Page 51 of Sawyer

What she’s saying is so profoundly sad, my heart clenches with sympathy.

“Parents love their kids,” I say, but deep inside I’m questioning whether or not this is true. My mother loved me, and my father still does. I’m certain of it. But maybe not all parents are as loving as mine.

“My father’s not wired like that. I don’t even know if he feels love.” She shrugs, her little shoulders hugging her ears before sinking back down. “I know he feels pride and satisfaction. I’d identified those emotions. He feels pleasure, like from drinking a fine wine or making a deal happen. But love?Reallove?” She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“Your Uncle Alan loves you,” I point out.

“He does.” She looks up at me with a sad smile. “Thank God for Uncle Alan and Aunt P. Without them…God, I don’t even want to consider what my life would’ve looked like without them.”

“How could two brothers turn out so differently?” I muse aloud.

“They were born ten years apart,” she says. “But probably more importantly, they’re half brothers. Same father, different mothers.”

“Different genes,” I say. “Did you ever meet your grandparents?”

She shakes her head. “No. They were gone by the time I was born. Ihavemet my uncle’s mother, though. Jackie Caswell. She lives in Anchorage but visits sometimes in the summer. She’s super nice.”

“I wonder whatyourgrandmother was like.”

We’ve been walking slowly toward the cruise dock. As we come to Congress Way, I take Ivy’s mittened hand to pull her down the street that leads to the southernmost bars in town—The Salty Siren and The Skagway Fish Company.

“I’ve seen pictures of her. She looked…hard.”

“Mean?”

“Austere. Unhappy. Stern,” says Ivy, her hand still in mine. “Yes. Mean.”

“Explains things,” I say. “Your father had an unhappy mother. His father divorced her and married Jackie, who’s ‘super nice.’ Your grandmother probably raised your dad on her own because your grandfather started a new family. My guess is that your father didn’t have a very warm and happy childhood.”

“My guess is that you’re right,” says Ivy. “There are patterns in families. My father married my mother and made her miserable, and thensheleft. Two generations of abandonment and dysfunction.” She laughs again—that sad, hollow sound I’m really starting to hate. “Steer clear of me, Sawyer. I’m a black hole of ugly family dynamics.”

“I don’t believe that,” I say. “You have your aunt and uncle in your life and their example of a happy marriage. You were loved by them. Youareloved by them, Ivy. You’re warm and kind. You’re here, caring for your aunt. Would your grandmother have done that? Would your father? You’re different, Ivy. You can break the chain.”

“Not if I marry Clark,” she mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says. She clears her throat and gestures to the two establishments before us. “Siren or Fish Co?”

“Fish Co is open later,” I say.

She drops my hand and heads for the door.

***

Over drinks, we shift our conversation to lighter topics, chatting about the play.

She tells me she’s excited for the party/fundraiser that Bruce is hosting at the Parsnip next weekend. He needs to raise a couple thousand dollars for costumes, props, and scenery, sohe’s donating surplus summer food and beverage to the event and charging thirty bucks a head for folks to attend. A local band has already donated their services for free, and McKenna and Reeve will oversee decorations. The whole town will turn out for it. Skagwegians are a supportive bunch.

“I can’t remember the last time I went to a party at the Parsnip,” says Ivy.

I finish my beer and gesture to our waitress for another pitcher.

“Bruce can’t do too many events there in the summer. He’s open from ten until ten and it’s packed with tourists. We party more in the winter.”

“Off-season benefits, huh?”

I grin at her. “Is Skagway everything you hoped it would be during the off-season?”

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