Olivia

  “I don’t wanna.”

  “I just got home, buddy, and you’re already gonna pick a fight with me?” He giggles a little and nods his head, but changes his tune when I squint my eyes at him playfully.

  “Okay.” He hops off the couch and bursts into our room. I hear Will yelling at him seconds later for waking him up. I check the clock across the room, wondering if the time on my phone is right or not. It’s eleven in the morning. These boys should not be sleeping in this late.

  Although I’m certain I won’t find my mother there, I knock on her door before entering her bedroom. It’s trashed, with empty beer cans and piles of clothes littering the floor. It looks like she was sorting to do laundry, but didn’t quite make it to the basement to wash the clothes.

  I hate her for leaving them alone all night. I’d hoped she wouldn’t be home now, but she should have never left them alone all night. I’d asked her to find someone to watch them in my absence for the week that I was gone. I have all summer to transform my 14-year-old brother into a responsible adult. When I move out for college, someone has to keep an eye on Max, and I know I can’t count on my mother to do it.

  “Jon?” Max asks from the doorway to Mom’s room.

  “Yeah?”

  “Where’d Mom go?”

  “She left a note. She didn’t want to wake you this morning, but it looks like she had to work early today.”

  “Liar,” Will says in passing on his way to the kitchen. I blow off his remark and usher my youngest brother back into the living room.

  “What’d you need, Max?”

  “I don’t have any clean underwear.”

  “Do you have your swim trunks?”

  “Are we going to the pool?” He’s so excited, and I can tell he thinks this is just a special treat on an otherwise normal summer day. He has no clue that his mother’s an irresponsible drunk, that it’s not normal for kids to not have clean clothes to put on, and that I’ve been holding in a river of tears for the past twelve hours for a woman I truly respected and cared for – just to appear strong for my girlfriend. Fortunately, anger is replacing the exhaustion I had been feeling, so watching him at the pool shouldn’t be a problem.

  “We’ll go once you shower,” I bargain with him. There’s no telling how long he’s gone without one. “Will, are you coming?”

  “Yeah,” he says, eating a piece of bread with jam on it. “I thought you weren’t coming back for a few more days.”

  “We had to come back early,” I tell him. He stops and waits for me to say more. “Donna passed away yesterday.”

  I fight against the swelling emotions, but after my brother shoves the last bite of food into his mouth, he wipes his hand on his shirt before pulling me into a hug. “I’m sorry,” he whispers as his hands pat my back.

  I’m caught off guard by his empathy, and for possibly the first time in his life, I’m truly impressed at this show of maturity. Now I’m not sure if the tears are mournful ones shed for Donna, or prideful ones for my brother.

  Maybe transforming him into a responsible adult won’t be such a challenge after all.

  LIVVY

  I’ve never felt so sad.

  I never thought anything could feel worse than when Jon broke up with me a few months ago. With that, as hopeless as it felt, there was still a tiny bit of hope of being with him again.

  With Granna, there’s no hope. She’s just gone, and I’ll never see her again.

  “We’re almost home, Tessa,” Dad says, rubbing my arm. Matty squeezes the hand he’s been holding since we dropped Jon off. I wipe my nose on the sleeve of my shirt, having run out of tissues hours ago. “Your mom is anxious to see you.”

  “I can’t wait to see her,” I barely manage to choke out. Thinking of her dealing with Granna’s death makes me cry even harder. I didn’t think it was possible.

  “Livvy, try to think about something else,” my uncle suggests. I glare at him.

  “I want to honor her,” I say in defense of my behavior. “She deserves that, doesn’t she?”

  “Of course, Little Liv, but you’re going to make yourself sick if you keep this up.”

  “I don’t care,” I tell him. “I’ll cry if I want to. And right now, I can’t think of any other way to be, or any other thing to do. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he says, biting back any further comments. “I’m just trying to help, sweetie. I’m sorry. It’s hard to see you like this, that’s all.” When he starts to pull his hand away, I hold it tighter and squirm away from my dad. Matty holds me hard against his chest. “Let it out,” he whispers.

  I do.

  Mom comes outside the second the car pulls up in front of our house. She kisses Dad, holding him close. The skin around her eyes is pronounced, red and puffy. When she looks up at me, the tears drop quickly.

  “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there with you, Liv,” she says.

  “I love you, Mom,” I tell her in return. “I love you so much.”

  “I love you, too.” She pulls away from me, holding me at shoulders-length. “I want you to always know that. Always remember that. It doesn’t matter if we fight, if we’re mad, if I’m disappointed in you, if we don’t see each other for a span of time… nothing can keep me from loving you with all my heart, okay?”

  “Stop, Mom, please,” I beg her, not wanting to think of her mad, disappointed, or… gone.

  “I should have been with you in Greece,” she whispers in my ear. “I should have been there for you.”

  “Mom, I’m fine.”

  “I just feel bad that you were alone.”

  “I wasn’t alone, Mom. Jon was there, and Matty. And Dad was there soon after. I had lots of support, okay? But I’m glad to be home and with you.”

  “I’m happy we’re all here, safe and sound.”

  “How’s Trey?” I ask. I can’t imagine what a ten-hour flight with our mother, crying, would have been like. He must be scared out of his mind.

  “He’s okay. Kelly was reading him a book.”

  “Was he upset on the plane?”

  “No, he slept. I held it together for him,” she says. “But once I got home, I let it all out.” She looks at my dad and uncle. “You’re sister’s a godsend.”

  “I’m glad she was there for you, Poppet,” Dad says, pulling her into another embrace. In the same swift movement, they both pull me into their hug. “Let’s get inside.” I reach into the car to get my purse, and it’s only then that I notice photographers across the street. They’re keeping a respectable distance, but still totally encroaching on our private moments. Dad puts his hand on my back, turning me away from them and toward the entrance.

  Trey bypasses me in favor of Dad when we come in the house. I go downstairs to put my things away and freshen up. I stop when I get to my room, seeing the shopping bag on my bed. It’s from my favorite art store. The day before I left for London, they’d had a private shopping event with some new paints. I bought some for the project I’d been working on in the weeks since school let out. And by weeks, I mean I’d worked on it for about four hours total since summer break began.

  I am so sorry, Granna.

  She’d hired me to do her portrait. She wanted something to accompany the one I had done of her son last year. Even though I told her I didn’t want her to pay me, she gave me a painting of Nate’s from the gallery. It hangs prominently in my room, but her portrait is nowhere to be found.

  Mom and I had gone to the newly-purchased loft for a few hours on the weekends, and I’d set up a makeshift studio in the spare bedroom. I thought I’d have an easy time painting there, but I was constantly distracted by the view, and the park… and my boyfriend.

  Who am I kidding? Jon is the reason I didn’t paint more before we left. After his graduation, the newfound freedom reinvigorated his plans for the future. Plans for school, plans for a career, and plans with me. He was excited about Columbia, about the things he was going to learn, and he wanted to share every moment with me.

/>   I wanted the same. Every moment, I wanted him, and nothing else. I’ve been selfish.

  “Liv,” my dad says from the doorway to my room, “I could go get your canvas–”

  “No,” I interrupt him quickly. I can’t see that portrait right now, even if I’d barely begun. Any single feature would remind me of the woman I looked up to and admired. To see her eyes gazing into mine, disappointed at the choices I’ve made – I can’t. “I don’t feel like painting today.”

  After two days surrounded by my extended family, I excuse myself from the movie in the media room and slip into my bedroom, shutting the door behind me. Expecting my parents to follow me, I wait for a couple of minutes by the door, ready to assure them that I’m okay.

  When they don’t come, I sit on the floor of the studio side of my room, my back against the wall and my knees tucked into my body. Staring at the blank canvas opposite me, I try to envision the art that should adorn it.

  I see white. That’s all I see. I see the rough material of the canvas, and white. As soon as I see something else – a color, a shape, a person – I feel empty in the pit of my stomach. Glaring at the prepped canvas, I see feelings that I don’t want to face.

  Suddenly, being alone isn’t what I want. I hurriedly cram all of my paint supplies into a storage closet and turn the offensive non-painting around to face the wall. I even push my two favorite easels to the far side of the room. When I turn around, it looks empty. It looks exactly like I feel. My heart starts to beat faster. I feel panic. I feel lost.

  Everyone who was watching the movie turns abruptly at the sudden motion of my door opening. I smile briefly, not making a big deal out of it, but I feel like I can breathe again as comforting faces smile back at me. I pick up my phone and sit down on my bed, calling Jon quietly so I don’t disturb the showing in the adjacent room.

  “What’s up, baby? Are you okay?”

  “I’m here,” I say.

  “Where?”

  “Home. Where are you?”

  “I was just about to leave the apartment.”

  “Are you coming over?”

  “Liv, you told me you’d be busy with your family all week. I decided to go back to work. I had to get my mind off things, somehow.”

  “When will you be off?”

  “Friday. I’ll be at the funeral.”

  “I meant today.”

  “Oh. Not until late, Olivia. I’m working on some drafts for the firm. They’re easier to do at night, when the office is quiet.”

  The panic returns. “When will I ever get to see you?” I say, my voice elevated.

  “It’s just for this week, I promise. My boss said he’ll work around my schedule. As long as the work gets done, he doesn’t care when I work. But since you were busy, I wanted to stay busy, too.”

  “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.”