Olivia (44 page)

“
I bet you want to talk to Jon
about this,” Mom suggests.

“
We’ve talked about it a little,” I
tell them both. “Yesterday, in fact. There’s a lot to
consider.”

“
Do you want to call him?” Dad
asks.

“
Can I?” I’m not sure of the terms
of my grounding.

“
For this news? Sure.”

“
Congrats, Little Liv,” Matty says
before he closes the door.

“
So phone calls are allowed this
time?” Jon asks when he picks up the phone.

“
I got special permission for this
call, yeah.”

“
What do you want?” he asks me in
his sexiest voice.

“
I want you to know that I... uh,
got in to Yale.”

“
Did you?” he asks, his tone
becoming immediately upbeat. “Well, hell, I knew you would, but you
got the letter?”

“
Yeah.”

“
That’s great, baby.”

“
I guess.” I remember our fight
yesterday. Up until then, I thought we were on the same page with
what we wanted next year. For once, I think he and my father might
be in agreement on something. Dad wants me to go to Yale; Jon wants
me to consider it... and deep down, I know I would love it. I just
don’t think I’ll love it as much as I love Jon.

“
Do what’s best for you,
Olivia.”

“
Don’t you want me at Columbia with
you?” I ask meekly.

“
I’ll be with you, wherever you
decide to go to school. In a perfect world, we’d find one school
that had exactly what we both want. It’s not a perfect world,
though. Compromises will have to be made, one way or the
other.”

“
I don’t want to compromise
you.”

“
Please... leave me out of your
decision, Liv.” The words come quickly in nearly a whisper, as if
he didn’t really want me to hear. I don’t think he means
it.

“
I can’t,” I admit. “That’s like
you telling me to leave you out of my life... my future. And I want
you there. I choose you, Jon, always. Above everything
else.”

“
Take me out of the
equation.”

“
Jon...”

“
I can’t be your everything, baby.
That’s too much pressure for me.”

“
That’s not what I’m saying,” I
clarify. “I just want you to know how important you are to
me.”

“
You prove that to me often. Every
time you tell me you love me... and the frequency of use of those
three words will not diminish whether you’re here or a few hours
away.”

“
I don’t want to fight about this,”
I tell him.

“
I don’t either. You know what?
Let’s just live in the moment. Let’s not let any uncertainty cloud
our time together. We just need to make the most of the time we
have,” he says. “Consider your options. I’ll stay out of it. Let’s
just keep moving forward, and when you’ve made a decision, I’ll
support whatever it is. Let’s enjoy our time together.”

“
Okay. What do you need?” I hope
the question takes him back to last night, and puts him back into
the mood he’d been in earlier.

“
Oh, Liv,” he sighs. “You. Do you
think we can make that happen soon?” he laughs.

“
I’m still trying to work that
out,” I tell him honestly. “Nothing’s happening at this house,
that’s for sure. Not until I’m married.”

“
That’s fair. Did you want to elope
when you’re ungrounded?”

“
Funny,” I tell him, knowing he’s
joking. “When’s Frederick going to find a girlfriend that’ll keep
him occupied elsewhere?”

“
He has one that he’s very faithful
to, she just goes to college out of state,” Jon says. “That’s our
problem. He’s so faithful he’ll barely go out with anyone,
including me. But...”

“
What?”

“
He’s going home for the summer...
there’s a chance they won’t move anyone in with me.”

“
Oh, don’t get my hopes
up.”

“
I won’t. That’s why I haven’t said
anything.” He’s quiet for a few seconds. “Olivia, I really am proud
of you,” he says.

“
Thanks. I better wrap this
up.”

“
I’m glad you called. We’ll
celebrate in two weeks. Deal?

“
Deal. Thanks for this
weekend.”

“
You, too, baby.”

“
So can I go stay at Matty’s
apartment sometime?” I ask my mother on our way to the
loft.

“
You’ll have to ask your dad that
question,” she answers. “I think he has some trust issues with his
brother right now.” I roll my eyes, even though she doesn’t see
me.

“
Dad seemed genuinely sad to see
him move out yesterday.”

“
I think he liked having him
around–no matter what, you know Jacks loves his family.”

“
More than anything,” I add,
walking into the door Francisco opens for us.

“
Good morning, Mrs. Holland. Miss
Holland,” he says politely. “Feeling inspired today?” he asks
me.

“
I am,” I tell him with a smile.
It’s the same answer I’ve given him every week, despite the fact
that I never really am. Today’s no different.

Mom smoothes down my hair in the elevator, fussing
with it like she used to do when I was little. “What are you
doing?” I ask her with a slight laugh.

“
Just admiring my beautiful
daughter,” she says, tucking some strands behind my ear. I look at
her strangely, but she simply grins at me, rubbing my
shoulder.

When we go into the loft, I’m surprised to see Dad
in the kitchen, pouring coffee into three travel mugs. “Hey, Dad.”
I look at my mother, who obviously knew he was going to be here.
She just walks over to him casually, kissing him on the cheek.
Instead of handing her a cup of coffee, he grabs a cup from the
microwave from her favorite tea shop and hands her the
beverage.

“
Thanks, Jacks. Where are
they?”

“
Where are what?” I ask.

“
Who,” Dad clarifies, putting sugar
in two of the coffee mugs. “In the studio.”

Mom starts toward the closed door. “Mom?” We haven’t
opened that door in months. I take a few steps back, wanting to
leave.

“
Contessa, come here,” my dad says
softly. When I don’t obey, he walks over to me and puts his arm
across my shoulders. Mom waits by the door as he talks to me. “The
painting you did is beautiful,” he begins. “Granna would be so
proud.”

“
I hardly started it.” I start to
feel as if I’m going to hyperventilate. “It’s not
finished.”

“
Maybe it is,” he says as he guides
me to a kitchen chair. I nearly collapse in the chair as he squats
in front of me, putting his hand on my knee. “Did you ever think
that maybe you were painting the void she left in your life? Her
absence? I thought that’s what it was,” he says, and even though I
know he’s just making helpful suggestions, I can almost believe
that’s what I’d painted. “You conveyed it beautifully.”

“
Daddy, you know that’s
not–”

“
Livvy,” he says as he looks at me
and puts his hands on my shoulders. “For now, just accept it. And
later, when you’re ready to remember her, you can begin
again.”

I stare into his kind and reassuring eyes. “Is it in
there?”

“
I’ve put it away for now. It’s in
storage. It’s in good hands.”

I nod my head.
I was painting the
loss. The void. The absence. It was not a painting of Granna. It
was a painting without her.
“Okay,” I whisper, my voice
shaky from lack of air even though I just took a deep breath for
strength.

“
You don’t have to paint yet. But I
do want you to at least be able to try. We’ve set everything up for
you in the studio. And we have a surprise for you.”

My mother finally opens the door to reveal a
handsome man who my dad favors. “Grandpa Holland?” My grandfather
smiles at me, holding out his arms for me. I walk quickly toward
him and hug him, noticing my grandmother standing next to him.
“Grandma!” I hug her, too. “What are you doing here?”

“
We’re house hunting,” Grandpa
says.

“
But I love your home in Wyoming.
Are we not going there next month now?” I ask. I’d been looking
forward to visiting Wyoming over Spring Break.

“
We won’t get rid of those houses,”
Grandma says, “but with all my kids now living in New York, and a
new grand-baby and great-grand-baby on the way, this just seems
like the time for us to find a permanent place nearby.”

“
They’re thinking Connecticut,” Dad
says. “Maybe near Stamford.”

“
Then you could stop by and see us
on your way home for the weekends sometimes,” Grandpa says.
“Grandma can make dinner for us.”

“
I guess Dad told you I got into
Yale,” I tell them. “I’m not sure I’m going to go there, but if I
do, that sounds great.” I avoid looking at Mom or Dad, and finally
glance over to my easel, relieved to see that Granna’s painting
isn’t there anymore. A blank canvas rests on the small shelf by the
window. It’s comforting to me.

“
Livvy, we wanted to hire you to
paint some things for our new house,” Grandma says. I look first at
my dad, knowing he can see the worry on my face, but then look at
my grandparents. “We’d like family portraits of
everyone.”

“
I’m, uhhh...” I start. “I’m a
little rusty on portraits,” I tell them, knowing I’m probably a
little rusty on
everything
, “but I can
definitely try.”

“
That’s all we ask, sweetie,” my
grandmother says.

“
Well,” Dad begins, walking back
into the kitchen and picking up two of the mugs, “we are going to
hit the road to Stamford.” My grandparents meet him in the kitchen.
“And we will leave you two to your creative pursuits.” He kisses
Mom on the forehead first, then does the same to me. “Just try,” he
whispers.

“
Okay.”

“
I’ll see you tonight,” Dad
announces after I’ve said goodbye to Grandma and Grandpa. “They’ll
be staying in the guest room in the basement, Tessa, so don’t be
too loud when you come home tonight.”

“
Okay. I’ll be home at midnight,” I
tell him, making sure he knows I have plans with Jon.

“
Midnight,” he reiterates and
smiles. “I’ll be up. And ask Jon if he might want to make a little
money taking some family portraits that you can use for your
paintings.”

I smile, happy that he is inviting Jon to be
involved in something, hoping that he is beginning to like him
again.

“
Okay.”

When they leave, Mom reaches into her tote bag and
pulls out my yellow smock. “Just in case,” she says, offering it to
me.

I take off my jacket and pull the garment on over my
white t-shirt. Mom helps me fasten all the buttons, and she smiles
at me reassuringly. “That’s my Livvy,” she says simply, adjusting
its collar. Just wearing it again, for the first time since
Christmas, makes me feel inspired.

“
I’ll be in here,” I tell her,
pointing to my studio. She nods and settles into her couch, tucking
her legs beneath her body and pulling out a book to
read.

“
Mix a color,” she suggests
casually. “Do a couple strokes. Don’t feel like you have to create
a masterpiece today. You’ve got time, just try to work your way
back into it.”

It’s good advice, because I was already feeling
overwhelmed. I peer out the window in the studio, catching sight of
my dad’s car as it pulls out of the drive. I examine two of the
brushes on the work table. They’re brand new, as is most of the
paint. It’s obvious my parents went to a lot of trouble to make
this place workable. When I’d thought about returning to this room
to paint, I imagined it would be caked in dust and cobwebs.

I feel a sense of relief, replaying the words Dad
said.
Maybe you were painting the void.
Maybe I was. Maybe that painting
is
complete. Only time will tell.

Missing my old brushes, I search the closet until I
find them, stashed away in a drawer. The well-used brush feels
natural in my hand, but my muscles feel stiff. I rub my wrist and
the muscles in my hand until they’re warm. It’s a ritual I had to
do when I was younger and didn’t paint every day. I guess it’s
something I’ll have to do now, too. Maybe not for long.

After blending some colors, I shut the doors to the
studio and open the window to ventilate the room. I pull out my
iPod and connect it to speakers, turning up the volume a little
louder than I should. If it was truly too loud, Mom would tell
me.

The wind blowing inside is full of smells of spring.
The scents of fresh cut grass and flowers actually stand out more
than the smog today, a welcome invitation to create. I close my
eyes to make the first few brushstrokes, not wanting to be too
cautious or careful or even mindful of what I’m painting. I just
need a rhythm. I have no idea what I want to paint... just as long
as I paint
something
.

When the first droplet of paint stains my smock, I
feel as if I’m beginning to find my way again. I’ve broken through
a barrier, and there’s no turning back. My brain feels alive again,
and I find it hard to keep up with the ideas it generates. This is
how I work. I’ve missed this feeling. It was a feeling I could
never really describe, but being without it for so long, I can
identify definite things that I’ve missed. My music sounds clearer.
The colors look brighter. I feel happier than I’ve been in a long
time... and I hadn’t even realized I wasn’t truly happy. Tears fall
from my eyes, and I let them flow, even though they cloud the
vision of the artwork in front of me. Somehow, the tears make it
better. They make
me
better. All the while
I’m silently crying, a smile is glued to my face.