Holding Pattern

by Corrie Haldane

Ivy, 14 years old

I used to love puzzle books when I was a little girl. I could spend hours on dot-to-dots, word searches, and mazes. But my favorites were “What’s wrong with this picture?” puzzles. I liked finding the things that didn’t fit. 

Now, standing at the front window, I’m playing it again. Only this time, the answer makes my stomach hurt. 

The view is mostly the same as it always is. Our front yard where I turned about a thousand cartwheels, our quiet, dead-end street where I learned to ride a bike, and all my neighbors’ houses lined up in a neat and tidy row.

But there’s a FOR SALE sign planted in the middle of our lawn, and that is absolutely one-hundred percent wrong.

Mom comes up behind me, puts a hand on my arm. I shrug it off. 

She sighs. “It’s really not the end of the world, sweetheart.”

Typical Mom, completely clueless about how I feel and what I want. She never even asked me what I thought about her taking a new job and moving us half-way across the country. She just decided, then told me when it was too late to change her mind. 

“It’s the end of my world,” I mutter.  

She laughs. “Oh, Ivy. Don’t be so dramatic.”

Blood rushes loud in my ears and hot tears prickle in my eyes. I whirl around to face her. “Dramatic? Everything is here, Mom. What about my friends?”

“You’ve got a cell phone; you can keep in touch,” she says. “Plus, you’ll make new friends.”

Like texting someone a zillion miles away is somehow just as good as seeing them every day at school. Like making new friends is easy. I’ve known Tara and Liz since kindergarten.

“What about my treehouse?” I ask.

Mom frowns, hits me with her quit-giving-me-a-hard-time look. “Your treehouse? You don’t even go up there anymore.”

“But I could,” I say. “If I wanted to, I could.”

Mom shakes her head. “Come on, Ivy. You’re fourteen. I need you to act like it, okay? It’s a big change for me too, and–” 

“No,” I say, cutting her off. “You do not get to make this about you. You’re the one who decided to wreck everything, not me.”

I push past her, cross the living room, and fling open the front door. 

Outside, I pause to catch my breath. To wait for my heart to slow down and the roaring in my ears to fade away. Then I head around to the backyard, and my treehouse.

Ivy, 8 years old

Sometimes Mom and Dad’s arguments were shouting matches two floors away. Sometimes they were loud whispers in the next room. And sometimes they were just sharp, stabby looks across the dinner table.

It didn’t matter which it was though, I heard the same thing no matter what: I hate you I despise you I don’t want to be anywhere near you…

The latest argument I wasn’t supposed to hear had something to do with whether Dad intended to finish building the garden shed he’d started three months ago.

“Quit nagging, Claire,” Dad said. “I’ve been tied up with work.”

“Work?” Mom snapped. “You mean those once-in-a-blue-moon handyman gigs since you got fired, or the time you devote to getting shit-faced every afternoon?”

I didn’t wait to hear how the fight turned out. I slipped out the back door and crossed the yard to my treehouse. 

The rope ladder bounced and swayed as I climbed, making the butterflies in my stomach flap and flutter. I ignored them, just like always, racing up as fast as a monkey and pulling myself through the trapdoor when I got to the top.

Inside, it was peaceful. Mine. The curtain Dad had hung over the window fluttered in the breeze, and a dog barked in the distance and somebody was mowing their lawn, and everything else felt far, far away. 

I grabbed The Secret Garden off the bookshelf, flopped into my beanbag chair, and began to read.

Ivy, 14 years old

The rope ladder still feels sturdy beneath me, and when I climb through the trapdoor, the wooden boards are still solid, too. Dad built everything to last. “It takes longer,” he told me, “But good things are worth the wait.”

My beanbag chair is long gone; mice got into it one winter and chewed it up. But the faded curtain still hangs over the window, and the bookshelf still holds the tattered paperbacks, shiny rocks, and other random stuff I collected when I was a little kid. 

It’s smaller inside than I remember, the corners are cobwebby, and everything’s covered in dust. But being up here still makes me feel better.

Then I remember the sign on the lawn. The move. I’ll be leaving all of this behind. 

“Well, not all of it,” I mutter, glancing back at the shelf. “Guess I need to pack this stuff up.”

The books are like old friends. Charlotte’s Web and The Bridge to Terabithia. And, my favorite, The Secret Garden. 

The treasures make me smile, too. Pretty stones, a crow feather, my lucky penny. And a hunk of amber, a gift from Dad.

Ivy, 6 years old

“Got a present for you, Ivy,” Dad said. “Close your eyes.”

I scrunched my eyes closed tight and stuck out my hand. “What is it, Dad?”

He laughed. “Quit bouncing for a second and I’ll give it to you.”

I forced my feet to be still. Barely let myself breathe. Finally, Dad dropped something into my hand and my eyes popped open. “A rock?”

“It’s amber,” Dad said. “And, see here? There’s a little insect suspended in there. Pretty cool, huh?”

While I looked closely at the amber and the tiny bug, Dad told me about the science of it: how bugs can get stuck in sticky-sweet tree sap, and then, after a long, long time, the sap gets hard and turns into amber with the bug frozen inside.

“What kind of bug is it, Dad?” I asked.

Dad took it from me, studied it carefully, turning it this way and that. The amber glowed like a tiny sun when he held it up to the light. 

“Doodlebug, I think,” he said, then handed it back to me. “Very rare.”

Ivy, 14 years old

I shake my head, remembering how stupid I’d been. I believed so many dumb things back then.

I believed the little insect trapped in amber really was a doodlebug. I believed that family meant a mom and a dad and a kid. 

I believed in Dad. 

I stick the amber in my pocket and turn back to the shelf, poking through the bits and pieces of Ivy-past. There’s an old diary, the kind with a little lock, but there’s no sign of the key. I probably lost it years ago. 

Then it hits me. I didn’t lose it. I hid it. 

Smiling, I cross to the window, shift aside the milk crate that doubles as storage and seat, and pry up the stubby floorboard in the corner. 

My secret cubby.

This is where I kept my best treasures and most important things. The space isn’t very big, so there isn’t much. A mood ring that I wore non-stop when I was eleven, even though it turned my finger green. A postcard from Tara, from when her family went to Hawaii. A first-place ribbon from a track meet. And, of course, the key to my diary. 

I empty the cubby, and something catches in the corner. It’s an old piece of paper, folded small, its edges curled and yellowed. I pull it out and carefully smooth it flat. 

It’s a picture that Dad drew for me, a little cartoon bug with long hair and a purse. Underneath, he’d printed, A doodlebug for my Doodlebug - Love, Dad.

Ivy, 5 years old

Dad had been working on the treehouse forever. At least a month, anyway. But when I asked him again if it was almost ready, he finally said that it was.

“Just a few finishing touches,” he told me. “And you’re going to help.”

He held up a kid-sized tool belt that looked just like his. “Every good carpenter needs one of these,” he said when he buckled it around my waist. 

Mom laughed, then kissed him on the mouth. “You’d know, Jim,” she said. “You’re the best one in town.”

He climbed up the rope ladder, then disappeared inside. After a minute, he popped his head back out of the trapdoor. “Well? Are you coming up, or what?” 

I started to climb, slow and careful. The thick rope scratched my bare legs, and I didn’t like the way the ladder wobbled every time I moved. 

Halfway up, I peeked down at Mom. She had a frown line between her eyes, but she smiled when she saw me looking. “You’re almost there, sweetheart,” she said. 

The ground looked far away. My hands were sweaty, and my legs felt funny. Tears prickled in my eyes. “I’m scared,” I said. 

“Look at me, Ivy. Look up here,” Dad called.

I turned my head and looked.

“Just a couple more steps,” he said. “You can do it, kiddo. You’ve got to, because I need my assistant up here if I’m gonna finish this job.”

I took a big breath and kept climbing.

When I got to the top, Dad helped me through the trapdoor. “So, what do you think?” he asked.

I turned in a slow circle, trying to look at everything all at once. There was a window with the curtain we picked out together (blue with tiny stars), a shelf with my name burned into it, and a beanbag chair in the corner. It smelled like sawdust and new wood and green leaves.

“It’s perfect,” I whispered.

“Wait, there’s more.” He crouched near the corner and pried up a stubby floorboard. “Secret compartment.”

I bent down to look. “Like for treasure?”

“For whatever you want, kiddo.”

Dad put the board back down, then slid a milk crate over top. He winked at me. I grinned.

He pointed out a couple nails that needed extra hammering and helped me knock them flat with my little hammer.

“I think it’s done,” he said after we finished the last one. “Should we invite your mom up?”

I clapped my hands. “Yes, let’s show her!”

Dad lifted the curtain and stuck his head out the window. “Hey, Claire! It’s all done. Come on up for the grand tour!”

“Maybe later,” Mom said. “I don’t think that thing is big enough for three.”

“Suit yourself,” Dad called. Then he turned to me, smiled, and whispered, “Mom’s afraid of heights.”

I giggled, like we were sharing a secret.

Ivy, 14 years old

I unlock the diary, flip to a random page, and start reading. 

It’s from the year I turned eleven. My handwriting has improved since then, and so has my spelling. But one thing hasn’t changed: I’m still mad at Mom. 

Dear Diary, I’m going to ask Dad if I can come and live with him. Mom nags me all the time about stuff. Nothing I do is ever good enough.

And then, a few pages later, Dear Diary, Mom said I get to spend the night at Dad’s on Saturday. I can’t wait. I can’t stand it here. I can’t stand HER. 

I hated Mom so much back then, sure that it was her fault Dad didn’t live with us anymore.

Dear Diary, I slept over at Dad’s. His whole apartment is just one room, it’s really cool. We stayed up late watching movies and we slept in sleeping bags on the floor. It was the best night ever. Too bad I had to come back here.

There were a few sleepovers with Dad in that tiny, one-room apartment. But not many. And they got further and further apart.

Dear Diary, I asked Mom when I can go to Dad’s next. She got mad at me and said she didn’t know, and that she doesn’t organize his “social calendar.” 

The back half of the book is blank. Apparently, I gave up on keeping a diary in the middle of August. I flip back to my final entry.

Ivy, 11 years old

I sprawled out in the grass underneath my treehouse. Dad sat down beside me. 

“Are you coming home?” I asked him.

He coughed. Cleared his throat. “No, Doodlebug. Just visiting.”

“Oh,” I said. “We normally visit at your place.”

Dad picked through the grass like he was looking for something and didn’t answer. I drew in a dirt patch with a stick. A heart. A star. My initials, IF. 

“I’m kinda between jobs at the moment, kiddo,” Dad said finally. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, shrugged. “Had to move to cut down on expenses.”

I sat up, looked at him. “Move where?”

“Don’t worry about me, okay? I’ve been crashing on a buddy’s couch. It’s just until I get back on my feet again.”

His eyes looked red and puffy, like maybe he’d been crying. His face had more lines than it used to, and he needed a shave. But he smiled at me, and when he said he’d see me again soon, I believed him.

Ivy, 14 years old

My cell buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, check the screen. A text from Mom:

I’m sorry… can we talk?

Ignoring the guilt, I flick the notification away.

Mom gave me the phone for my twelfth birthday. She saw it as a way to keep tabs on me. I saw it as my opportunity to track down Dad. I’ve called his number a hundred times.

We’re sorry, the number you’re trying to reach is not in service…

The recorded voice sounds bored, like an out of service number is no big deal. Like dads disappear all the time.

I know Mom tried to find him. I overheard her calling around a few times. “I’m looking for James Fisher. Yes, Jim, that’s right. Have you seen him?” 

Nobody ever said they had. 

It’s starting to get dark. I should go back inside soon, but I’m not ready to leave, so I close my eyes and listen to the crickets chirping for a while. After a few minutes, they go quiet, then Mom’s voice calls from beneath me.

“Ivy? You up there?”

“Yeah. I’m here,” I reply.

It’s quiet for so long that I start to wonder if she went back inside, but then the ropes creak, and Mom’s huffing and puffing like the Little Engine That Could. She’s climbing up the ladder.

She pokes her head through the trapdoor, sees me, and smiles. “Hi, honey,” she says. “Mind if I join you?”

She climbs the rest of the way in without waiting for me to answer, looks around, then perches on the milk crate. “Nice place you’ve got here,” she says.

“I thought you were afraid of heights.”

“I am,” Mom says, grinning. “But getting up here was the easy part. You might have to chop the tree down to get me out.”

It’s so ridiculous that I laugh, even though I’m still mad at her. 

She comes and sits beside me on the floor, sliding an arm around my shoulders. I let her this time, even though my body feels stiff and awkward.

“We can build you a new treehouse, sweetheart. If it’s important to you, I’ll make sure you have ten treehouses. I just want you to be happy.”

“I want this one. This treehouse is what will make me happy.” I know I sound like a little kid, but I don’t care. 

Mom pulls on her fingers, cracking her knuckles, one by one. She does that when she’s thinking hard. I hold my breath, waiting. Maybe she’s changed her mind.

“You want this one because your dad made it for you.” It’s not a question.

I look around. At the dusty books, the faded curtain, all of it. Everything is full of memories, but it’s not that. 

“If we move away, how will he find us?” I ask at last.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Mom pulls me close and squeezes. I taste tears in the back of my throat and blink hard.

“Your dad…he’s not well,” she says quietly. “He’s been struggling for a long time. With his mind, with alcohol. He’s not in a good place right now. He loves you, I know he does. But…”

She trails off. It’s almost completely dark now, and I’m glad that she can’t see my face. Because if she could, she’d know I still want to believe. That I still try his number sometimes.

That I haven’t stopped hoping.

I swipe a hand across my eyes. “What if he—” 

“No.” Her voice is gentle but firm. “We can’t live in limbo forever, sweetheart. We’ve been stuck in a holding pattern for a while now, but it’s time to move forward. And if he wants to find us, he can. I’ll leave our number and new address with all the neighbors.” 

I lay my head on her shoulder. Neither of us says anything for a while; we just sit and listen to the crickets. 

“I know it’s a big change. All I’m asking is for you to keep an open mind,” Mom says at last. “Give it a chance. Can you do that?”

I want to say no. I want to say that I wish everything could stay the same. But deep down, I know that it can’t. Things change, and I’m going to have to change along with them. 

“I’ll try,” I say. 

“Thank you.” She kisses the top of my head, then pushes herself up. “Maybe it’ll be easier to get down now that it’s too dark to see the ground. You coming?”

“I’ll be there soon,” I say. 

She squeezes my hand, then lowers herself through the trapdoor. 

When she’s gone, I switch on my phone’s flashlight. I tear out a blank page from my old diary, find a pencil, and print my cell number in slow, careful letters. 

Call me, I write underneath. Love, Your Doodlebug.

I stare at the words for a second. Then I erase “Your Doodlebug” and write: Love, Ivy instead.

I wrap the paper around the chunk of amber, tuck it into the secret cubby, and climb down from the treehouse for the last time.

THE END