minuet ; indy & ivory

He's called three times.

The phone starts buzzing, making four.

Imagine each vibration angrier, a building rage reverberating on the glass tabletop. He won't stop until I pick up. The longer I wait, the worse it will be. It's a wonder I've found myself here again, picking at a scab. Rather have open wounds than wear more scars.

But I'm only ever staving off infection - four calls wear into six before I answer. "This is Ivory."

"Ivory." He repeats the name like it's his to own, "You must be busy."

"Papa, um, yeah." I try to smile around the words, to sound sweet like he likes me to be, "I was practicing."

"Ah, excellent, your mother has been worrying." The gravel in his voice softens, I've said the right thing.

"Worrying? That's unlike her."

"Can you blame her, mon lapin? You are not surrounding yourself with reliable people. It is good to see that it hasn't affected your work ethic."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"Ivory." Voice like a bullet torn from its chamber, every bit a warning shot. "Have you spoken to your brother about the fundraiser this weekend?"

"I was getting around to it. He's been busy."

"Too busy to take my calls, just like you." A beat of silence, I realize I'm holding my breath, "But you picked up, he never has."

It's comforting, in a way, to know that I am not the only Auclair made up of putrid neuroses. Of all Indy's unanswered calls, only one of them is mine. Wanting to hurt him without the hurt, and wanting to feel alone. That voicemail sits in his inbox, an effigy. "Please. I don't want to talk about this."

"More than happy to let you sacrifice a year of your education, but he cannot spare a single weekend?" And I am glad they blame him for my failure, I could not shoulder that weight.

"I didn't say that. He'll be there. We'll both be there."

"I do hope this won't be yet another disappointment, your mother could not take it."

"Send her my love." An empty threat, I have nothing to give.

"And what good will that do? Make sure this weekend goes smoothly, that will be enough."

My father's words have thorns, and they burn rose petals into my cheeks. Orange, red, pink, shame turns me into a garden. "Understood, Papa."

He hangs up before I can.

---

My reflection keeps smiling at me. It's been a while since she has, I almost forgot what it was like to catch her in the corner of my gaze. She whispers sweet nothings and gentle reminders. Comforting agonies I haven't considered since I left school. Since I started feeling better.

She asks me, "Can you hear your heart beating?". I've tried to drown it out. Split the blisters on palms until the drumhead went slick with oozing serum, broke a couple drumsticks and shoved the splinters under my nails.

I can still hear my heart beating.

I don't really think I should be alone. I can't ask Indy to skip work.

I'll have to tell him about our father's ultimatum. That I can stay here only as long as he's willing to be a part of the family again.

And I still remember watching him get smaller out the rearview mirror, hands pressed to the glass. Numb, though this was long before I'd lose the feeling in my fingers.

He chose to leave me behind because it was better than being with them.

I wouldn't blame him if he did it again.

I'm beating a senseless rhythm when I hear the door open. As dreadful as nails on a chalkboard, void of all emotion. My wrists won't cooperate, there's no music playing in my head. It's a sound that is more like silence.

I worry he'll be able to tell. We're made of music, him and I.

"Indy!" I stop, I clasp my hands together to hide how I've beaten them raw. There's a superficial sting where sweat mingles with open skin, "We need to talk."

He's drawn to the music room, a moth to open flame. Cruel that wings are flammable things. He leans against the doorway, raised brows and gnashing teeth. "Damn Ives, who died?" His laughter warms the cruelty in those words. He doesn't even know it's there.

I look down at my lap, press my thumb into a leaking wound - "Papa's been calling you."

Oh, I remember the symphony of slamming doors. Screaming matches muffled through the pillows I'd pulled over my head. I hate to watch the old anger leak back into him, I feel small. I shrink into myself, wanting to be smaller.

"Bet he has. Bet he mentioned Mom too. Right?"

Not really a question, an accent.

I keep looking at my lap.

"There's a fundraiser this weekend." I speak slowly not quite feeling like the words are mine, "He wants us to go. Or he wants me to leave."

I shake my head, the only hint of motion "I'll understand either way."