Olivia (68 page)

“
I want to see you,” I
whine.

“
I miss you, too,” he says. “Take
advantage of the time with your grandparents and cousins, Liv. I’ll
be there whenever you need me after they leave. I
promise.”

“
Okay.”

“
What have you been
painting?”

I feel defensive at his question, but it’s my guilt
that’s making me feel this way. “Nothing.”

“
Nothing?”

“
No.”

“
Well, that might make you feel
better. Don’t you think?”

“
No,” I answer emphatically. I am
positive I’ll feel worse, facing her painting or any other painting
I might attempt. Even if the image doesn’t look like her, I know
anything I work on will represent her. She’s always been a part of
my creative process. I’m not sure I can do anything without her
– because I will always remember what it was like to be with
her.

I don’t want to remember that. It hurts too
much.

“
You know what’s best for you,” he
tells me. His tone communicates his insinuation, but I honestly
don’t think painting will help me this time.

“
I know. I’m going to see what
Mom’s doing.”

“
I’ll talk to you tonight. I love
you.”

“
Love you, too, Jon.”

Instead of sitting back down to watch the movie, I
go back upstairs and into the kitchen. I’m hungry, but I’m tired of
eating casseroles and sandwiches.

“
Can I heat something up for you?”
Dad says, startling me. After nearly hitting my head on the inside
of the refrigerator, I glance back at him. Both of my parents lean
against the island. They’re
still
holding
hands. It makes me smile, but it also makes me miss Jon. I wish my
parents would let him come over and comfort me.

“
Dad, do you think you could teach
me how to cook?”

“
Of course I could,
Contessa.”

“
Cool,” I say, shutting the
refrigerator door and heading over to a cabinet in the formal
dining area. Mom keeps the cookbooks in here as decoration. We
hardly ever use them. I dust off the one I want, and flip it open
next to my father.

“
You want me to teach you
now?”

“
Why not?”

“
Liv,” he starts. “We’re worried
about you.”

“
Is wanting to learn to cook a
symptom of something worse?” I ask with a laugh. “I don’t want to
cook meth, Dad.”

He chuckles a little, too. “Do you want to talk
about it?” he asks me.

“
Meth?” I start, and give him no
time to interrupt. “I know everything already. We learned about it
in health class. It can actually be prescribed for ADHD,
depression, narcolepsy and obesity, but it has a high propensity
for abuse. Taking it can lead to increased energy and alertness. It
can help with concentration. It can also lead to euphoria and manic
episodes. Side effects can be anxiety, sweating, weird face sores,
teeth problems, hallucinations, paranoia, aggressiveness, obsessive
tendencies and psychosis. Withdrawal can be horrible: fatigue,
depression, weight gain, suicidal thoughts, and it can be really
hard to get off of–”

“
Livvy,” he finally breaks in
calmly. “While I am proud that you know so much about
methamphetamine, particularly the parts about how it’s bad for you
– and I think you’ve taught me a few things I didn’t know
– you know that’s not what I want to talk about.”

“
Jacks,” Mom says, “why don’t you
teach her how to cook?”

“
Now?” he asks as he squeezes her
hand.

“
Now. I think it will be good for
her. Plus, I’m really craving something other than starches, meat
and cheese.”

“
We talked about going out
tonight,” he reminds her.

“
I don’t want the attention,” she
says as she lets go of his hand. “Livvy, find something healthy and
tasty. You two can go to the market and pick out some fresh
produce… get away for a little bit.” She pats him on the back on
her way out of the kitchen.

I smile, happy for the distraction. “Dad, what’s her
favorite dish?”

“
It’s in another cookbook,” he
says, bypassing me to get it.

JACK

After picking out a recipe with Livvy, I follow Emi
upstairs to change clothes.

“
You look fine,” Emi says as I sift
through the bottom rack of pants. Emi always prefers me in denim,
and it’s fine every once in awhile. I know that chances are pretty
high that we’ll be photographed – people are always curious
when Livvy’s with me – and I would prefer to look more
professional.

My wife doesn’t argue when I choose a pair of dark
slacks, knowing that I feel more like myself when I wear less
casual attire. After I change, she walks over to me with a
patterned tie in hand. Jackson had given it to me for Father’s Day,
and while the colors together are hideous in my mind, I know it has
to make an appearance at least a couple of times simply because it
was picked out by my son. He wasn’t gifted with a creative eye like
Livvy, though, and he’s mildly colorblind. I always prefer the ties
my daughter selects, but I always appreciate any gift from either
of my children.

“
Try to get her to talk, Jacks,”
Emi says as she makes a meticulous knot. “Maybe spending some time
with you will break through her barrier.”

“
I wish she would paint,” I tell
her.

“
I wish she would talk,” she
counters. “We’re her parents.
We
should be
here to help her with these feelings, not some inanimate object.
She can’t do this on her own.”

“
That’s how she works, though,” I
explain.

“
That’s how she’s worked until now.
She’s never dealt with loss like this. We can’t compare this to
Ruby’s passing, or to her mourning over book characters, or her
breakup with Jon. This is something entirely different, and we need
to encourage her to grieve. However she wants to do that, be it
painting, or crying, or talking to us.”

“
She’s done enough crying,” I say,
concerned. “I know how sad she is. It’s not helping
matters.”

“
We need to find out how to help
her.”

“
Okay,” I assure her. “I know. I’ll
do my best.”

Livvy’s waiting at the front door when I get
downstairs.

“
Dad, that tie…“

“
Hush,” I tell her with a playful
glare. “Are you driving?”

“
I am.”

After settling in the car, people start to gather.
“Check your mirrors,” I tell her, trying to warn her.

“
What are they all doing here?” she
asks, turning around to face the crowd.

“
Donna’s passing is news… and we’re
her family. People are curious. Just be careful.” As she starts to
back out, two men approach the driver’s side of the car and begin
to snap pictures. Livvy slams on the breaks, obviously frightened.
I step out of the car before she puts it in park.

“
Do any of you have teenage drivers
in your house?” I ask angrily. When I look at their faces, most of
these photographers look like teens themselves, and they continue
to take photos of me as I talk to them. I check on Livvy, who’s
leaning her head against the steering wheel to avoid more pictures.
I clear my throat, calming down, knowing photos will end up on some
tabloid site. “I appreciate your concern for my family in the wake
of Donna Wilson-Schraeder’s passing. She was a compassionate woman
who we all loved, and she will not only be missed by us, but also
by her husband, James. I beg of you, please let our families mourn
in peace. We would like privacy, and my daughter and I would like
to be able to leave our driveway without injuring one of
you.”

No one moves.

“
Please.”

“
Is that a threat?” a woman asks,
pushing her way to the front of the pack.

“
No,” I assure her.

“
We want a picture of
Livvy.”

“
I want you to vacate these
premises before I call the police.” I pull out my phone. “This is a
private residence.”

“
We’ll move over here,” one of them
says, gesturing for others to follow to the sidewalk and small yard
of my neighbor’s home. Mr. Erland stands on his porch,
watching.

“
I’ve already called the police,”
he says. “How are you doing today, Jack?”

“
Fine, thank you,
Harry.”

“
I suggest you all clear out.” I
notice more of my neighbors have gathered across the street. I
suspect some are there to help – those that have lived here
longer than I have – but I know others are just as curious as the
paparazzi. Regardless, everyone starts to clear out, getting into
cars and driving off or crossing the busy street on the side of my
house when the signal allows.

“
I appreciate your help,” I tell my
neighbor.

“
You may need to hire some
security. These rats have been hanging around for days.”

“
I’ll look into that today. Thank
you.”

I get back into the car, only mildly rattled. “Are
you okay, Tessa?”

“
I’m fine. Are you?” she asks,
backing out of the driveway.

“
Just annoyed.”

“
Why do they want pictures of
me?”

“
You’re a very photogenic young
lady. I suspect this is only the beginning.”

“
I looked the same a year ago. It
wasn’t weird like this. There were people who took my picture from
far away, but they get so close now.”

“
You carry yourself differently
today than you did a year ago. They know you’re growing up. And I
suspect your photo commands a higher price today than it did a year
ago.”

“
I’m a nobody,” she laughs. “I’m
only interesting because I’m your daughter.”

“
You’re somebody, Contessa,” I say,
hoping she doesn’t truly think she’s nobody. “And when word gets
out that you’re an accomplished painter, I suspect the price will
only go up higher. You’re carving out a nice future for yourself,
but with it will come some unwanted attention. Livvy,” I say to
her, putting my hand on hers when she stops at a red light. “If
this ever becomes too cumbersome – too much of a burden
– please don’t be afraid to tell me.”

“
It’s fine, Dad.”

“
I will move to keep you and
Jackson safe.”

“
You don’t have to do that. Not for
me, anyway.”

“
I’d move heaven and earth for you,
sweetie.”

She laughs lightly and rolls her eyes. “I know,
Dad.”

Once inside the market, Livvy keeps track of the
ingredients we need on her phone.

“
Avocados,” she reads off the next
item.

“
You know,” I begin, “I used to
hate avocados. Every time I tried to cook with them, things just
didn’t taste right.”

“
So why are we getting them
now?”

“
Because your mother likes
guacamole with her spinach enchiladas. There’s a trick to picking
out the ripe ones. That’s what I was doing wrong all this time.”
Livvy looks up at me, paying attention.

“
The bright green ones,
right?”

“
No,” I tell her. “For these, we
want a darker skin, but the most important thing is the way they
feel in your hands.” I pick up a couple, a bright green one and a
darker one, squeezing it gently. “Hold out your hands.”

I place the two vegetables in her palms. “Don’t
squeeze with your fingertips. You can actually bruise them. Just
use the rest of your fingers and palms. Do you feel the
difference?”

“
This one’s harder,” she says of
the brighter one.

“
Right. We want it to be just a
little soft to the touch. That means it’s ripe.” I find another
dark one that’s too soft, and show Livvy the difference. “So now
you know how to pick out an avocado. Lesson one down,” I say with a
laugh.

“
Cool.”

“
Donna taught me that a few years
ago,” I say, trying to segue into a different conversation.
Actually, Emi had taught me, but Donna had taught her, so I figure
the lesson is the same. “We were making hambur–”

“
Onions,” Livvy interrupts as she
walks away from me, her eyes keenly focused on the list on her
phone. “Unless those come with a Granna story, too,” she adds,
turning around and looking up, challenging me with her eyes. My
daughter’s a lot more perceptive than I give her credit
for.

“
Can’t we just talk about her a
little?” I ask when I meet her at the onion stand.

“
No,” she tells me.

“
Contessa, listen.”

“
I don’t want to, Dad.”

“
Give me two minutes to say this,
and then I’ll let it be.”

“
You can talk all you want, but I
don’t have to listen.”

“
Spoken like a true bratty child,”
I mumble, loud enough for her to hear.

She sighs and her expression changes, but she
doesn’t look away from the bulb in her hand. “Go,” she says
simply.

LIVVY

I wait patiently for Dad to continue. A part of me
wants to cover my ears and run away, but he’s right. That’s how a
child would handle this, and I’m no longer a child.