A Holland and a Fighter

by Lori L. Otto

  He puts his hands behind my neck and pulls my head to his, kissing me slowly. I relax into him, happy that he’s taken the initiative this time. With his mood lately, I feel like I’ve been constantly making the first move to be romantic, sexual, flirtatious, whatever. I understand, though, and take whatever I can get from him. “Thank you,” he whispers when we part, still holding me close.

  I kiss him once more. “I’m so grateful for Livvy, because I can’t imagine not knowing you, Max… or… what my life would be like had you not been in it.” I get choked up. “She played such an important role in all of our lives.”

  “We need to go,” he says, making his way to the door.

  “Yeah. You need to change clothes, though,” I tell him. “Your shirt smells. And maybe put in some eye drops or something.”

  “That’s not gonna do much.” I know this but want to try anything and everything we can. I follow him down the stairs, watching his leisurely footfalls.

  “How high are you?”

  He nods his head. “I don’t know, the news of someone dying sure puts the smack down on ya, but I still feel kind of distant. Foggy. Like this might all be a dream or nightmare or something.”

  I open the door to the apartment for him. “I wish I could tell you it was. Will a shower make you feel any better? I think maybe you should–”

  “No,” he says, stripping out of the jogging pants he’d been wearing. “Not at this point. It’d probably enhance it. I’ll be fine.”

  “We’ll just lay low,” I add, going to the closet and finding a pair of jeans and a black V-neck tee for him. “Hoodie?”

  “Just grab my Long Beach cap.” I find it, as well as my UCLA one. “You think Jon needs anything?”

  “Uhhh…” I shake my head. “No idea, man. I think just our support right now. He’ll need lots of stuff in the coming days and weeks. We’ll do whatever we can to help. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Your trips?” he asks.

  “I’ll reschedule. My dad will understand. Ready?”

  “Yeah.” He grabs a box of tissues on the way out and weaves his fingers through mine as we walk down the hall.

  Chapter 21

  MAX

  A crowd of journalists and paparazzi has gathered around the hospital entrance and are shouting questions at Callen and me as we make our way inside. Even high, this stresses me the fuck out.

  “Is it true that Livvy Holland passed away last night?” I hear one of them ask.

  “Livvy Scott!” is my response.

  “Are you confirming the rumor?” she follows up.

  “We have no comment,” Callen says, but he stops walking. I take a few more steps away from the crowd before I round the corner and wait for him, but I can still hear him talking. “We’re just walking in, but I’ll tell you one thing: if two little girls come walking up and you yell out that question, your career will be over. Do you understand?”

  “We heard Edie and Willow are already inside,” someone else pipes up.

  I go back to confront the assholes myself. “So, they could be within earshot? Then shut your fucking mouths, you dicks.”

  “All right,” Callen says, putting his hands on my waist and directing me back around the corner. “That’ll do.”

  “The nerve of those fuckfaces. What if they did ask that question when the girls came? Holy shit, Callen.” I try to turn back, but he stops me.

  “Stop trying to be a hero.” Hero. That’s what they all think of me, and what did I just call them? “Remember, we’re trying to lay low.”

  “Right.” I nod my head in agreement, rubbing my shoulder. “You don’t think they’ll, like, quote me in the papers or anything, do you?”

  “Not sure they can print ‘shut your fucking mouths, you dicks’ in their papers, but it’s a question we can ask Trey, as our resident journalist and lawyer-in-training.” I snicker, but my mood is quickly sobered when I see Nolan standing by the elevator we’re walking toward. He’s with a uniformed officer, and they’re both waving us forward.

  “Hey, guys,” he says, reaching out to give us both hugs. “You okay?”

  “As well as we can be, right?” Callen answers. “You?”

  “Hanging in there. You’re going to go up to the seventh floor. Check in with the woman at the front desk. She’ll take you to another room where everyone is.”

  “You’re not coming?” I ask him.

  “I’m waiting for other people to show up. Jen and Stevie went to tell the grandparents, so they’ll start filing in soon.”

  “Do you need anything?” Callen asks.

  “No, I’m good. And I’ve got backup,” he says, motioning to the officer next to him.

  “Is the baby still okay?” I’m grateful Callen’s here and mindful, because he’s asking all the questions I should be asking.

  He nods. “Last I heard, nothing had changed. Jon’s been with him most of the night.”

  “Good,” I say as the elevator doors open. “We’ll see you later, I’m sure.”

  “Yeah. Give Jon a big hug from me.”

  “We will,” Callen assures him.

  I exhale heavily in the elevator, still feeling cloudy, but now wired, too–like, suddenly highly attuned to everything around me. Once we exit onto the seventh floor, a woman sees us and immediately escapes from behind the desk to greet us by name.

  “Max, Callen, I am so sorry for your loss,” she says softly, whisking us away from the main waiting room and down a hallway.

  “Thank you,” my boyfriend says. I wasn’t sure of the appropriate response. In truth, I never have known what the appropriate response is to that. “Yeah, it sucks,” is always how I want to respond.

  “The family is in here,” she says, standing outside of a door simply marked PRIVATE WAITING AREA.

  “My brother?” I ask.

  “He’s been in and out. The NICU has needed him.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” she says, holding my forearm tightly and smiling. If she knew that her attempt to be empathetic actually caused me pain, she wouldn’t do it; I look down at her hand, though, realizing just how high I am because I don’t feel any physical pain at all. “I believe the baby is doing well.”

  “Cool.” I nod my head, staring at the door in front of me. “I mean, do we knock?”

  “You’re family. They’re expecting you.”

  “Okay, yeah. Thanks.” I turn the knob, pulling a door that’s much heavier than I expected it to be. It was also more soundproof than I was aware, because once we enter the room, it’s an assault on my senses. I feel tension and sadness and there’s a cacophony of cries coming from all four corners of the room. I take a step back, only to be impeded by Callen’s more muscular stature. I’m sure the pot is fucking with my hearing right now, or at least the way I’m processing sound. In any other instance, I’d turn around and leave.

  “Go on,” he encourages me, his hand on my hip.

  Livvy’s aunt, Anna, is the first to notice us.

  “Max,” she says, her face tear-streaked as she approaches me.

  “Hi, Anna.” I want to curl up into a ball right now, but her arms are welcoming me into a hug. I embrace her and try to calm my frayed nerves. “You okay?” What a fucked-up question…

  “It’s hard,” she barely manages to respond. I nod and step aside so she can hug Callen, and I pray that he can manage the small talk. I want none of it.

  My ears tune in to both of my nieces crying: steady, quiet wails. I know each of their sad, distinct voices. Edie’s is a little higher-pitched than Willow’s. Finally feeling brave enough to look around the room, I see my middle brother holding his goddaughter, and Shea, rubbing her back and talking to her soothingly. Jack is on the couch against the wall in front of a window, with Edie curled up in his lap. They’re both inconsolable. It’s about the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. Coley’s sitting next to Jack on the edge of the couch, her arm across his shoulders, trying to be of comfort. T
rey is squatting in front of them, trying to talk to our niece.

  Emi’s standing by herself in the corner, looking out the window. I can see the pain in her reflection. Feeling compelled to say something to her, or to join her in her solitude, I start to walk over to her, but Anna stops me.

  “Not right now, Max.” I turn around and look at her, confused. “She’s praying.”

  “Oh.” Callen pulls my back into his chest as he leans against a wall and wraps his arms around me. In this moment, I feel grounded and safe, but still overrun with the emotions of everyone in this room. It’s odd that no one else has even acknowledged us, but it seems as if the girls just found out about their mother, and I don’t want to ruin this moment.

  “You okay?” he whispers in my ear.

  I shrug my shoulder. I glance over at Jack again and feel immense loss. I’ve never seen a man so sad–not in movies or on TV, and especially not in real life. It’s rare that I imagine a life where I have kids, but I allow my mind to wander there now. Then I take it 90 steps further, and consider a life where I’ve raised a child, watched her grow up, have a successful career, fall in love, get married, have children… and die. I feel my chest cave in on itself, and I cry, feeling more empathy than I knew I was capable of feeling. Maybe it’s the pot. Maybe I’m maturing. Maybe I’m some freaky empath. Whatever it is, it’s an unbearable loss, and I understand why Jack is the saddest man I’ve ever seen.

  The door makes a tiniest click as it opens, and I seem to be the only person who hears it. I glance over to see Jon enter the room; he looks like he’s fifteen years older than he was the last time I saw him just a few days ago.

  My jaw drops as I read the shock and devastation on his face when he sees me. “I’m so glad you’re here, Mascot,” he tells me, walking toward me. I fall into him every bit as much as he falls into me.

  Both of the girls cry for their daddy, and they run over to hug him, waist-high. He doesn’t let go of me, but instead tries to compose himself with a few deep breaths. I imagine him trying to be strong for them, like he was strong for me and Will when our mother died last year.

  When we separate, the look on his face has changed completely. I struggle to make sense of it. Confusion? Betrayal? Anger?

  “Go home, Max,” he says tersely, and loud enough for everyone in the room to hear–and to make them go silent.

  I shake my head. “No, Jon. I want to be here for you… for the girls.”

  “One thing!” he yells at me. Instinctively, I jump back as he points in my face. “She asked one thing of you–in all of her life.” It dawns on me what he’s talking about. What he’s angry about. I guess he smelled the pot on me somewhere. Maybe in my hair, I don’t know.

  “I won’t go,” I tell him, defiant.

  “Not around my girls, Max! Go!” he shouts again.

  “Jon–” Emi pleads from behind me. Callen takes my hand in his.

  “Don’t,” Jon warns his mother-in-law, less forcefully than he spoke to me. He stares hard at me for a few seconds, then shifts his attention to Callen. “Are you, too?” He pulls my partner in front of him by his shirt.

  “No,” he tells my brother. Jon looks him over, accepting his response as the truth, and nods. Putting my hand on Jon’s shoulder, I try to diffuse the situation; to be supportive.

  “Get the hell out of here, Max!” He’s not even focusing on me anymore. His eyes are steady on Callen’s. “I can’t even stand to look at you right now.”

  Callen steps in between us, a defensive posture to protect me from my brother’s obvious aggression. I feel like absolute shit. “I’m sorry,” I cry softly, looking first at Jon, and then around the room to see if everyone else is watching me. Disappointment from Will and Trey. Confusion from Jack, Emi, Shea and Coley. And the girls? Their father has now scared them by yelling at me, and they’re huddled with Jack. I’m not sure if they’re scared of him or of me.

  “I’ll take him,” Callen speaks clearly. “I messed up. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah,” Jon says, his response clipped.

  My boyfriend puts his arm around me and starts to lead me out of the room, but I don’t want to leave him and everyone else in the room that I love. “Jon! Don’t do this!” I sob, poised to get down on my knees to beg if I have to. “I need to be here.”

  I hear Jack say something behind me. “I’m not sure what’s going on.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Dad,” Trey answers.

  “Daddy, don’t!” Willow chokes out, running up to me and holding onto my leg. Will swoops in and picks her up, taking her across the room.

  Jon looks at me severely, but my other brother appears to have a little more sympathy. “Go home,” Will tells me. “Callen, please?”

  And with that, there’s no more arguing. No question what we’ll do.

  “Come on,” Callen says, his grasp around my back tight as he walks me to the door. “Will, I’ll call you.”

  “That’s fine,” he says. “Thanks.”

  As soon as we’re out of the room, I struggle free of him. “My side!” I holler. “You’re always supposed to be on my side!”

  “I am, babe. Come on. Let’s not make a scene here. We can fight at home.”

  “My brother needs me,” I plead with him, crying. “I can’t go home.”

  “You can’t stay here. Not like this. I should have never let you leave home the second I got a whiff of your hair. I should have known he’d react like this.”

  “No! You shouldn’t have! These are extenuating circumstances, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You know what, Max?” he says, pulling me into a family bathroom and squaring off. “I think Jon calls the shots this morning. Period.” He locks the door to make sure we’re alone.

  “Even if it’s not what’s best for him?”

  “He thinks it is what’s best for him–and probably, more importantly, for his daughters. That was Liv’s big hang up, too… being high around the girls. This shouldn’t surprise you.”

  “Well, it does, because his wife is dead. My sister-in-law is dead, and how am I supposed to grieve… huh? I need family, too. Fuck him!”

  “You’re talking shit again. You need to sleep this off, babe. Just… get it all out. Get your… I don’t know… balance back. You’re all over the map tonight, and I don’t know if it’s a bad batch of weed, or Livvy dying, or your general malaise, or a combination of all of it, but we need to get control over what we can. Sober up and we come back later today. That’s all he’s asking.”

  I sigh and kick the wall, hurting my toes in the process.

  “This is temporary, Max.” He puts his hands on either side of my jaw. “And I’m your family, too. Let’s go home and go to bed. We’ll get up after we’ve slept and start fresh, okay?”

  “And you’ll tell me this is all a fucking nightmare, right?”

  “I’ll tell you that I’m going to help you through everything. The pain. The grief. The nightmares. The boredom. The need to escape. The feeling that you have no real purpose in life. I’m going to step up, babe. I don’t want you to feel lost anymore.”

  For the second time tonight, he’s said exactly what I needed to hear, and I feel the need to thank him appropriately. I pull his head to mine and kiss him firmly; quickly. “I need you, Callen.” I wrap my arms around him and hold him close.

  “I know,” he whispers.

  “Like I have never needed anyone in my life. I need your help.”

  Chapter 22

  JON

  My head resting against the hard plastic that covers my newborn baby’s body, I watch him rest peacefully. I like to think the hand I have gently pressed against him is providing some warmth–doing some bit of good–but he’s been doing well on his own. I know how much he’s going to need me, and already I feel unable to provide for him in ways that his mother would.

  More tears drip onto the surface that divides me from my son, and I wipe them away quickly with my sleeve. It’s hard not to reflect o
n the last three hours, because it seems like a lifetime of events have occurred within that time. And in a way, I guess they have.

  It was just three hours ago that I was sitting in this very room, in this very chair, when I looked up at the nurses, hoping to get nods of approval or some other emotional support for the first few minutes I’d spent with the baby. I’d never been in a NICU before. It was scary, seeing him hooked up to so many monitors and watching so many displays of readings that I didn’t understand. Medicine is one field that I never studied. I just wanted a bit of encouragement from the other women in the room with me.

  They were all in shock, though, and experiencing obvious sadness. At first, I thought they must be watching something on a TV–another terrorist attack? Mass shooting? But when I turned around, I saw Emi peering through the glass at me, her posture deflated and a look of despair such that I’ve never seen on another person’s face before. My stomach fell as I slowly rose from the stool, and she couldn’t contain her tears. I shook my head at her, not understanding what she was saying–and yet knowing exactly what she’d come to tell me.

  After making sure someone was watching after my son, I hurried into the hallway and took the hand that my mother-in-law offered me. She squeezed me so tightly it caused actual pain. I didn’t need the words that came from the doctor who had joined her, but he was the one who ultimately delivered the news. Jack showed up a few moments later, unable to look me in the eye; unable to look up at all.

  Livvy died just after surgery, Dr. Irving had said. My precious, beautiful, young, healthy, love-of-my-life Olivia had died.

  When I brought her here tonight, I hadn’t considered it a possibility. Even from the time she woke me up, I never sensed the urgency. I offered to rub her neck. To get the blood pressure monitor. She needed the hospital. I was just wasting precious seconds with every fucking question I asked her.

  Did she know?

  Her final words haunt me now. I’d told her Hollands were fighters. She’d responded, “I’m not.” In all the years I’d known her, she was always a fighter, though. If she felt weak, why did she let the surgery happen? Why didn’t she speak up? What if there were other options? We could have talked about them.