Livvy

by Lori L. Otto

“If you call because you’re homesick, we’ll have you on the first flight home,” he warns me. “If you make this commitment, it is a commitment... but I’ll support you, whatever you need from us.”

  “I know. If I’m homesick, please don’t book the flight. Give me a day to sleep on it, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Mom’s going to be okay with it?”

  “She’ll get by. We always have your brother to distract us.”

  “I guess that’s true. And you guys can visit, too, Dad. Anytime.”

  “Like I said, we’ll visit when you need us here. Don’t worry. If you need a visit or two, we’d be happy to give you something to look forward to.”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  “Good. Everything else okay with you? Jon’s okay with this?”

  “Jon’s great. We’re great, Dad. We can discuss the details of this summer later. That’s not really why I want to talk to you, though.”

  “No?” I shake my head. “What’s up?”

  “Dad, I spoke with Isaiah Grate.” Before I have to remind him who it is, I can tell he knows the name instantly. He signals to the bartender to get him another drink.

  “And a glass of water, please,” he adds. He waits until he’s served before talking. “When?”

  “New Year’s Day.” He looks taken aback. “We were staying in Hartford, remember, and he lives in Hartford... I wasn’t going to do anything about it, but Jon saw that I’d looked him up, and he drove me to the street where Isaiah lives.”

  “Did he pressure you to meet him?”

  “No, Dad, not at all. We just went for a walk down the street. We were only going to look at his home to see what we could learn about him. But he was out front on his porch, and he saw us looking at his sculpture in the yard. He came over and talked to us.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t say much. Jon did most of the talking. He lied and said we were looking at homes in his neighborhood. And we asked about the sculpture.”

  “So you didn’t tell him who you were?”

  “No. In fact, we didn’t even use our real names. And I had sunglasses on, so even if he knew who I was from the tabloids, I don’t think he would have recognized me. I didn’t want to reveal that to him.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “I have his eyes,” I tell him. “And his ears, I think.”

  “Did he seem nice?”

  “Yeah. He did say my smile reminded him of someone he knew. Some woman from Rhode Island.” Dad looks at me, uneasy. “I didn’t let on that I knew what he was talking about, but he made that connection. And the weirdest thing, Dad... he had carved initials into the sculpture in front of his house. IG + SD.”

  “Really?” he asks slowly, thinking about the implications. “That’s interesting.”

  “I know.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  “Incredibly curious,” I admit. “So much so that I had to drive back one day in February to make sure I saw it correctly. I did.”

  “Wow, Tessa. That’s a lot to deal with.”

  “I know,” I agree.

  “So it makes you want to know more?”

  “Well... Jon and I have talked about this a lot. And yes, the curiosity is there, but I’m not sure I really want to know the truth. I have been trying to figure out what scenarios would cause my mother to keep me from my biological father when she knew she was dying, and honestly... there’s not a good answer for that. It always comes back to suspicions of whether or not he was disloyal, or taken, or abusive, or something like that.

  “I mean, in the five minutes we talked to him, he seemed like a nice guy, but you never know. It’s been almost twenty years. I’m sure people change a lot in twenty years. But the fact that he still carries a flame for her... well, that kind of touches me here,” I say, putting my hand over my heart.

  “So you’re going to learn more?”

  “I don’t think so, Dad.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one, I am afraid that he might not be the good guy I’d expect him to be. And I’m afraid of rejection, that he’d want nothing to do with me. Or I’m afraid he’ll find out you’re my father, and he’ll want everything to do with me for the wrong reasons. In all the scenarios in my head, not one of them can guarantee me to be happy with the choices they made; nor can they guarantee that you won’t be hurt in the process.”

  “I’ve told you to leave me out of your decision.”

  “I know what you’ve told me, but that’s like you telling me to leave you out of my life. Daddy, I would be lost without you. Absolutely lost. And no other father, no career path, no distance, no boyfriend would ever make up for what I’d lost if I hurt you.”

  “I’m a strong man, Livvy. I can handle it.”

  “I’m a strong girl, Dad, and I know the power I have over people. You can pretend like it wouldn’t bother you, but I know it would. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. It’s certainly not worth fulfilling an idle curiosity.”

  “Learning about the man who gave you life is not an idle curiosity. I’ve told you, there could be benefits to meeting him.”

  “They don’t outweigh the risks. Not in my mind.”

  “And you don’t think Isaiah has a right to know about you?” I stare at Dad, neither of us blinking. This had always been about what I wanted. I’d never really considered what was right for him. “This is the perspective I’ve been considering. If I was that man who had a child on this planet I didn’t know about, you’re damn right I’d want to know.”

  “Not everyone thinks like you, Dad.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Not everyone is as charitable. As welcoming. As loving.” He looks away from me. “Maybe this is a selfish decision, I don’t know. But what’s best for me may not be what’s best for him. And I have to do what’s best for me. And if that simply means that my actions won’t affect him at all, then I’m not hurting him. I’m not keeping anything from him... not anything he’ll ever know about.”

  “I just think the decision you make today may not be the right decision for you ten, twenty years from now.”

  “Daddy, I don’t like the feeling of instability I get every time I consider that you and mom are not my real father and mother. I can’t shake it, either. As long as he is out there, and a possibility, I feel... I don’t know. Uprooted. Unbalanced. I hate it.”

  “He’s out there, though. He’s always a possibility, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t think he has to be.”

  “So...” He lifts his hands, expecting an explanation.

  “So... I have a really good imagination. I can make up a good story for my biological parents and convince myself it’s true. I can reconcile this in my mind and be fine with it. I’m not going to reveal who I am to him. And I don’t plan on ever seeing him again. It looks like he’s made a decent life for himself. It looks like he loved my mother at some point in his life. That’s good enough for me. I’m happy knowing I was possibly conceived within a loving relationship.”

  “And adopted by two people in one, as well.”

  “And that’s really the only thing that matters to me. You guys have given me the perfect life, Daddy. From now on, there’s not going to be a distinction between my biological parents and my adoptive ones. I only have one set. It’s you. You guys are all I’ve ever needed. I want to put Isaiah and Simone to rest for good.”

  “I love you, Contessa. Believe me, your mother and I feel that Jackson was a miracle, but you were the only child we ever needed. You made me the father I am, and Emi the beautiful mother that she is. I’m grateful for that. And I am so incredibly proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I tell him, getting a little misty-eyed. “And thank you for choosing me. Thank you for giving me this life. It’s incredible, and I know I’m the luckiest girl on the planet.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Mom and I wander arm in arm around the Freshman Gallery
at Yale, taking in all the artwork produced over the course of the year. We’d already spent an inordinate amount of time contemplating the five pieces I’d entered–my favorite from each art class I’d taken. Now we’re checking out the competition. Both of my parents have already told me there’s no competition, implying that mine is the best, but I’ve never thought of creating as a competitive venture since art is so subjective. Mom and Dad are just being parents, though, and I can appreciate their overwhelming support for what I do.

  “Okay, we’re good unless Jackson gets his hands on another soda,” Dad says when he and my brother return from the restroom.

  “The car ride back should be entertaining,” Mom adds. “We should probably be leaving soon anyway, Liv. I was just hoping to say hi to Jon and Finn.”

  “They’re running late,” I explain to her. “Finn’s flight was delayed.” I check my watch. “The gallery’s open for another two hours still.”

  “Did you see my artwork yet?” Katrina asks as she and Rachelle meet up with us. She points to a large pencil drawing to our right. Katrina came to school for academics, not art, but her work is exceptional anyway. She’s a perfectionist, and what I could have done in a few hours took her two weeks and a lot of erasing.

  “This one?” Dad asks, taking in her piece.

  “That’s cross-contour, Dad,” I tell him. “That was the assignment. See how the lines are parallel, but curving? You do it to show the surface and shape of an object. They look at form and volume.”

  “Similar to a contour map?” he asks.

  “Exactly,” Katrina responds. “This was my first art class,” she admits.

  “Yeah, but no one would know that from seeing this, Kat,” Rachelle tells her. “My first cross-contour was shit.” I glare at her, pointing at Trey. “Oops, sorry,” she says, cringing.

  “I wish I could say it’s the first time he’s heard it, but it’s not. Don’t worry,” Mom assures my roommate, squeezing her forearm. “He knows there are consequences when he says it.”

  “And when you say it, Mom,” my brother jumps into the conversation. “I get a dollar every time.” He holds his hand out to Rachelle. “Pay up.”

  Rachelle starts to shake her head because she didn’t even bring a purse with her, but Dmitri produces a gold coin from his pocket and gives it to Trey. “Always having to rescue you, Chelle,” he says with a smile.

  “Nice of you to show up,” she responds, turning around to give him a hug and a peck on the cheek. PDAs aren’t his thing. I introduce him to my parents. Although he knows exactly who they are, they have only heard stories about Rachelle’s boyfriend.

  “I don’t see the other guys here,” he says, softer.

  “Finn texted me,” Katrina says. “They just pulled up.”

  “Let’s go meet them,” Dad suggests, “and then we’ll be taking off to leave you kids to your gallery event. I am so impressed with all the work here.”

  “You sent me to Yale for a reason,” I remind him, taking his hand and leading the way to the main entry.

  “I didn’t send you. You wanted to come here.”

  “I know, Daddy.”

  Jon and Finn both don suits, looking very dapper for our little event. After my family says hello to them, my parents say their goodbyes to all of us. While the others go inside, Jon and I stay on the sidewalk, waving to my parents as they drive away.

  “You are a sight, Livvy,” he says, holding my hand but inspecting my lace and silk dress. It has a high neckline and the black skirt lies just above the knee, but the nude-colored fabric beneath the white lace of the bodice makes it look very sexy.

  “So are you,” I tell him. “You look so handsome.” We kiss briefly.

  “Sorry we’re late.”

  “It’s okay. We have plenty of time.”

  I take him inside to the gallery space and immediately to the back wall that features my work. When anyone walks in, the art draws their attention to it. Dr. Emory made sure that it was my work that hung there.

  We have to stand behind a crowd of other people to see it. I hear bits and pieces of their conversations, and although I brace myself for criticism, I don’t hear anything negative.

  Jon smiles, seeing an abstract piece that clearly speaks to him. It should. It’s vivacious and light and happy, the bright colors dancing all over the canvas.

  “It’s ebullient, Olivia,” he says. “Effortless, and yet so undeniably complex. There is so much movement in the shapes and vitality in the colors.” He looks down at me and smiles. “It captures my feelings for you completely.”

  “But those are my feelings,” I argue playfully.

  “It’s perfection.”

  “It’s yours,” I tell him. “Maybe you can hang it in that drab closet you call an office.”

  “I’d be afraid someone would steal it, baby... this is incomparable. Do you hear the people around us?”

  I’d tuned them out, wanting to hear only his words. I shake my head.

  “I want it,” a woman in front of us tells me when she turns around. “It’s yours?” I nod, smiling.

  “Is it for sale?” a man behind me asks.

  “Wait, you’re Livvy Holland,” another woman says.

  “I–”

  “I’ll pay whatever you’re asking,” the man says, touching my shoulder. Jon glances at his hand, and the older man removes it immediately.

  “I painted it for him,” I tell them all, sidling up to Jon and putting my hands on his bicep. “It’s not for sale, I’m sorry.”

  “Do you do commissioned work?” All of a sudden, the entire crowd is focused on me. “We can pay top dollar.”

  “I’m... no... I’m just a student here,” I say, confused by all the sudden interest. No one had bothered us the first time I stood here, but I realize they were likely giving my parents and me space.

  “Money is nothing to her,” another man says. “Her dad’s a billionaire.”

  “This is incredible,” my photography professor tells me, walking into the midst of the crowd. “I had no idea you were a painter, too.”

  “Yeah, I’ve done this all my life.”

  “Olivia Choisie?” another voice calls out loudly from the edge of the small gathering. “Is that you?”

  I’m thankful the necklace is hidden by my dress.

  “I don’t know what that means, no,” I lie poorly.

  “I know artists,” he says. “I know talent when I see it.”

  “Livvy,” Dr. Emory rushes in, “you’ve got quite a fan base. Are you okay?”

  “I kind of want to get out of here.”

  “This is a student event, folks,” he announces, pushing his way back out and making sure we are following. “Please make sure you’re taking in all the artwork. No pieces are being sold tonight. Should you be interested in any of the pieces, my card is on the table by the door. I will contact any artists and work with them, but tonight, we’re just showcasing freshman artwork.”

  “Thank you,” I tell my professor once we’re away from the crowd.

  “Jon, I presume?” he asks.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jon, this is Ariana’s brother and my street art professor, Dr. Emory.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Jon says as they shake hands. “Liv, I didn’t really get to see your other work,” he comments to me.

  “Maybe we can come back tomorrow,” I suggest. “You can come to my studio and see some other things I’m working on.”

  “Yeah?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say with a smile, happy that he’s interested.

  “Let me take you down the hall. There’s a shortcut,” my professor says. We’re able to escape the gallery with no one noticing.

  Hand in hand, we walk slowly to the building that houses my workspace. “You know that wall by the studio?”

  “Huh?” I ask him.

  “In the loft... the wall that faces the studio?” he repeats.

  “Oh, yeah. What about it
?”

  “I think that painting would look perfect there.”

  I look up at him, pleased. “It makes sense, since you’ll be spending the summer there.”

  “It will be safe, in your home, where it belongs,” he says, nodding. “But maybe I could loan it to the Olivia Choisie gallery for a bit. More people should see that, Liv. Are your parents still going to open it on schedule?”

  “I think I’ve convinced them to have a soft opening without me in mid-June, when we’d planned to before this Brazil thing came up. It’ll give me a few more months of anonymity.”

  “It sounds like the public’s on to you already. I think when the Hollands open up that gallery, most art aficionado’s suspicions will be confirmed.”

  “I know you’re right. That’s why I don’t mind having a real opening at the end of the summer. We’ll have a reason to dress up and go out and celebrate before I get to escape the chaos and come back to New Haven.”

  “And you’ll leave me to deal with the ensuing attention.”

  “You can take care of yourself,” I assure him playfully. He holds the door open for me, placing his hand on the small of my back as I pass him and leaving it there, his fingers scratching lightly, as we wander the quiet halls. It’s always bustling with noise and chaos–so much so that I have to wear my headphones most of the time–but I guess with Yale’s art night in full swing, all of the normal inhabitants are occupied elsewhere. “It’s right in here,” I say, leading him around a corner into my assigned space, where I flick on a small desk lamp with a soft white bulb.

  He looks up at the glass ceiling, approving of the natural light source, even though the only light from the sky at the moment is coming from the moon and a few tiny stars.

  “Here are pictures of all the pieces I was showing tonight,” I say, handing him 8x10 matte prints that I’d taken for my portfolio.

  “The photo’s great.” He takes his glasses off to examine it closer. “That’s an old-school sharpener, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. I got it at the same bookstore where I found your Dostoevsky. Manny was actually holding a Tiffany lamp up to get the colors. But I staged the whole thing.”

  “Oh, Manny,” Jon sighs, setting down the photo. “It’s still a nice shot.” He nudges me gently in the side.