Peppermint 10: Inheritance
Title: Inheritance
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Peppermint 10 (crate/chest), My Treat (Ivy's most beloved/important things.), fresh blueberries (He who looks on a true friend looks, as it were, upon a kind of image of himself: wherefore friends, though absent, are still present; though in poverty, they are rich; though weak, yet in the enjoyment of health; and, what is still more difficult to assert, though dead, they are alive. --Cicero), malt (darkfaerieclaw's trick or treat prompt: "We're all made of stories. When they finally put us underground, the stories are what will go on. Not forever, perhaps, but for a time. It's a kind of immortality, I suppose, bounded by limits, it's true, but then so's everything." - Charles de Lint), caramel, whipped cream.
Word Count: 1100
Rating: PG.
Summary: Ivy doesn't have favorite things so much as she has favorite memories.
Notes: Well, this was... bigger than expected. References, in order, The Christmas Horse, Voicemail, and Father's Day.
ETA: Upon rereading while not half-asleep, I realized that butterscotch doesn't really apply to this, so could someone remove the tag for me? Thank you in advance.
Jack Hirschfeld makes things. It's what he does. From the assembly line to whittling, he is a maker. He has been all his life.
For Sophia, the love and light of his life, he makes hearts, endless variations (the anatomical one is a particular favorite). For Gail, who will be queen of the world, crowns and coronets. For Cecily, who always wanted to be famous, stars.
He makes things for his grandchildren too, of course, but those are more generic: animals, flowers, suns and moons.
One year, he carves Ivy a tiny chemistry set. He's never seen anyone more delighted.
--
Sophia Hirschfeld passed on many things to her daughters and granddaughters. Her temper, her red hair, her kind smile, her relentless competence. Her recklessness, her frailty, her weakness for kindness, her endless compassion.
She passed down more material things, too. Her daughters got her jewelry, piece by piece over the years. Her grandchildren got cookies and knitted scarves. Her sons-in-law got socks, mostly, and sweet smiles.
The thing Ivy associates most with her grandmother, though, is the smell of spices, and the huge, handwritten receipe book, kept on a special shelf.
Sophia left the book to Ivy, when she died.
--
"Which earrings should I wear tonight, love?" Gail asks, getting ready to go out with Nathan. Ivy sizes her up critically, eyes narrowed, then digs a pair of emerald earrings out of her mother's jewelry chest and holds them up.
"These!" she says, then, as Gail puts them on, pulls out an amethyst bracelet. "Can I have this one?"
Gail's heart squeezes unexpectedly, and she picks Ivy up, kisses her cheek. "Sure. You'll have them all someday."
Ivy shakes her head, scowling. "Don't want them all," she says. "Just this one. Those're yours."
They are, Gail knows. But not forever.
--
Ivy is bouncing up and down beside Nathan, wearing a smile as big as the sky, drawing an answering smile from the court clerk. "Well, then," the clerk says, stamping the papers. "Somebody's excited."
"It's my birthday!" Ivy tells her, bouncing more. "It's my present!"
The clerk smiles again. "Good present," she says, and hands the papers over. "Here you go, Mr. Kendall. Congratulations."
"Are those them?" Ivy demands, reaching up. "Am I adopted?"
Nathan laughs, and hands her the papers so she can see for herself. "You're officially my daughter," he says, and laughs again when she hugs him.
--
Aaron shows up outside Ivy's school one afternoon, looking cold and scowly, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
"About time," he calls, breath puffing out, when Ivy's teacher brings her outside. "I've been waiting for ages."
Ivy, surprised, can only look at him. The teacher frowns, and says, delicately, "And you are...?"
"Aaron Kendall," he says. "I'm here to pick up my brat sister." He hands over a note. "Parental approval."
The teacher's expression lightens. "I'll have to check the file," she says, but Ivy already knows he's allowed.
He doesn't miss a day for the next seven years.
--
Summer is a good baby, generally; she prefers staring at the ceiling or her hands to screaming, and only cries when she needs something. Ivy likes her, generally speaking. But there's one thing that bothers her-- Summer doesn't smile.
Babies don't smile for real until they're at least a month old, Mommy says, but Summer is two and a half months and she's never smiled, only stared solemnly. Ivy is starting to think there's something wrong with her.
She hangs over Summer's crib, staring. Summer stares back... then...
Mommy's working, so is Daddy, Aaron's out. And Summer... Summer is smiling.
--
Gina rushes into the restaurant fifteen minutes early. The waiter, bless him, looks stolidly innocent; Ivy tries to imitate.
"You're early."
"You said don't be late," Gina counters. "What is it? Tell me immediately so I can stop panicking."
"I specifically said don't panic," Ivy says, and puts the box on the table.
"Ivy, you know I..." She stops, staring.
Ivy grins. "I had big plans. It was going to be epic. But you were early and ruined that, so..." She nudges the box. "Want to marry me anyway?"
Gina never actually says yes, but the kiss is close enough.
--
The day Ivy stops worrying about Andy, he comes home from kindergarten and offhandedly presents a rolled-up paper to her while searching for a snack.
She worried because of the baby. She's told him about her father, about love not being dependent on blood, but she wasn't sure he believed her. He seemed skeptical.
But the paper is a painting of a dark Andy-smudge between a red Ivy-smudge and a yellow Gina-smudge, holding both their hands, and, at Gina's midsection, a white smudge that he says blandly is 'my sister.'
He'll be okay, she thinks, and gets him a cookie.
--
Andy and Leah are fiercely competitive about Mother's Day. They don't quite wreck each other's gifts, but they do try to upstage each other. Ivy understands now why her father got so exasperated.
The Mother's Day that Leah is eight, the miracle happens.
"Here, Mom," they say, close to simultaneously, and present her with a bouquet of paper roses. "We made these together," Andy adds.
Ivy can't speak. She isn't sure if she's more touched by the roses or the cooperation.
"I did most," Leah says.
"I did," Andy snaps, and they're off again.
Oh well. Miracles don't last forever.
--
Leah carries the chest out to the dining room. "Hey, Andy! Look what I found."
Andy enters, wiping his hands. "Ivy's Most Precious Things," he reads. "Huh. What's in it?"
Leah shrugs and opens it. A lot of things she doesn't recognize: tiny wooden test tubes, a photograph of Mom and a baby that must be Aunt Summer, a brittle note authorizing Uncle Aaron to take Mom from school. Some things she does: Mom's amethyst bracelet, Mom's adoption papers, the receipe book.
"Whoa," Andy says, lifts out a crackly painting. "I remember this. I was like five. Can't believe she kept it."
Leah laughs at her next find. "Remember these?" She pulls out the roses. "You were so mean about these."
"You lied," Andy retorts.
"I was eight," she starts, and stops, when her fingers encounter something cold and metal.
"What..." Andy begins, and ends, "Oh," softly, as she draws it out.
It's Mama's wedding ring, on a chain. Leah thought that Mama was buried with it. Judging from Andy's face, so did he.
They repack the chest together, later, stacking memories in careful layers.
They string Mom's wedding ring on the chain beside with Mama's before they shut it.
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Peppermint 10 (crate/chest), My Treat (Ivy's most beloved/important things.), fresh blueberries (He who looks on a true friend looks, as it were, upon a kind of image of himself: wherefore friends, though absent, are still present; though in poverty, they are rich; though weak, yet in the enjoyment of health; and, what is still more difficult to assert, though dead, they are alive. --Cicero), malt (darkfaerieclaw's trick or treat prompt: "We're all made of stories. When they finally put us underground, the stories are what will go on. Not forever, perhaps, but for a time. It's a kind of immortality, I suppose, bounded by limits, it's true, but then so's everything." - Charles de Lint), caramel, whipped cream.
Word Count: 1100
Rating: PG.
Summary: Ivy doesn't have favorite things so much as she has favorite memories.
Notes: Well, this was... bigger than expected. References, in order, The Christmas Horse, Voicemail, and Father's Day.
ETA: Upon rereading while not half-asleep, I realized that butterscotch doesn't really apply to this, so could someone remove the tag for me? Thank you in advance.
Jack Hirschfeld makes things. It's what he does. From the assembly line to whittling, he is a maker. He has been all his life.
For Sophia, the love and light of his life, he makes hearts, endless variations (the anatomical one is a particular favorite). For Gail, who will be queen of the world, crowns and coronets. For Cecily, who always wanted to be famous, stars.
He makes things for his grandchildren too, of course, but those are more generic: animals, flowers, suns and moons.
One year, he carves Ivy a tiny chemistry set. He's never seen anyone more delighted.
--
Sophia Hirschfeld passed on many things to her daughters and granddaughters. Her temper, her red hair, her kind smile, her relentless competence. Her recklessness, her frailty, her weakness for kindness, her endless compassion.
She passed down more material things, too. Her daughters got her jewelry, piece by piece over the years. Her grandchildren got cookies and knitted scarves. Her sons-in-law got socks, mostly, and sweet smiles.
The thing Ivy associates most with her grandmother, though, is the smell of spices, and the huge, handwritten receipe book, kept on a special shelf.
Sophia left the book to Ivy, when she died.
--
"Which earrings should I wear tonight, love?" Gail asks, getting ready to go out with Nathan. Ivy sizes her up critically, eyes narrowed, then digs a pair of emerald earrings out of her mother's jewelry chest and holds them up.
"These!" she says, then, as Gail puts them on, pulls out an amethyst bracelet. "Can I have this one?"
Gail's heart squeezes unexpectedly, and she picks Ivy up, kisses her cheek. "Sure. You'll have them all someday."
Ivy shakes her head, scowling. "Don't want them all," she says. "Just this one. Those're yours."
They are, Gail knows. But not forever.
--
Ivy is bouncing up and down beside Nathan, wearing a smile as big as the sky, drawing an answering smile from the court clerk. "Well, then," the clerk says, stamping the papers. "Somebody's excited."
"It's my birthday!" Ivy tells her, bouncing more. "It's my present!"
The clerk smiles again. "Good present," she says, and hands the papers over. "Here you go, Mr. Kendall. Congratulations."
"Are those them?" Ivy demands, reaching up. "Am I adopted?"
Nathan laughs, and hands her the papers so she can see for herself. "You're officially my daughter," he says, and laughs again when she hugs him.
--
Aaron shows up outside Ivy's school one afternoon, looking cold and scowly, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
"About time," he calls, breath puffing out, when Ivy's teacher brings her outside. "I've been waiting for ages."
Ivy, surprised, can only look at him. The teacher frowns, and says, delicately, "And you are...?"
"Aaron Kendall," he says. "I'm here to pick up my brat sister." He hands over a note. "Parental approval."
The teacher's expression lightens. "I'll have to check the file," she says, but Ivy already knows he's allowed.
He doesn't miss a day for the next seven years.
--
Summer is a good baby, generally; she prefers staring at the ceiling or her hands to screaming, and only cries when she needs something. Ivy likes her, generally speaking. But there's one thing that bothers her-- Summer doesn't smile.
Babies don't smile for real until they're at least a month old, Mommy says, but Summer is two and a half months and she's never smiled, only stared solemnly. Ivy is starting to think there's something wrong with her.
She hangs over Summer's crib, staring. Summer stares back... then...
Mommy's working, so is Daddy, Aaron's out. And Summer... Summer is smiling.
--
Gina rushes into the restaurant fifteen minutes early. The waiter, bless him, looks stolidly innocent; Ivy tries to imitate.
"You're early."
"You said don't be late," Gina counters. "What is it? Tell me immediately so I can stop panicking."
"I specifically said don't panic," Ivy says, and puts the box on the table.
"Ivy, you know I..." She stops, staring.
Ivy grins. "I had big plans. It was going to be epic. But you were early and ruined that, so..." She nudges the box. "Want to marry me anyway?"
Gina never actually says yes, but the kiss is close enough.
--
The day Ivy stops worrying about Andy, he comes home from kindergarten and offhandedly presents a rolled-up paper to her while searching for a snack.
She worried because of the baby. She's told him about her father, about love not being dependent on blood, but she wasn't sure he believed her. He seemed skeptical.
But the paper is a painting of a dark Andy-smudge between a red Ivy-smudge and a yellow Gina-smudge, holding both their hands, and, at Gina's midsection, a white smudge that he says blandly is 'my sister.'
He'll be okay, she thinks, and gets him a cookie.
--
Andy and Leah are fiercely competitive about Mother's Day. They don't quite wreck each other's gifts, but they do try to upstage each other. Ivy understands now why her father got so exasperated.
The Mother's Day that Leah is eight, the miracle happens.
"Here, Mom," they say, close to simultaneously, and present her with a bouquet of paper roses. "We made these together," Andy adds.
Ivy can't speak. She isn't sure if she's more touched by the roses or the cooperation.
"I did most," Leah says.
"I did," Andy snaps, and they're off again.
Oh well. Miracles don't last forever.
--
Leah carries the chest out to the dining room. "Hey, Andy! Look what I found."
Andy enters, wiping his hands. "Ivy's Most Precious Things," he reads. "Huh. What's in it?"
Leah shrugs and opens it. A lot of things she doesn't recognize: tiny wooden test tubes, a photograph of Mom and a baby that must be Aunt Summer, a brittle note authorizing Uncle Aaron to take Mom from school. Some things she does: Mom's amethyst bracelet, Mom's adoption papers, the receipe book.
"Whoa," Andy says, lifts out a crackly painting. "I remember this. I was like five. Can't believe she kept it."
Leah laughs at her next find. "Remember these?" She pulls out the roses. "You were so mean about these."
"You lied," Andy retorts.
"I was eight," she starts, and stops, when her fingers encounter something cold and metal.
"What..." Andy begins, and ends, "Oh," softly, as she draws it out.
It's Mama's wedding ring, on a chain. Leah thought that Mama was buried with it. Judging from Andy's face, so did he.
They repack the chest together, later, stacking memories in careful layers.
They string Mom's wedding ring on the chain beside with Mama's before they shut it.