Contessa

  I hope for the best. “So he did offer you help?” I ask in surprise.

  “You told me he was going to,” Jon starts, suddenly cautious. “Was that a lie?”

  “No–” Yes.

  “What are you talking about?” Dad asks.

  “Olivia said you wanted to help pay my way through college. I came here today to tell you that I appreciate it, but I don’t want your help.”

  “Why not?” I ask him, hoping beyond hope that my dad will drop it. I know he won’t, and realize I’m just delaying the inevitable.

  “Why not?!” he throws the question back at me. “I don’t want to owe your family anything.”

  “You wouldn’t.” I avoid the stare I can feel boring into me from across the room.

  Jon continues before my dad can answer. “And I certainly don’t want to answer to him about my grades, my attendance, or what courses I take. I could never handle that type of pressure. And what if we break up?”

  That’s something I’d never even considered. It hurts to think that he has.

  “But–”

  “Interesting,” my dad says, shifting his focus to me. “Jon, I’m sorry. Can you excuse me and Livvy for a minute?”

  “Sure,” he says, getting up abruptly. “I’ll be in the basement.”

  “What is this, Livvy? You told him we’d pay for his college? Where did you get that idea?”

  “You want him to go,” I say softly. “You said so yourself.”

  “Sure we do, but he’s got to find his way, Liv. I’m not just going to hand out cash to your current boyfriends anytime they need money–”

  “What do you mean, my ‘current boyfriends,’ Dad? I only have one. He’s it, and he wants to marry me someday.” At least I thought he did. “And don’t you want what’s best for me?”

  “I sure do. I want what’s best for you. And right now, I’m not too sure he is. You’re lying to me now, drinking, lying to him... where’s my little Contessa? Where’s the good girl I raised?”

  “I’m right here, Dad. This is ridiculous. I’m not your little Contessa anymore! I’m lying to you because your rules are beyond stupid.”

  “Really mature, Liv–” he interjects.

  “They’re stifling me! You’re not allowing me to grow up! I’m not your little girl anymore. I never wanted to be your little girl in the first place–”

  “Olivia!” my mom comes into the room abruptly. I guess she had been in Trey’s room all this time. “Watch what you say–” She stands united with my dad, her hand on his tense forearm.

  “I know what I’m saying. You just wanted some little puppet to control, Jack. You never wanted someone who might actually grow up into an adult someday!”

  “Olivia Sophia,” he says, “I’m your father. Do not call me by my first name.”

  “Why not, Jack? You’re not my dad. And if I could choose, I never would have picked you!”

  “And who would you have picked?” he asks as he stares at me in disbelief. “I wasn’t aware there were options.”

  “Jacks–” Mom starts to warn him, squeezing his arm.

  “Nate would have been a much better father for me,” I tell him. My mother quickly lets go of him, covering her mouth with her hands. She watches for his reaction. “He would have understood me. You never will. You don’t even try.”

  He stares back at me with contempt, anger. His lips barely trembling, his voice shaky, he speaks swiftly. “Go to your room, Livvy.”

  “Jack,” Mom says as she gently puts her hand on his back.

  He turns away from me quickly, unaware of my defiant stance that is losing confidence by the millisecond as I realize what I’ve done.

  I’ve made my dad cry. A lump grows in my throat as I watch him walk into the dining room toward the bar. My mom follows him, a soft apology escaping her lips, barely audible to me.

  I start to obey his order and go to my room–actually, to go to Jon–until I hear Dad confront my mother. “I blame you for this. And Donna.” I stand frozen in the hallway in front of Trey’s closed door, listening to my parents fight, hoping that my brother can’t hear. “You two have always put him on a pedestal, idolized him. You’ve made him into some distorted hero she worships. I thought we left all of this behind, Emi! How is it that thirteen years later we are still fighting about this man!?”

  “Maybe because you just won’t let it go–” My mom’s demure tone is gone as his becomes more and more accusatory.

  “I won’t let it go? How do you think it makes me feel to hear you say she takes after him, with her art? They never even existed in the same world! How the hell could she take after him!? He’s had no role in her upbringing!”

  I feel Jon brush up against me in the foyer.

  “I never meant it like that!” I can hear the tears in Mom’s raised voice.

  “I have no common ground with her, and you don’t make that any easier–”

  “I try!”

  “No, you don’t! You’re constantly highlighting all the ways that they’re similar. I don’t understand.”

  “Jacks, I’m sorry,” she pleads.

  “Sometimes I think you forget that she’s our child, and not the one you conceived with him.” I stop breathing. Silence settles over the whole house for what seems like eternity, but in truth, is only seconds.

  “Screw you, Jack,” my mother says on her way out of the dining room. Her eyes meet mine briefly as tears fall down her cheeks.

  “Mom?”

  “Livvy, go to your room!” she yells at me on her way up the stairs. “Jon, you should go.”

  “I’m going,” he says as he reaches for the door handle. I follow him outside. “Get back inside, Liv.”

  “I want to explain–”

  “I don’t want to hear it! Do you see what you’ve done?”

  I can’t hold in the tears that have been choking me for the last five minutes any longer. “Wait,” I cry to him, grabbing his arm. He pulls away quickly and walks further down the walk. “Jon, wait!”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” he says, turning around and making an aggressive move toward me. I step back, unsure, having never seen him this upset before. “I’m embarrassed for you.”

  “Why? Why are you mad at me? I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t understand? What do you possibly not understand? We’re never going to be together, Liv. And it’s all your fault. And frankly, I don’t know if I even want to be with you any more–”

  “Don’t say that, Jon. We will be together.”

  “How? How is this going to work? Your dad now believes I’m a liar. That my sole purpose on this planet is to defile his little girl because you can’t keep our private matters between us.”

  “I’m sorry!”

  “The hell you are!” he says. “And you lied and told him only I was drinking? Thanks, Liv. Thanks for looking out for me. You’re just a selfish little girl. You don’t care about anyone around you.”

  “I do, Jon,” I cry. “I love you!”

  “And what, you lied about the college money, too? Why would you do that?”

  “You didn’t want it anyway–”

  “You’re right, I didn’t–”

  “And I don’t understand why you don’t!”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to. You’ve had everything delivered on a freaking platinum platter all of your life. Have you ever worked for anything? Have you ever not gotten what you wanted?”

  “All the time!”

  “Right, right, I forgot, you didn’t get the dad you wanted. You disgust me.”

  “Jon...”

  “How could you say those things to him? How could you take him for granted? I would do anything to have my father back. He wasn’t necessarily a good man, or a great father, but he was my dad. He would have moved heaven and earth for me. Just like your dad does. And to insult him like that...”

  “I know,” I sob. “I know I shouldn’t have said those things.”

 
“No, you shouldn’t have. I’m not sure how you’ll make this better, Liv. But I know this much: I don’t want to see you until you do.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “We need some time apart. Grow up. Start doing things for someone other than yourself.”

  “That’s not fair, I’d do anything for you.”

  “For one thing, I can’t even believe you when you say that. And another thing, I don’t know that I could trust you to continue to treat me with any amount of respect or dignity.”

  “I mean it. And I do respect you.”

  “Yeah?” He picks up my left hand and I close my fist instinctively, thinking he’s going to try to take the ring back. He doesn’t, though. He opens up my hand, palm up, and starts to press into each of the paint stains. “Well, what did your father do to lose your respect?” After he’s touched every one of them, he throws my hand down.

  I think about his question as I wipe more tears away. I think about his gesture even more. He knows I keep the marks for Nate. They’re my own tattoos, my permanent reminders of him that I always have with me. I’m embarrassed that he’s figured it out. “Nothing,” I whisper.

  “Exactly. Go make it right.”

  “But I don’t know how.” My statement isn’t meant to garner any sympathy from him. I honestly don’t know what I can do to fix things.

  “I’d start with some soap and hot water,” he says sarcastically, nodding once more to my hand. He turns to walk up the street toward the bus stop.

  “I love you,” I call to him. He keeps walking, as if he didn’t hear.

  But I know he did.

  I watch him until he gets on the bus, hoping he’ll look back, but he never does.

  A cab pulls up in front of my house. I’d forgotten that I invited Camille over.

  “Hey, Liv!” she waves at me as the taxi pulls away from the curb. After getting a glimpse of my face, she rushes over. “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything,” I cry to her, finally too weak to stand, falling on my knees to the damp grass. She squats down next to me.

  “What happened? Was that Jon?”

  “Yeah. He broke up with me.”

  My best friend takes my left hand into hers, examining the ring. “You’re still wearing it.”

  “He’s mad at me. I screwed up, Camille. Really badly, with everyone.”

  “What’d you do?”

  I begin to try to explain, but so much has happened since I walked through the front door that I can’t even find order in things. How did Jon asking Dad if I could go to prom with him turn into this?

  “I’m sure you’re making it out to be much worse than it is.”

  “In most instances, I’d agree, but not this one,” I cough out through lingering sobs. “It’s bad.”

  “Should I go?”

  “I don’t want you to,” I tell her, “but I have no doubt I’m grounded.”

  “Well, let me get you inside, at least.” She helps me to my feet, steadying me as I continue to cry. “Livvy, it will all be okay. I promise.”

  “I said so many things that I can’t take back. And I need to. I have to. I made Daddy cry,” I choke out, crying even harder. “He couldn’t even look at me. And then he got in a fight with my mom. It’s awful.”

  “Shhh.” She tries to comfort me, opening the front door. I can hear my dad in Trey’s room, talking to him softly. I’m sure this ordeal really affected my brother. There’s no way he didn’t hear what was going on outside his door. We were all too loud. I feel even worse.

  “Let’s go,” Dad says to my brother. He appears in the hallway carrying a duffel bag. He takes a small suitcase from my brother in his left hand. My brother’s hand is clutching tightly to Dad’s fingers.

  “What–”

  “Don’t upset your brother.” That’s all he says to me as he brushes past me and Camille. He doesn’t even look at me, though. I turn around to watch him grab his keys and usher my brother out the front door.

  “Daddy!” I yell after him. Camille and I stand, frozen, only moving as we both shudder when the door slams shut.

  “Oh, crap, Livvy.”

  I bust out crying, even harder than before. My best friend guides me to the couch, putting her arm around me after we sit down. A few times, she tries to say something, but stops herself. In the end, she just lets me get all of my emotions out as I hug a pillow tightly into my stomach. It doesn’t make the nausea go away.

  “I feel sick,” I finally tell her.

  “Calm down,” she says. “You’re just upset. Take some deep breaths.” I try to follow her advice, but my efforts keep getting thwarted as I choke out more tears. “My dad left once,” she says plainly. “He came back after a few days.”

  “What? A few days? My parents haven’t been apart in years, Camille. Literally years.”

  She frowns at me, trying to be consoling. “He’s human, though. We all need space sometimes.”

  “Not him,” I argue. “He’s nothing without his family. He says that all the time.”

  “He has your brother. He’ll be fine.”

  “I wonder if Mom knows he left.” We both sit in silence as my mind lingers on that thought. “I need to talk to my mom,” I finally tell her. “I have to start somewhere.”

  “Okay,” Camille says. “I can wait in your room, if you want.”

  “No. I think it’s best if I do this alone.”

  “Well, you can call me any time. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “And in fact, I want you to call me. Tonight.”

  “If I’m not grounded, I will. So don’t count on a call,” I try to joke with her.

  “You’ll be alright.”

  “I’m a horrible person.” I slump into the couch.

  “You’re a good person,” she argues, patting my knee. “You are.”

  I nod, but don’t really agree. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Love you, Liv.”

  “Thanks, Camille. Love you, too.”

  I try to compose myself, waiting fifteen minutes before venturing up into my mother’s room.

  “Mom?” I call to her from outside the locked door.

  “Go to your room, Liv,” she says, her voice still stifled by sadness. “Think about what you’ve done today. I’ll come down when I’m ready to talk to you.”

  “Mom, I’m sorry,” I plead with her.

  “That’s not enough today. Just go to your room, and don’t come out until I tell you to.”

  “I didn’t mean it! I swear, Mom, I didn’t. I’m so sorry.”

  My mother unlocks her door and opens it a few inches. “Livvy, please? I need some time to figure this out. Can you at least give me a few minutes to do that? And then we’ll talk.”

  I simply nod, the tears still flowing freely. “Dad left,” I tell her.

  “I know,” she says as her eyes dampen and her face crumples in sadness. “It’ll be fine. Just go downstairs. I’ll be there soon.”

  “Okay.” I move slowly down the stairs, hearing the door close once I’ve made it all the way down to the main level. I go to the kitchen to grab some water. The invitation to Jon’s prom still sits on the kitchen island where my dad left it. I take it with me downstairs to my room.

  What have I done?

  I tuck the invitation in my top drawer and walk to my nightstand, taking out the sketch book. Still dressed in my school uniform, I kick off my shoes before crawling under the covers of my bed. I stare at the leather-bound book, but I don’t have the will to open it. Doing so feels like so much more a betrayal now than it ever did.

  Nate would have been a better father? Please, tell me this is a bad dream that I will wake up from, and when I go upstairs, Dad and Trey will be making dinner pancakes in the kitchen like they do many Fridays.

  But I already know it’s not a dream. This is just a nightmare–one that I brought on myself with stupid lies and hurtful words. No man–no father–would be proud of what I’d done today
.

  After throwing Nate’s sketchbook on the floor, I curl up in a fetal position and cry. I think about the way my dad had to look away from me to shield the pain I had caused. I consider Jon’s words, that he doesn’t know that we’ll be able to be together, and that he doesn’t know if he wants to. And who can blame him?

  I take off the ring and set it on the nightstand. I’m not worthy of his love or commitment.

  Mom was clearly hurt, too, and got dragged into a mess that Dad blamed her for. But it’s not her fault. It’s not Granna’s fault. All they’ve ever done is try to encourage me. Sometimes they told me about Nate, sometimes they didn’t. But there was never a hint that they wished he was my father or that Mom wished he had been her husband. Even Granna, Nate’s own mother, believed that Jack was the man who was best suited to be my dad.

  I just chose to ignore them. If they ever did compare my work to his–and I can honestly say, it wasn’t often–I held on to that as a badge of honor. It was one more reason to believe in him, to want him as a parent who understood me better.

  But Dad didn’t misunderstand me. He totally understood me, in fact, to the point that he’d give me space when I needed it, and rarely harped on me to be any way other than I was. Unless I was acting stupid, or childish, and he knew I could do better. Only then would he attempt to correct me or reprimand me.

  He has every right to hate me. I succumb to the tears once more, burrowing my head in the pillows to mask the sound. It’s not fair for me to cry, but I can’t help it.

  I thought I’d been dreaming the sound of soft knocks on my door, but I awake in a panic when I hear the creaking hinge.

  “It’s just me,” Mom says. She leaves the door open. Through the only windows in the basement, I can see that it’s already dark outside.

  “What time is it?” I ask her, still not quite alert.

  “It’s a little after eight.” She takes a seat on the bed next to me and rubs my arm through the blankets.

  “Is Dad back?”

  “No,” she says and sighs. “Are you hungry?”

  “No, I feel sick to my stomach.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “Mom, I am so sorry.” I sit up and throw my arms around her. She starts crying immediately, which makes me do the same. I didn’t think there could possibly be any tears left, and the last thing I want to do is make this pounding headache even worse with more tears. “I didn’t mean it,” I whisper softly.