Flowers for Mom

Trigger Warning: Mentions of past violence, murder, and substance abuse.

I always collected the yellow flowers for the grave—daffodils and black-eyed Susans in a neat, careful bundle. Then I’d trudge back through the woods, pine needles crunching beneath my boots, until I reached the weathered rock with “MOM” painted haphazardly by my sister’s ten-year-old hands. My sister was already there, clutching a fistful of purple coneflowers as she kneeled before the rock. Twelve-years-old now, Ivy had come to terms with our mother’s death, but she’d traded her grief for rage. As I knelt beside her, the blame in her dark eyes was palpable.

I sighed, refusing to meet her wrathful gaze, and set down my flowers before the mossy rock. Ivy continued to glare at me, her eyes burning a hole into my face, but after a long moment, she deposited her flowers beside mine. I watched her long fingers—fingers made for piano just like our mother’s—release the bundle painfully, as if the action killed another piece of her. My vision blurred as memories of picking flowers for our mother flashed before me—flowers she’d proudly displayed on our kitchen table—until our father destroyed them.

Until he’d destroyed everything.

A shaky sigh escaped my lips, gaining Ivy’s attention. I finally met her eyes, my own still brimming with tears, which only incensed her further. She shook her head in disgust, sending her deep brown curls flying. Ivy wouldn’t cry. She hadn’t on the last anniversary of our mother’s death either. Honestly, I couldn’t remember if she’d cried at all since her death, as if Ivy had decided against showing weakness altogether.

“How could you leave her, Piper?” she asked. Her words were quiet, but they cut like a knife. “You could’ve gone back for her. Why didn’t you?”

Strangled words struggled to float to the surface, but I couldn’t expel them. I couldn’t begin to sift through the thoughts that spiraled through my head. How could I explain this to her? How could I explain that the moment she’d been born, she’d become my only priority? I still remembered the first time I’d held her, the terror that had coursed through my body because another child had been brought into our household. I’d been nine years old, and I’d decided that my only goal in life was to protect her.

And when I’d turned eighteen, that meant leaving mom behind.

“Ivy,” I forced out. “We wouldn’t have been safe if we brought her with us. You know she would’ve gone home. She would’ve gone back to dad and told him where we were.” I reached out to tuck a curl behind her ear. “She was an addict, Ivy,” I said gently. “She would’ve gone back for dad’s supply of drugs.”

Ivy pushed my hand away and shot to her feet. “You could’ve taken her,” she insisted. “She wasn’t a monster like dad. She just needed help. You could’ve gotten her help.”

“I tried to get her help so many times—”

“You left her,” Ivy snapped. “You left her knowing that we all would’ve been dead ten times over if not for us protecting each other from dad. You knew he’d kill her.”

Tears cascaded down my cheeks, but I didn’t know if Ivy even saw. She stormed off through the trees, leaving me with the rock that was only that—a rock. I’d never sit at my mother’s true grave. Even with our father imprisoned for life, I could never return to that town, and perhaps one of the reasons for that…had to do with what Ivy had just said.

Had I known? Had I known when I’d taken Ivy and run away that our father would kill our mother? Had I sacrificed her for Ivy’s safety?

My inner voice whispered the answer I dreaded, the answer I’d buried in the darkest depths of my mind. Of course I’d known. Without me defending against our father’s attacks, without me driving our mother to the hospital when he’d beaten her ruthlessly, she would die.

And then she did.

On the kitchen floor, the cops had said.

Alone.

After hours of suffering.

I stifled a sob and closed my eyes hard enough to break capillaries in my eyelids. I put my face in my hands, the guilt I’d denied for so long ravaging me.

“I’m so sorry, mom,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

***

Ivy had barely uttered a word to me in two days. I supposed I deserved it. I spent my time in a daze, going through the motions at work, waiting on customers with a limp smile. I wasn’t good at feigning stoicism like Ivy, however, and the diner’s manager noticed I was off. But I assured her I was fine, which was easy when no one in this rural town knew about my past. They’d gossiped in the beginning—did you hear about the eighteen-year-old girl that turned up with her kid sister and rented that dilapidated house on Black Creek Drive?—but I’d long fit in now. I had a new life, and I liked to pretend the old one had never happened.

When I slammed the door to my car, I stared at the once-dilapidated house on Black Creek Drive. It had barely been livable when Ivy and I had first shown up—holes in the roof, mice in the walls, broken appliances, a rotting porch—which is why it had been so cheap. It was all I could afford as an eighteen-year-old with minimal savings. I’d tried hard to save up with my multiple jobs before running away, but then Ivy would need new shoes, or new clothes, or a new backpack. Or there was no food in the house, which made sense since our father primarily survived on alcohol.

I walked up the stone path to the gray wooden house surrounded by pines. I’d fixed up a lot of the house myself, with help from people I’d befriended at the hardware store. It had been a long process, but now, I felt like me and Ivy had a true home for the first time ever. Of course, I didn’t know if Ivy felt the same. I unlocked the deadbolt before stepping inside, dreading that we’d be home together all weekend.

Ivy didn’t glance up from the kitchen table when I walked in. I doubted she was so engrossed in her homework. She was still ignoring me. As I slipped off my shoes, I contemplated starting a conversation, but the thought alone exhausted me. I walked past her, the hardwood floor creaking beneath my feet, and headed for the hall that led to the bedrooms, but then Ivy finally spoke to me for the first time in days.

“It must be nice,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Pretending that our old life never existed.”

I stopped dead before swiveling on my heel. “Excuse me?”

“You never want to talk about it,” she said accusingly, throwing me an angry glance. “You haven’t told any of your friends, and you told me not to talk about it with anyone else. You don’t want to process it. You just want to sweep it under the rug. Sweep mom under the rug.”

I was practically shaking with fury, yet what she’d said was partially true. How could I deny it? I did want to forget about it. I wished she would too.

“Well?” Ivy pressed, facing me fully. “Now’s the time to talk about it.”

“What do you want me to say?” I asked, throwing up my hands.

“I want you to say how you feel,” she demanded, slamming a fist against the table.

“Fine,” I snapped, yet it was a hard request. I was terrified that once the words started coming, I wouldn’t be able to stop. “You don’t know what it was like,” I began. “You were the younger sibling. You didn’t have to worry about me, but when you were born…it was the scariest thing that ever happened to me.”

My shoulders drooped, exhaustion setting in already. Slowly, I sat down beside Ivy, facing her.

“I know you loved mom,” I said. “And I did too. She wasn’t a monster, no. She just needed help. But still, Ivy…” I swallowed, knowing this was why I couldn’t talk about her. It was a constant battle within me, bouncing between crippling guilt and resentment for my mother. “When she returned home from errands, she would forget you and leave you in the car in the heat of summer. She would forget to feed you. She would put you down in the house and forget where you were.”

I reached for Ivy’s hands, surprised when she let me take them. “I used to go to school and just worry about you. Worry about mom leaving you somewhere, or dad shaking you when you cried. So, when I was older, and it came time to leave…” I blinked back tears. “I chose you, Ivy, and only you. You are my everything, and I couldn’t have mom put all of us at risk. If dad found us…”

I didn’t have to finish that sentence. Ivy knew what would’ve happened, and I reminded myself with relief that dad was behind bars.

To my surprise, Ivy’s eyes grew glossy. Then she spoke so quietly, I could barely hear her.

“I’m sorry I blamed you,” she whispered. “It wasn’t your fault.” She swallowed, struggling to speak. “It was mine.”

My brows furrowed in bewilderment. “What? What are you talking about? It’s not your fault.”

A flicker of anger flashed across her dainty features as her eyes threatened to spill over. “We had to leave so suddenly,” she said. “Because of me. And maybe, if we’d had more time to plan things, we could’ve figured out how to take her with us safely.”

I pursed my lips, remembering that night. It had been a week before my eighteenth birthday, when I’d still been planning my escape with Ivy, and wondering how on earth I could take mom with us. I’d been working a busy shift at a nearby restaurant when nine-year-old Ivy arrived in hysterics. Barefoot, bloodied, and having stolen a bike to get to my workplace before dad could, Ivy confessed she’d defended herself from dad by breaking a beer bottle against his head. We’d made a mad dash for my car just as dad drunkenly pulled into the parking lot. Then we’d made another mad dash home to pack what we could and say goodbye to our mother, who was passed out from the drugs.

I’d hated her in that moment. While her child was being beaten, she was passed out. Ivy had tried to shake her awake, tried so hard to say goodbye, but I didn’t even try.

And that was my last memory of her.

“Ivy,” I said, pushing away the guilt that was overtaking me. “It’s not your fault. Please don’t ever think that.”

I hugged her to me then, which she shockingly allowed. Her body rocked in my arms, her sobs muffled against my shoulder. I spoke softly into her ear.

“You know how I said you being born was the scariest thing that ever happened to me?” I whispered. She nodded against me. “It was also the best thing that ever happened to me,” I choked out, my voice cracking. “Because without you, I wouldn’t have had anything to live for.”

Ivy sat back to face me, her curls sticking to her cheeks. I smoothed them behind her ears and kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry that I haven’t talked about it. I’m sorry if my refusing to process it has affected your ability to process it. I promise you we’ll get through this together.”

Ivy nodded, a weak smile on her face. “That’s all I want. And…maybe we can talk about her sometimes? About the good memories.”

I nodded, knowing those good memories would lead to more tidal waves of guilt, but perhaps it would subside with time. Perhaps one day, I’d be able to forgive myself.