Devil’s Ivy - A Short Story

The plant sat on her desk unloved. She barely watered it, barely looked at it. A symbol that at one time someone cared about her or had even though about her enough to give her a gift. Or perhaps it was just a metaphor for her own life.

For the first time in months, she really looked at the plant. She couldn’t even remember the name of it. The leaves were both dark green and light in that typical leaf shape that everyone would recognise. It was vine like in its appearance, perhaps a bit like the dark ivy that grew on the wall of her childhood house. Maybe if she moved the plant to her bookshelf, it might do the same here. But again, she hadn’t given the plant much thought since she got it. She only remembered to water it because it sat in front of her while she worked.

The plant was nothing special, the only life in her apartment besides herself. She often looked at the plant thinking it was a pretty good representation of her. Often forgotten and overlooked, neglected but still managed to grow in the harsh conditions. Her childhood had not been easy and when both of her parents died, she was somewhat relieved. Caring for them had taken a toll giving up her childhood to care for them.

She never complained though. She made do, it was all she knew. The kids at school had no idea about her home life. Her teachers if they did notice never said anything. Her homework was always done on time. She was always in class and always well behaved. Her aim was to go unnoticed. Which she always did. Even now, she was a writer, staying at home most of the time. This age of technology meant everything could be brought to her.

She no longer lived in her family home. Once she turned eighteen, she sold the family house and moved to a small one-bedroom apartment in the city. She didn’t want or need much. The apartment was a light grey and sparsely furnished, a dull monotone residence. With a dining table, chairs and a lounge in the small living space with a small desk by one of the windows next to a large bookshelf. The bedroom contained only her bed and bedside tables. The rest of the family’s furniture had been sold. It now meant she had substantial savings so could follow her dream of writing.

It was the escape she needed. As a child she would tell her parents stories to entertain them or read to them. The library was the only other time she left her parents alone. Now she had shelves full of books that she had bought over time. Books to inspire and to continue to feed her need to escape. Then she started to write down the stories she told her parents. It was freeing to write it all down. To release all the creativity that had been pushed down her whole life. It had been easy to write and took her very little time to complete.

Looking back at the plant she took in the leaves. Each one unique, a long thine spine with multiple lines that resembled the nerves in the human body. The elements that nourish the leaf as the human body is nourished and maintained. Looking after her parents had meant learning everything about the human body and how it functioned, or didn’t function in her parent’s case with both her mother and father developing cancer not long after she entered primary school. Neither had lived healthy lives and nothing changed once she had come along. An accident she was told, they should never have had her. So, she took care of herself and took care of them. She had no idea where the money came from, only that they never ran out. It was only after they died that she discovered they had been wealthy once. Most of the money had gone by the time they died, but there was enough to keep her going until she could make her own.

Now she was alone she didn’t have to care for anyone or anything. Then someone gave her the plant. It had been a housewarming present from one of her new neighbours. She accepted it gracefully, not wanting to offend the young mother who had dropped by with a small child on her hip. The neighbour must have sensed her apprehension and explained it didn’t need much to look after. A little light and water and it would be fine. Two years later it was still alive, and she was a little proud of that.

She smiled to herself at the thought. Proud. No one had ever told her they were proud of her. Her parents had never bothered to ask about her school, she had no grandparents or aunts or uncles to tell her. As far as she was aware she was completely alone in the world, and she was okay with that. She said hi to her neighbours when she saw them but made no move to get to know them. She lived in the city now, no one knew their neighbours or cared about each other. It was just her and the plant against the world.

She decided to give the plant a name, Ivy. It seemed appropriate. She liked the thought that the plant had a name. Maybe she could learn to look after the plant and make it grow.

Turning back to the computer she had work to do. She had written a manuscript and sent it to a few publishers. One of them had decided they wanted it and now it was being finalised. Soon it would be published, opening the recently received email from the she read about the book tour she would have to go on. She had no idea this was something she would have to do and hated the idea of leaving her apartment. Talking to people had never been a strength of hers.

A couple of weeks later the book was ready and the tour was upon her. Thankfully starting here in her own city. She took some comfort in that as she made her way downstairs to the car that awaited her. The publisher had taken care of everything. All her travel and accommodation booked. Moving from her hometown to the city had been the furthest she had ever travelled, and this tour had overwhelmed her when she first read the itinerary. The publisher assured her she would have an assistant with her the whole time.

Yesterday she tested herself and went to the neighbour who gave her the plant. She explained she would betravelling for two months and could she collect the mail for her. The neighbour smiled broadly as though she was excited to help the lonely young woman she saw in the halls and offered to look after the plant as well. She was taken aback at the offer but grateful. The neighbour wished her luck on the tour. It was the longest conversation she had with someone other than her publisher.

Sitting in the car on the way to her first appearance she reflected on what was expected of her. She would read an excerpt from one of the stories and answer questions. She reasoned that she would be fine as she doubted many people would turn up, if any.

As the car pulled up, she noticed a line of people outside the store. She could only assume that someone else was going to be here too. The publisher had mentioned that some stops would include other authors promoting their books. So, she took no notice of the people as she was ushered into the store.

For the next few moments before the store opened, they set up the microphone and ensured she had everything she needed. Standing at the lectern looking at the number of chairs filling the space she realised she was the only one speaking today. That the people outside were waiting for her. Panic set in. Her heart rate increased along with short shallow breathing. She desperately looked around the room for an escape. Instead, someone came up to her and took her hands in theirs and began to rub them. She was so surprised by the action; it was enough to shock her system back into a normal rhythm. She watched the person assisting her and was almost overtaken by a wave of emotion. No one had ever done something like this for her. For someone to notice and help her was a little overwhelming.

She said thank you for the assistance and they nodded as they went back to whatever they had just been doing. She took a deep breath and steadied herself. She could do this. If no one else could be proud of her she would just have to proud of herself and all she had done.

As the doors opened the store was flooded with people all chatting and looking around at the space. She took the time to look around the bookshop herself. She ordered most of her books online and couldn’t remember if she had ever been in a book shop. This shop was large, with a lot of natural light coming in. Huge racks of books lining most of the store except for the space she was standing in. As though the shop had been purpose built to host events like this. It wasn’t sterile like the library in her hometown, but it wasn’t the most welcoming place either.

Looking out at the crowd the publisher stood up to introduce her. Listening to the words they said it felt to her that it was someone else they were talking about, not her. When the clapping began her own ears began to ring. The publisher smiled warmly and beckoned her to the lectern. The look of excitement in the crowd was enough to help her through the reading and the question and answer. There were no difficult questions, each easily answered. Soon the time was up and now she would greet the audience and sign books for them. After what felt like hours and with a cramping hand she was done. The crowd was gone, and the publisher was brimming with joy at the success of the first stop. The first of many successful stops.

That night she was flown to the next city for the next stop on the tour. The next two months flew by. She met hundreds of people all over the country who were all excited to meet her and talk to her about her stories. They remarked on the inspiration and help provided during their own dark times. By the time they arrived back in her home city the book had gained a lot of momentum and was now a best seller. Her publisher assured her the payments would all go through in the next few days, and she would call about another book. All she wanted was to go home and sleep in her own space, by herself.

When she arrived, she walked to her desk to find her plant thriving, it had grown while she was away. The plant had progressed out of the pot and along her desk. Although it was the same plant it had been feed and watered and nurtured to become stronger and perhaps more resilient.

She walked down to her neighbour’s apartment and knocked on the door.

‘Thank you,’ was all she could say, with emotion in her voice and a tear in the corner of her eye.

‘You’re welcome,’ the neighbour answered gripping the young woman’s hands.