The Book of Someday (30 page)

Livvi is a little less raw, less wounded. Andrew has done everything in his power to make amends. He has been loving and devoted. And like Livvi, he is also tentative, and shaken. They’re both aware that, if it hadn’t been for Grace, they might not have found a way to hold on to each other.

Most mornings Livvi and Andrew wake up in the same bed. Most evenings they eat at the same table. Most nights they make fervent love. The chemistry, the attraction, the caring they share is undeniable. What is equally undeniable is that there are now places in Livvi’s heart where she’s so separate from Andrew that at times he seems to disappear. Places where Andrew is overshadowed. By the demands of his wife and the dictates of his parents. And by Livvi’s father. And the fact that he’s dying and wants to see her.

Livvi is watching Grace happily exploring
Green
Eggs
and
Ham
, the new book that Livvi has just bought for her. And Livvi is thinking of her father—remembering that it was because of him that she first discovered the charms of Dr. Seuss. And the drama of Dickens. The sly wit of Jane Austen. And the magical realms of Narnia.

It was her father who taught Livvi to read. And in his rows and stacks and piles and shelves of books she found poetry. And history. And the power of ideas.

“I can’t wait for you and me to read this story together, Livvi.” Grace is glowing with excitement. “I love it when I have a new book!”

“Me too,” Livvi says.

Her thoughts are returning to her father, to when she was a child and his books were her lifelines, the magic carpets on which she sailed away to worlds that were clean and sane and full of hope.

And
now
that
I’m an adult,
Livvi is thinking,
it’s my father’s gifts—words and books—that have given me my career.

For a brief, burning instant Livvi is desperate to see her father. But then she’s remembering his silences, and rages. And even though—except for that soul-shredding morning when he lifted her by her hair and threw her across the room—his physical violence was never directed at her, Livvi can’t forget the hurt of the emotional wounds he inflicted. She can’t forget that her father has never once told her he loved her.

“Okay, guys, time to chow down.” The waiter, a skinny man with a nose ring and shaggy haircut, has appeared at the table.

While he’s laying out their lunch order, he’s saying to Grace: “Tell me if I got everything…two of our grass-fed, organic beef burgers and an order of sweet-potato fries. Right?”

Grace nods enthusiastically.

“And we’re splitting a fruit salad,” Livvi says.

The waiter hurries away. “Sorry, totally slipped my mind, I’ll be right back.”

Grace takes only a single bite of her hamburger before reaching for the crayons and drawing paper piled in the middle of the table. Smiling brightly, she announces: “I’m going to make you a picture of the Christmas presents I asked Santa to bring.”

“Gracie, we can’t do that right now.” Livvi apologetically slides the sheet of drawing paper out of the way and replaces it with Grace’s lunch plate. “We sort of lost track of time in the bookstore and now we’re late. You’ll have to draw the picture when you get home. Bree will be here any minute to pick you up.”

At the mention of going home, Grace’s smile disappears, and her hand instantly travels to her face—her thumb and index finger nervously pinching at the skin just above her eyebrow. It was shortly after the rearranged trip to Aspen that Grace developed this habit.

Livvi’s heart aches every time she sees it. She’s leaning across the table, wrapping her hand around Grace’s. Gently slowing and then stopping the frantic motion of Grace’s fingers. “Don’t,” Livvi murmurs. “There’s nothing to worry about. I promise.”

Grace seems both hopeful and vaguely troubled. “Daddy says he’s getting you something special for Christmas so you won’t be mad at him.”

Then, in a worried afterthought, as she’s pointing toward the front of the restaurant, alerting Livvi to the fact that Bree has arrived, Grace whispers: “I think Daddy’s getting you diamonds. Mommy doesn’t know. Only me. And Daddy. So don’t tell, okay?”

Livvi isn’t sure how she feels about this news of Christmas diamonds. An engagement ring, a request from Andrew to become his wife, would be slightly insulting—Andrew currently has a wife. And the gift of earrings, or a necklace, would seem like Andrew was trying to use their glitter to obscure the truth—the fact that Livvi is never quite on solid ground, that at any given moment she can be exiled by the whims of Palos Verdes and Rolling Hills.

And as Livvi is in the midst of thinking these things—

—Bree is saying: “Wow. This truly sucks.”

She’s slipping into a chair at the table, commenting on the untouched food on Grace’s plate. “You guys just got here, huh?”

“Ask for a hamburger too.” Grace pushes a menu toward Bree. “And we can stay here for a while and not go home till later. Please?”

Bree checks her watch. There’s sincere regret as she’s telling Grace: “No way, doodle-bug. We gotta roll.” Bree then looks at Livvi and says: “Sorry.”

“Not even a couple more minutes?” Livvi asks.

“I wish,” Bree replies. “But I’ll be in huge trouble if I get her home late.”

As Livvi is calling to the waiter, asking for the check and a carryout box for Grace’s lunch, she’s being torn apart by Grace’s pleading gaze.

While Bree is explaining: “I have to get Grace back in time for the Christmas family portrait. It’s this afternoon, at her grandmother’s house.”

Grace has gone back to her drawing—moving a crayon over the paper in a rapid blur. “Wait, wait,” she’s begging. “I need to finish this.

“It’s for you,” Grace tells Livvi. “It’s special. For Christmas.” She’s frantically snatching up one crayon after another. Working as fast as she can.

“It’s all right, Grace,” Livvi says. “We’ll be together on Christmas Eve. You and Daddy and I are going to see
The Nutcracker
, remember? You can give it to me then.”

Grace remains intent on her drawing. She doesn’t see Bree looking at Livvi, silently saying no. Grace doesn’t see what Livvi sees—Bree taking one of the crayons and scribbling something on a napkin.

Bree slides the napkin toward Livvi, showing her the message:

Annual family winter vacation—Bermuda.

Bree’s tone is subdued, sympathetic: “He hasn’t told you, has he?”

It’s as if Livvi is being hit by a speeding train. Everything seems to be happening at once. The news about Bermuda. The waiter handing her the carryout box containing Grace’s lunch. Grace insisting she doesn’t want to leave, begging Bree to let her stay. Bree producing an iPod from her purse and tucking the ear buds into Grace’s ears, saying: “Hey, look what I’ve got. Muppet songs.”

As soon as Grace is distracted by the music, Bree turns to Livvi. “I’m gonna get my Christmas spirit on, and give Andrew the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he didn’t tell you about the family trek to Bermuda because he hasn’t found out about it yet. I just got the info this morning—from Grace’s other parent.”

Bree checks to be certain Grace isn’t listening, then tells Livvi: “That woman doesn’t give a darn about Grace, all she’s interested in is hanging on to Andrew.” Bree glances at Grace again, then says: “The truth is I’m not a big fan of Andrew’s either, but I know how much crap he gets. This time Mommy Dearest is threatening to ‘treat’ Grace to a trip to Europe—like right this minute—and stay there until after New Year’s Eve—if Andrew doesn’t agree to be part of the family Christmas in Bermuda.”

Bree leans close to Livvi, keeping her voice low. “If Andrew doesn’t show up in Bermuda, he won’t see Grace for the holidays. And if he fights it, he’ll not only get world-class crap from his parents, but he runs the risk of Kayla going all psycho-meltdown and scaring the shit out of Gracie. The whole thing is a monster circle-jerk. I don’t get why he doesn’t just dump that nut-job and be done with her.”

“I don’t either,” Livvi murmurs.

Bree is instantly apologetic. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. I shouldn’t have said all that.” She stands up, quickly disconnects Grace from the iPod, and lifts her out of her chair. “Come on, doodle-bug, you can finish your drawing in the car.”

“But if we leave now, how will Livvi get it? I want her to have it today,” Grace frets.

“I’ll scan it on the computer, and we’ll e-mail it to her. Come on, Gracie, be a good girl. We’re gonna be late, we’re gonna get in trouble.”

Grace runs to Livvi, throwing her arms around her. “I love you.” Grace’s breath is warm against Livvi’s ear.

Then Grace is gone.

Livvi leans forward and rests her head on the cool metal of the tabletop—consumed by the emptiness left by Grace’s departure. And by the devastating news that she won’t be with Grace, or with Andrew, at Christmas.

***

It isn’t until hours later when Livvi has gone home and is working on Sierra’s year-end bills that the feeling of emptiness lifts—and is suddenly replaced by an impulse to break free.

While checking a date on her December calendar, Livvi has discovered a note in the calendar’s margin. And it’s causing her to recognize something about herself she hasn’t clearly seen before. When it comes to Andrew, she’s been living her life as if she’s still locked in her father’s house, as if she’s a powerless little girl, with no choice other than to endure whatever new misery is being delivered to her.

Livvi is seeing that her sense of being optionless and trapped doesn’t have anything to do with reality—it’s completely self-imposed. And this realization is bringing her to an entirely new point of view.
I
can’t do anything to erase the hurt of being discarded at Christmas,
she’s thinking.
But
I
can
definitely
do
something
to
make
it
hurt
less.

The calendar note that Livvi is looking at was jotted down several months ago, when she assumed she’d be with Andrew for the holidays and was postponing any other plans until she knew his exact schedule. It’s a penciled, question-marked reference to the Manhattan Literary Luncheon.

When Livvi picks up the phone and calls David to ask if it’s too late to change her mind about attending the luncheon, his answer is: “I’ll move heaven and earth to make sure you’re put back on the list.”

“Thank you,” Livvi tells him. “I’ll book a cheap flight then get to work finding a hotel I can afford.”

For the first time in months, she has a direction. A goal. Livvi is putting herself on track to go someplace where she’s wanted. And valued. She feels excited. She feels strong.

“You’ll be arriving at the height of the Christmas season,” David says. “It may be tricky finding a decent place to stay at a reasonable price. But no worries. My grandmother read your book and was crazy about it. She has a big wonderful old house. She’ll be thrilled to have you as a guest.”

“Thank you doesn’t seem like enough, David. But it’s all I have. Thank you for everything. I can’t wait.”

There’s a microscopic pause. Then David says: “I’m glad you’re coming. What changed your mind?”

“I’ll explain when I see you,” she tells him.

Livvi suspects that whatever explanation she comes up with won’t be the whole truth. Because it’s too complicated. Because part of it is about getting away from the past. And part of it is about changing the present—making today something stronger and better than yesterday was. And part of it is about the future. About who Livvi will be after she goes to New Jersey and stands in front of her father. For the final time.

Micah

Boston, Massachusetts ~ 2012

Micah has opened the door to the dimly lit room at the top of the stairs and is in pain. She is finally, at last, in the presence of the woman in the silver dress and pearl-button shoes.

The woman has been in this room—year after year—waiting for Micah to come and to face her. Being with her again after all this time is taking Micah’s breath away.

The woman, even though she is Micah’s creation, is far more compelling—more vivid and disturbingly enigmatic—than Micah had remembered.

While Micah is crossing the room, there is only the faraway sound of the night wind. Like the murmuring of a distant ghost.

When Micah arrived at a stop in front of the woman—in front of the artist’s easel and the photograph it holds. The wind is dying down. The ghostly murmurs, fading away.

Over the course of the past two decades this woman, this picture, has taken on mythological importance to Micah. And to the art world. “The Woman in the Pearl-Button Shoes” is the only existing photograph by the famous Micah Lesser that contains the likeness of a human being.

With a single exception, no one other than Micah has ever laid eyes on this unforgettable image.

It has become an invisible icon. Etched into the world’s consciousness by the explosion of publicity that surrounded Micah’s cover shot for the history-making rock album. And by the fantastic tale told by Miles Gidney. About the heart-stopping photograph that convinced him Micah was worthy of the job. A work of art he described as “Astounding!”

After Micah, in her ambitious heat, had impulsively showed this photo to Gidney in his house on Acorn Street, she immediately regretted what she had done. Immediately wanted to repent. And knew it was too late.

Which is why, when she returned to her little apartment in Cambridge, she locked the photograph in a closet. And wailed. The way she imagined Judas must have wailed. Feeling the dead weight of those thirty pieces of silver, falling onto his grasping, guilt-stained palm.

And now Micah is wailing again. For the unforgivable wrong she has committed.

The entire scope of Micah’s sin is captured in the details of this single, transcendent, and disturbing photograph. It is in the image of the quietly beautiful woman. And in the matrix of dissonance and contradiction that surrounds her. It’s in the darkness of the half-shadow into which the woman seems to be retreating. It’s in the hope and brightness that are shining in her eyes. It’s in the daring, blatantly sexual way in which the woman is dressed—and in how guileless she is. It’s in the plunging neckline and provocative gleam of her silvery gown. In the explicit, tantalizing embrace of the fabric as it cups the curve of her hip. It is in the delicacy of her pearl-button shoes. And in the purity of the small detail on the floor, the outline of a child’s toy—indistinct but recognizable, hidden in the shadow at her feet. It’s in the innocent way the woman is facing the camera—the unquestioning trust she has in the photographer.