Ivy

2

Eight months following Ivy's "absence", as her parents stoically put it, the town of Baltom was physically, and emotionally, drained. All efforts to found their Golden Girl were to no avail, and the only clues that remained were the clump of hair and the streak of blood, as well as Ivy's cell phone, found in the science lab.
All of the teenagers at Roberta Johnson's party that night were questioned, as well as having their cell phones temporarily confiscated. None of the interviews indicated guilty behavior, all lie detector tests were passed, and no phone activity raised suspicions. Even her boyfriend, Nick Roosevelt, was cleared, as he wasn't even at the party that night. That left no suspects. The conclusion was that Ivy was killed by someone who was driving through town that night, probably hit by a drunk partygoer and left to die in some unknown spot.
Darby and Maria McElsing remained stubborn in their belief that their beloved daughter was still alive, as is the natural response for any grieving parent. All town residents were careful not to touch on the subject with them, although Ivy's parents always made sure to talk about "when Ivy comes back."
My poor brother, in particular. He loved Ivy. His perfect daughter that he couldn't ask for more out of. As far as he knew, Ivy never hung with the wrong people, never drank or did drugs. She was supposedly the perfect fail safe daughter that everyone is supposed to want.
Five months into the investigation, I was eating lunch with my brother at his house. Maria had made bland sandwiches for us and promptly left the kitchen to lock herself in her bedroom to try to soothe her depression.
Spring fog rolled in through the open window, because neither person had bothered to close it. Darby sat across from me, his eyes bloodshot, his fists clenched, ignoring the food. Like me.
He looked up at me. "You know, Ryan? You are one lucky little son of a gun. You don't have children to worry about. God, I can't wait until Ivy comes back."

Uncomfortable with the conversation, I got up to close the window. I was just as depressed with the circumstances as Darby. Personally, I at the time believed Ivy was dead, and that she had been for a long time. It was just a matter of finding a body for me. For closure.
Darby, probably sensing that I didn't know how to talk about his daughter with him, continued on a different subject. "Who's that girl you're hanging with....Ellen, is her name?"
Ellen is her name. A cute, smart city girl I met on my commutes. Happy with the subject change, I continued to talk about her.

The Discovery

   In August of that year, a discovery was made that rocked the people of Baltom out of their sorry shells.

   Two teenagers, Asher Pierce and John Roberts, (around Ivy's age) were camping along the river when a large object wrapped in a black trash bag floated onto the bank they were staying on. As they unwrapped it and smelled what was inside, they realized with horror that they were looking at human remains. Thoroughly shaken up, as they were around the same age as Ivy, they boys immediately called 911.
   The state patrol was called back, and the river was sectioned off from everybody. Darby and Maria were called. In agony with anticipation, the town waited.
   And waited.

   Two weeks later, the questions were answered.

   Inside the plastic bag, forensic experts determined, was the body of a "young woman, maybe 16-20 years of age." Unfortunately, the body was so decomposed that there was no way of telling who it really was. The hair, eyes, and much of the skin had been eaten by wildlife or rotted away. My brother was offered to examine the body himself, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.
   The only recorded missing woman around that age in our area, within the time slot for the body, was Ivy
McElsing.
   Oh Ivy.

   The body was eventually determined to be that of the Golden Girl's. Distressed and shell shocked, a dazed Darby and Maria called of the investigation, and the searches stopped. "I just don't see the point of it anymore." Maria said. " I mean, she's dead and there is nothing we can do about it."

A couple weeks later, a memorial service/funeral for Ivy was held. Many came, because many knew Ivy and how sweet a girl she appeared to be. Ellen, the woman I previously talked to Darby about, offered to come along for moral support, and we sat on the rickety but padded wooden pews by John Roberts and his family. The same boy who had discovered Ivy's body.

  Throughout the entire service, I could hear John sniffling. During the sermon, during the slideshow of pictures of Ivy, during the reading of her obituary, he quietly sobbed.

   But as soon as Ivy's favorite song, Fly Me to the Moon, by Frank Sinatra started playing, he flat out started bawling. This wasn't unusual, as many others were crying, including Ellen, but his I could tell was racked with pain.

    Half hour later, after six speeches about Ivy and a final, heartfelt prayer for her, the service was over. Initially I planned to immediately find Darby to comfort him, but I was slightly intrigued by John's behavior. As everyone else filed out, including his family, he stayed kneeling. Head bowed, silent, salty tears dripping onto the floor. Hastily, I gave Ellen the keys to my car and told her I'd meet her there. Carefully, as if John was a fragile piece of china, I kneeled next to him.

   As a psychologist, I felt a personal desire to comfort the boy, but this time I didn't know how.

   "Hey, it's going to be all right." I said awkwardly. He slowly sat up, and staring straight ahead, sputtered, "Ivy was a g-good girl, y-you know that?" I knew John didn't have an actual stutter, he was just racked with emotion.

   "Oh I know, all right."

   "Well, s-something is really b-bothering me."

   At this, my psychologist instincts perked up and I said "Oh?..."
   John started to blubber. "I t-tried to tell the police this but they w-wouldn't listen!"
   I tried to calm him down with a manly pat on the back, but there was no stopping his tirade. I looked around us, but nobody else was there. John continued to sob at my side. His face grew red and his fists clenched and unclenched shakily.

   "They j-just couldn't listen, because they think I'm just some stupid j-jock."

   "What are you talking about?...." At this point, I was almost afraid to hear what he had to say. I almost got up and left, altogether. But I pressed on. "What are you talking about?"

   John's lip trembled, and he wailed, "I don't think that was Ivy's body!"