Page 2 of Harvested By The Mountain Man
I lean my hip against the counter and watch the porch light next door blink off. “I keep wondering if I’m doing her a disservice. Filling her head with magic. Setting her up for disappointment.”
“You mean stories?”
“I mean happy endings.”
Marcy’s pause is short and not unkind. “You wanted happy endings once too.”
“I also wanted a partner,” I say quietly. The words scrape on the way out. “Someone who shows up when the sink clogs and the car won’t start and the kid is home with a fever and you haven’t had a proper haircut in eight months.”
“Do you want me to remind you of the many, many ways in which the sperm donor failed the partner test?”
“No,” I say, a laugh catching me by surprise. “I was there.”
“Right,” she says. “So maybe the lesson isn’t not believing in magic. Maybe it’s being choosy about the magician.”
I open the fridge and stare at the shelf where the milk should be. “We’re out of milk again.”
“Which is why you’re going to the ranch tomorrow,” she says, undeterred. “Maybe they’ll have milk there.”
“They have a little market,” I say. “I promised her pumpkins.”
“Ivy deserves pumpkins the size of small planets,” Marcy says. “And you deserve to let yourself have a nice day that doesn’t feel like a test. That’s not illegal, you know.”
I sit at the small kitchen table and trace a finger over the nick where Ivy banged a spoon into the wood while we made pancakes last Sunday. “Sometimes the stories make her ask questions I can’t answer.”
“Like?”
“Like does the prince love her forever. Will he help with dishes.” I rub my forehead. “She doesn’t use those words, but that’s what I hear.”
“And you’re worried that if you say yes, you’re lying. If you say no, you’re stealing something.”
“Exactly.”
Marcy sighs in that way she has that sounds both wise and tired. “You don’t have to answer the future. You can answer the moment. You can say real love looks like showing up. Some people don’t. Some do. And then you show her the ones who do. The librarian who stayed late so the kids could finish their pumpkin crafts. Mr. Jenkins who fixed your leaky faucet because he was a genuine nice neighbor. The world is not short on magic. It’s just not always wearing a ball gown.”
“You’re irritating when you’re right.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m nearly always right.” A crash on her end, then muffled voices. “Okay, I have to go stop my middle child from inventing fire. But promise me you’ll take pictures tomorrow. And have the hot cider. And for the love of all things autumn, do not buy the pre-carved pumpkin with glitter eyebrows again.”
“That was one time,” I protest. “And Ivy loved it.”
“Because it had glitter eyebrows,” she says. “Go to bed at a reasonable hour. Tomorrow is for fun and making memories.”
“Goodnight, Marcy.”
“Night, Han.”
The call clicks off. I put the dishes in the dishwasher and start it, the hum filling the quiet like a cat purring. I set out Ivy’s sneakers by the door and her favorite yellow sweater. I fish my own sweater from the back of a chair and shake out a crumpled grocery receipt from the sleeve. There’s a peace in these small preparations, like I’m laying down breadcrumbs to lead us somewhere better.
In the bathroom, I wash my face and catch my reflection in the foggy mirror. The woman looking back at me could pass for pretty if pretty had dark circles and a ponytail that gives up its fight by noon. I pat moisturizer into my skin and think about the way Ivy’s hand felt in mine when we crossed the street this afternoon. It’s so small. It trusts so completely. I can carry that trust. I can be the place it lands.
On the way to bed, I pause by Ivy’s door. She has kicked the quilt into a mountain between her knees and the headboard and is sprawled like a starfish in a puddle of silver light from the window. Her stuffed rabbit, Queen Lettuce, is wedged under her arm. I tiptoe in and ease the blanket back over her, tucking it under the curve of her shoulder. She sighs and burrows down.
Back in my room, I crack the window. Cool air slips in, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke. Even from here, in this rental with the thin walls, I can feel autumn gathering itself. Kids will be bringing home construction-paper bats any day now. The coffee shop has already offered fall favorites. The grocery store will shove canned cranberry sauce onto an endcap and pretend we’re ready for all of it.
I climb into bed and pull the covers to my chin. The book on my nightstand is not a fairytale. It’s a collection of photographs and poems about urban gardens and the way plants find cracks to grow in. I don’t open it. My eyes are heavy. ButI silently wonder how something grows wild … beginning in the dark, only to make its appearance in unpredictable places.
“Maybe magic still exists,” I whisper into the dark.
