She lay on her bed, waiting. It soon came. The rhythmic squeaks of a mattress, thumps of a headboard hitting the wall, a woman’s muffled moans—sounds of passion that Ivy might once have mistaken for sounds of love. Or maybe it was both. Love. Passion. Money. That they could all coexist in the ordinary, unspectacular bodies of Andrea and Norman seemed to Ivy the most miraculous of things.

PERHAPS BECAUSE OF the hair and corduroys, Andrea’s new boyfriend reminded Ivy of Daniel Sullivan, the man she, too, had thought would propose on their big trip to Vermont, but who instead told her she wasn’t wife material, that she was guarded, he didn’t know who she really was. Daniel was the only man she’d ever begged for love, perhaps the only true heartbreak of her life thus far. And still he hadn’t trusted her. She’d thought he was going to propose and he’d dumped her. She thought Gideon would dump her and he’d proposed. So why couldn’t Andrea have Machu Picchu with her new billionaire?

Early on in their relationship, Daniel had taken her on a weekend hiking trip to the White Mountains in New Hampshire. They’d hiked for six hours until her heels were bloody and her toes blistered under her wool socks. She hadn’t complained because she’d still been trying to impress him by embracing his hobbies as her own. Andrea would soon see for herself—all that sweat and blood women spilled, it was usually for nothing.

The trail they followed that day was one Daniel had created on one of his solo mountaineering trips. Ivy could still see it because he had made her memorize it in case they got separated. There was no cell service, no forest ranger for miles. The mountain had many sharp turns and mossy holds, he said, but it would be worth it because the view was spectacular. And it was. At the top of that cliff, the sky was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

On the way down, Daniel had boasted that only adventurous hikers could brave such terrain. “Do you know how many people have died in these mountains?” He listed the dangers around them: snakes and bears, drowning on the river crossing, a simple misstep that would lead to a hundred-foot drop over the cliffs. She’d had the thought that he didn’t value her life much, to bring her here so early on in their relationship, without having taken any precautionary measures for her safety. Looking back, however, she only felt thankful for the experience. Danger often created unique opportunities. Daniel had understood that.

That night, the thumping noises of hail hitting the window became, in Ivy’s dreams, the sound of Daniel’s hiking boots striding in front of her over the narrow, rain-soaked path. The backs of his heels were coated with mud and dry grass, a little mud even smeared on his herringbone gray wool socks. Once more she saw the yellow dust around the muddy, curved bend; the tiny wildflowers that poked through the underpass; the hidden platform off the top of the ledge; the V-shaped ditch, a hundred feet below, lined with ragged boulders and spires, impossible to climb back up once a person fell down down down .

SHE WOKE WITH the taste of mud in her mouth. Her room was so dark she thought it was still night, but when she flicked on the lamp, her clock read half past noon. She checked the weekly forecast on her phone. Little frost symbols lined the calendar. Three days , pattered her heart. She called Roux. She didn’t expect him to answer; in fact, she was already rallying herself to get up, dress, and drive over to Astor Towers to pound on his door. She was unprepared for his short but resigned “Hello?” Her mouth hung open in silence until he said, “Look, don’t get any ideas. I just wanted to ask about your grandmother.”

“My grandmother?”

“You texted me that she’s in the hospital. What happened?”

“Oh!” Choked up with gratitude at his concern, Ivy told him about Meifeng’s surgery.

“I’m glad it wasn’t more serious,” he said.

“Did I tell you about my parents’ new warehouse?” Without waiting for his reply, she began rambling about the Lins’ business in a bright, showy tone, like a person suddenly thrown onstage with the threat of being stoned to death if she didn’t keep the audience’s attention.

“So they’ve pulled themselves into middle-class respectability,” said Roux. “Just like you’ve always wanted.”

“I guess.”

“Good. I’m happy for you.”

“Roux?”

“What?”

The aggression in his “What?” made her withdraw what she’d been going to ask, which was if he’d reconsidered his ridiculous blackmail, and instead the words “We never did take that trip we talked about” slid glibly off her tongue, as if they’d always been there, simply waiting until her denial and futile prayers fell away like the last dead leaves on a brittle tree branch.

There was a long pause. Then—“You mean I wanted to take. You never did anything but make excuses.”

“What about Sunday?” she said. “Are you free on Sunday?” That Sunday was the deadline he’d given her for telling Gideon was not lost on either of them.

“Depends on where we’re going,” he said grimly.

“It’s a surprise. There’s something I want to tell you.”

Even his breathing sounded cantankerous. “If you think—”

“Just come. Please.”

“Don’t expect it to change anything.”

“I know.”

“Fine.”

Ivy’s entire body began to tremble. The momentum of it all left her light-headed; she felt both out of control and certain of absolute power.

“Believe me,” she said, “it’ll change everything. This place is a bit of a drive, but worth it. I promise.”

He asked if she would be driving.

“My car doesn’t have four-wheel drive. Can you pick me up? Dress warmly. And bring a bottle of your best whiskey.”

“What for?”

“We’ll be celebrating.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

SNOW FELL ON Friday. Softly, blanketing Newbury Street with a newborn fuzz. In the distance were the sounds of sirens, of people dying and others rushing to save them. Ivy walked on, numb with cold, the sky bleak and empty and vast.

At the pharmacy, she purchased her usual Lucky Strikes, cold medicine, a six-pack energy drink, sourdough pretzels that were on sale, and a little bottle of red nail polish called Alight in Flames. Next to the pharmacy was a sleek little hair salon with cushy red velvet chairs and floors polished to a gleaming marble white. Suddenly, nothing seemed as important as getting a haircut. She went inside. Underlying the overly perfumed air was the smell of synthetic chemicals. The stylists, in black leather jeans and black Doc Martens, were more beautiful than the clients sitting in the chairs.

“What are we doing today?” asked the stylist as she ran her fingers through Ivy’s limp black locks, four days unwashed, hanging to her breasts.

They stared at the same reflection, the stylist with professional astuteness, Ivy with bone-deep loathing. She was so sick of the face staring back at her: the hard practicality of the brown-black eyes, the once round cheeks now sunken into two crescents, a puckered bloodless mouth, a smoker’s mouth, aging her a decade.

“I want a change,” she said. She evaluated the stylist’s sleek, platinum-blond hair. The stylist was an Asian woman, yet she had platinum-blond hair because no one had told her she couldn’t, and it was arrogantly resplendent. “I want your color,” said Ivy. “That exact shade.”