her in 1918, when the flu swept through the world, cleaning out the dusty corners and finding everyone...even those of us who lived quiet lives in small towns like Forest Grove, New York.
I turned fifteen that year, and Ivy, fourteen. Our parents always babied and favored her, so she seemed younger then. Even though our mother was far too ill to pull me aside and give me a dramatic talk about passing the torch, I still believed she’d want me to be the one to look after our household. I was her best helper, and I took that role seriously. It was my job to watch over Ivy, my father and our home, Adams House, as well.
None of that seemed to matter to Ivy and Father when I had to coax them in from their garden every night. It was our evening ritual of cat and mouse. I cooked and then had to chase them, and by the time we were seated around the dining room table, the meal I’d prepared would be cold.
Mother and Father had traveled the world before they found out I was “on the way.” That’s when they gave up their vagabond ways and returned to Father’s ancestral home. I always believed that Adams House belonged to me. It became a living breathing part of my soul. Every clapboard of it, each column, all the curved arches. Mine. From its spires to the precarious-looking turrets, to the wide, wraparound porch. All mine. None of them loved it as much as I did. I considered Adams House to be a full member of the family, and as the years went by after Mother died, I took solace in the fact that I’d traded in the last bit of my childhood for full ownership. Adams House would be my legacy, payment in full for the years I spent in charge.
“Are you coming in or aren’t you?” I shouted out the top of the cottage door in the kitchen. “I prepared your favorite, Papa. Beef stew and biscuits. If you don’t come inside now, it will be a pasty mess.”
That evening was damp and raw. There’d been a lot of rain, and I watched the two of them come up from the ground, each with mud on their knees and flushed with the raw spring winds. Ivy began to yell something back at me, but father hushed her, placed his arm around her shoulders and guided her toward the house. It was good to see some pink in his cheeks. He’d gotten a pale, gray look over the winter months. I’d started to worry over him.
“Make sure you clean up before you take your seats,” I said.
“Make up your mind, Rose. Do you want us eating cold food or not?” said Ivy.
Father interjected before the two of us could begin a real argument. We always seemed to begin to argue if there was less than ten feet between us.
“Don’t fret, Rosemary. We’ll wash our hands at least.”
“There’s soapy water in a basin in the sink already. I know how long it takes to wash hands, so make sure you don’t dally. The both of you,” I said and returned to the dining room to arrange the silver.
Though we were twenty-two and twenty-one respectively, Ivy’d held on to her childish ways, and our Father never discouraged her. Ivy, at dinner, absolutely had to sit next to the French doors closest to the foyer so she could bolt from the room as soon as the meal was over. She despised being still and any sort of hard work, and was always running off here or there, dropping everything at the first opportunity to go on trips with Father, or swim and frolic in the small lake next to our house.
My wild little sister, Ivy, made the promise I’d given my mother—to watch over her—difficult to keep. She was different from the rest of us in both demeanor and appearance.
I’d always wondered if the physical contrasts between Ivy and myself were a manifestation of our distinctive personalities and constant disagreement. I had light hair, where hers was dark. I carried more of our father’s looks, though my hair was not quite blond enough, and my face had more angles. When I was a little girl, still free to daydream about things, I liked to imagine that our parents picked up bits and pieces of the distant lands they’d explored, and Ivy and I were born with those traits, as well.
As I got older, I began to believe Ivy was born of their more exciting adventures, while I was born of more bland destinations. I did have one feature that could be construed as mysterious, though. My eyes. They were a bright, icy blue. Ivy’s eyes were light green, calm like a tropical sea. I swear, I often thought that some terrible mistake was made. Ivy had an aloof streak that would go along with my eyes, not hers. And for whatever reason, Father and Mother—when she had been with us—could never see it.
“She has the soul of an Egyptian Goddess!” Father would say when she’d do something absurd. When we were little scraps, those statements would make me cringe, slam doors and run to my room. After Mother died, I had no time for tantrums, so I grew used to Father’s adoration of Ivy. Just as I grew used to Ivy’s way of curling around Father’s feet like a cat, or waking him up early in the morning when he’d shout, “Aces high in the ever-lovin’ sky!” to greet the new day, and the two would erupt in rollicking laughter. I’d listen from my own tidy room and pray they wouldn’t bring any neighbors over. Or stray cats.
But I envied her beauty and simply adored her thick, exotic hair. I almost went mad when she came home from town with her hair bobbed the previous autumn. I was weeding in the garden, planting tulip bulbs at the precise time of the season our mother would have been doing the same.
“Ivy! Your hair!” I said, getting up and pulling off my gloves so I could touch the ends that angled in toward her face.
Father, who’d taken her and approved of the drastic cut, smiled. “I think it’s marvelous. All the modern women are doing it, Rosemary. You should, too. I’ll take you next week, if you’d like.”
“I’d rather die,” I said, and went back to my chore. Ivy and I didn’t speak for days. She glared at me with those eyes of hers, and I glared right back.
Father and Ivy finally sat down at the dinner table. I looked through the doorway to the grandfather clock and noted the time.
“It is almost seven, you two. I simply cannot keep chasing you around. Soon you’ll have to make your own dinners,” I said, giving them both a good stare as I ladled the stew out into their bowls.
“Your eyes are a peculiar color for a practical girl, Rosemary,” Father said, reaching for a biscuit. “People might get the wrong impression of you.”
“Her posture will erase any sort of misunderstanding about our Rose’s disposition, Papa. She stands straight like a board. No flexibility whatsoever,” said Ivy.
“I’m going to agree with you, sister. I am vain about my perfect posture. You should try it, you know. Mother always told us...”
Ivy shot me a look across the table. She was right to stop me. Father didn’t like it when we talked about Mother. It made him sad, and that was one place where we agreed. We both loved our papa very much...even if it was for different reasons.
“Ivy,” said Father. “Be a love and pour your old papa a drink. And Rosemary is right, you know. You should stand up straighter. It’s a skill that comes with practice, not birth. You do slouch, my darling.”
“Papa, you shouldn’t! It’s not good for you. And you’ve barely touched your food. I made your favorite on purpose.”
He’d been picking at his meals for weeks, and I couldn’t tell if it was worry, or if it was his health or if it was a simple matter of our father beginning a new project in his mind. He was a botanist and illustrator, and he frequently lost himself in new ideas for drawings, books and experiments.
“Oh, Rose. Don’t be such a stick. I wonder, do
