We chose the public library for our first meeting.
Grace said Ivy loved the upstairs reading room.
It had a big window and a table shaped like a boat.
I arrived early.
I sat in my car until my hands stopped shaking.
Then I walked in carrying a small paper bag.
Inside was a sketchbook.
No expensive present.
No attempt to purchase affection.
Just thick paper for a girl who liked drawing.
Grace waved from the far end of the room.
Ivy was standing beside her.
She wore red sneakers and a denim jacket.
The photograph had not prepared me for her height.
It hadn't prepared me for her voice either.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi, Ivy."
She looked at my hands.
"Did you bring something?"
I laughed nervously.
"I did. I hope that's okay."
I gave her the sketchbook.
She turned the pages.
"These are good pages."
"I'm glad."
We sat at the boat table.
Grace took a chair close enough to see us but far enough to let Ivy speak.
For the first few minutes, we talked about school.
Ivy had a teacher who wore mismatched socks.
She had a best friend named Nora.
She liked science experiments involving water.
She disliked spelling tests.
I told her I hated spelling tests too.
"You're grown up," she said.
"That doesn't mean I've forgotten."
She smiled.
It was a small, sideways smile.
Paul used to smile that way when he was holding back a joke.
I didn't say so.
Then she asked whether I knew he liked fishing.
"I did."
"He took me once."
"Was he any good?"
"No. We didn't catch anything."
I laughed.
"That sounds like Paul."
She looked relieved.
As if I'd confirmed something important.
We walked to the shelves of children's nonfiction books.
Ivy showed me a book about bridges.
"My dad liked these," she said.
"He did. Very much."
"Did he ever make you learn the names?"
"All of them. Against my will."
She grinned.
For a moment we were just two people sharing a funny memory.
Then she asked the question I had dreaded.
"Were you mad when you found out about me?"
Grace looked up from her chair.
I knelt so we were closer to eye level.
"I was hurt that the grown-ups hadn't told me the truth."
Ivy watched my face.
"Were you mad at me?"
"No. Never at you."
She considered that.
"Mom said grown-ups make mistakes."
"She's right."
"Big ones?"
"Sometimes very big ones."
She nodded and returned the book to the shelf.
I didn't offer a long explanation.
She wasn't responsible for making me feel better.
We stayed for forty-five minutes.
When it was time to leave, Ivy asked if we could meet again.
I looked at Grace.
Then back at Ivy.
"I'd like that. We can plan something with your aunt."
Ivy accepted the answer.
She waved from the car window as they pulled away.
I stood on the sidewalk after the car disappeared.
There had been no magical transformation.
I hadn't become someone's substitute mother.
I hadn't forgiven Paul.
But the girl in the photograph now had a voice.
She had favorite books.
She made jokes about terrible fishing trips.
She worried about spelling.
I drove home through light rain.
At a stoplight I thought of the rabbit's purple ear.
I wondered whether Paul had taken the sewing kit from our garage for that repair.
He might have.
The thought hurt.
It also seemed absurdly ordinary.
His secret life had not consisted only of dramatic meetings.
It had consisted of errands and snacks and a child asking him to fix a toy.
I pulled into my driveway and sat for a moment.
Then I called Claire.
"How was it?" she asked.
"She made me laugh."
"That sounds good."
"It was. And it wasn't."
"Both?"
"Both."
Inside, I moved Paul's photograph back onto the mantel.
I still couldn't look at it comfortably.
But turning his face to the wall no longer felt like a way to protect myself.
I let the photograph stand.
Then I went to the kitchen and made dinner for one.
Before leaving for the library, I changed my clothes three times.
The first dress was too formal.
The second made me feel as if I were going to work.
I finally chose jeans and a blue sweater.
I wanted to look like myself.
Then I remembered that Ivy didn't know what myself looked like.
I laughed at the thought.
There was no way to dress correctly for meeting a child who shared my late husband's face.
I packed tissues in my bag.
I hoped I wouldn't need them.
On the drive I rehearsed answers to difficult questions.
What was Dad like?
Why didn't you know me?
Did you hate my mom?
Every answer became too long.
I stopped rehearsing at a red light.
When Ivy took the sketchbook, I noticed a small scar near her eyebrow.
Paul had one in almost the same place.
I wanted to ask how she got it.
I didn't.
Children don't enjoy having every feature examined like evidence.
She showed me a drawing of a horse.
It had unusually short legs.
I asked if that was deliberate.
"Maybe," she said mischievously.
We both laughed.
I told her Paul made the same mistake.
She looked pleased.
Later she asked whether I liked animals.
I told her about the dog Paul and I adopted.
We'd named him Pepper.
Pepper died two years after Paul.
Ivy wanted to know what he looked like.
I showed her a picture on my phone.
She studied it carefully.
"He has friendly eyes."
"He did."
"Did he miss Dad?"
I considered the question.
"I think he noticed Paul wasn't there."
She stroked the edge of the phone case.
"My rabbit doesn't notice."
"No. Rabbits made of stuffing are lucky that way."
She smiled and returned the phone.
As we left, I asked whether she wanted me to bring more photographs of Pepper next time.
"Yes, please."
I wrote that down as soon as I reached the car.
It was a small promise.
I wanted to remember it.
At home I found three pictures of Pepper sleeping on Paul's shoes.
I printed them at the pharmacy.
Then I put them in a plain envelope for our next visit.
I didn't send them immediately.
It felt good to have something ordinary to look forward to.
The following week, Ivy asked to see more pictures of Pepper.
I brought the envelope to the library.
She spread the prints across the table.
Her favorite showed Pepper asleep under the kitchen chair.
"He looks like a potato," she said.
"A very furry potato."
She laughed so hard that a librarian glanced toward us.
We lowered our voices.
Ivy asked whether Pepper had liked Paul more than me.
"He liked whoever had a snack," I answered.
She pointed to a photograph.
"Is that your old kitchen?"
"Yes."
"It looks nice."
I noticed the yellow flowers in the background.
Paul had bought them for an anniversary.
The photograph was from before I knew anything about Hannah or Ivy.
I felt a familiar ache.
Then Ivy asked if I still had the blue curtains.
"No. I changed them last year."
"What color now?"
"Green."
"Good choice."
She sounded like a decorator.
We spent the rest of the visit discussing paint colors.
Grace joined us at the end.
She told Ivy it was time to leave.
Ivy put the pictures neatly back in their envelope.
"Can I have a copy of the potato one?"
"Of course."
I wrote myself a reminder.
On the way home I felt the familiar mixture of comfort and grief.
I had not hidden the photograph because it showed my old house.
I had shared it because Ivy wanted to know about a dog.
For that afternoon, the picture had become something uncomplicated.
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: The Records From Paul’s Old Account Forced Me to Separate Money From Grief
The Black Canvas Bag Beside Paul’s Headstone Held a Photograph I Had Never Seen
Part 8 of 16
