A Holland and a Fighter

by Lori L. Otto

  “The food options here are much more diverse,” Shea says, “and I know they’re used to that.” She winks at Max, and he grins.

  “We still gotta find a way for you to ship stuff on dry ice to us.”

  “I’m working on it. It’s a whole new business model.”

  “Wow,” I say in disbelief. “Well, Trey can’t support this, right?”

  “Trey and Coley are moving to Boston until he graduates from law school,” Callen informs me, and I’m shocked no one has told me this already. “Then he’s floated the idea that they may go to DC after that for a little bit.”

  “No way. There’s just… no way. What about Jack and Emi?” What about Max?

  “They get it. They support him,” Max says. “That’s where everything happens. It’s where he’ll get the most experience. He’ll come back, though. But, see, Jon, this is what I’m talking about. We all have places we need to be. Will went to fucking Abu Dhabi and you supported him.”

  “He came back. It was part of his program. I knew he had a plan, and he came back. It’s obvious you don’t want that… and what’s your plan?”

  “Not everyone has a fucking plan, man!”

  “Guys, guys,” Will says. “Jon, we’re not doing this tonight. This isn’t why we came over. We came over to take away all your cares, right? Isn’t that why we did this, Max? Cal?” They both nod their heads.

  “I didn’t bring it up,” Max says.

  “Don’t argue,” Will tells him. “Let’s drop it for tonight.” He looks at my glass and shakes his head. “Keep drinking, okay? I’m sorry it went there. Just… know that we’re all truly here for you. In the ways you need us, when you need us. Okay?”

  In an effort to forget what’s stressing me out, I quickly drink the rest of my scotch, knowing that Max will replace it with more. I haven’t been drunk in a long time, and if that’s what it takes to forget about Livvy not being here, and Max and Callen moving 3,000 miles away, then so be it.

  A deafening whirr awakens me sometime later. Alert, I sit up and blink, feeling my dry contacts still in my eyes. Finally, they allow me to survey my surroundings. It’s snowing heavily outside–I can see it from nearly every angle, and it’s beautiful in the moonlight, but I can feel it, too. It’s cold in here. I pull the comforter tighter around me, and realize I’m lying on the polished concrete floor of the studio. The noise was the heater, set to come on when the temperature hits 55 degrees. I know this because I set it that way last spring, knowing I’d change it when winter came, and we would come up here to work.

  My head pounds and I stumble when I attempt to get up, feeling the effects of the far too many glasses of Glenlivet I had. Finding myself in only boxers and an undershirt, I don’t leave the comfort of the blanket. Wandering to the thermostat, I bump it up to 80, then realize it will take hours to heat the cavernous room. My feet are like icicles on the floor, and I should probably just go downstairs to go back to sleep. I’m too tired to trudge all the way down there, though. The logical–and economical–side of me turns it back down to 70. It’ll still feel vastly warmer than it does now.

  On my way back to the spot in the middle of the room, I see a painting, and it hits me.

  I’m in the studio. Her studio. That restricted space I haven’t allowed myself to go since she herself stopped coming here after she got pregnant. Slowly, I turn in a full circle to see how she left it, and it’s like time stopped one day–or over a few days–as there are multiple paintings on easels that await their artist’s adept hand to complete them. There’s her steel water bottle, which she’d looked for and asked me about many times, placed on a stool next to one of the canvases, likely the last one she had worked on.

  I step in front of it and study it, noticing first the fine layer of dust that lines the top of the canvas and wondering why I didn’t at least come up here and cover her work. After finding a small, clean brush, I gently begin to sweep it away, hoping she doesn’t think I’ve mistreated her art in some way.

  “I never would, baby,” I whisper aloud. “I hope you know that.”

  A thicker brush lays at the base of the canvas. After picking it up, I mimic her strokes, wondering which was the final one, studying the streaks closely, assuring myself that if the lights were on, I could figure it out.

  “Was it this one?” I touch a curved, light blue line, the only one if its color. “Why this one? Huh? Where were you going with this painting?” Taking a few steps back, I squint my eyes in an effort to see her vision, but I can’t. My heart sinks in a feeling of loss, but she was never predictable in that way. It’s not like I ever could have come up here and known what she would have painted. I could have tried. I would have been wrong.

  Or, had I been right, she would have changed her plans.

  “Right?” I laugh to myself. “You totally would have.” I start to cry through my laughter. “As much as I think I don’t know you… by your art… I know every move you’d make, baby.

  “That says something about me, doesn’t it?” I wipe my face with the blanket and move on to another one that looks nearly finished, but is still incomplete. “See? Like I know this isn’t ready. I know you still wanted to do more with this. At the time, I’d say… you’d add some cadmium yellow… lemon… to the red and put it up here.” I make the strokes with the brush. “But today, I think you would mix in some deep ochre, maybe with a wider brush, too, because you’d want it to be more like the earth on a fall day.

  “And tomorrow, you’d have a different take on it. But whichever day you ended on, you would have created a masterpiece.”

  When I replay those words in my head, they come back at me, hard, to my gut… to my heart.

  “Fuck…” Now in a pile on the floor, shivering, I stare at the gray wall across from me. “Oh, but those masterpieces you’ve left me,” I’m barely able to choke out the words. “They are beautiful. Our girls are… the best of us. I’m grateful they knew you, but I hate that they know this pain and loss. Our girls shouldn’t be without their mother. Who will teach them all the things I don’t know? The whole other half of our life–our world together? I’m inept. Ineffective. I can’t teach them the beauty of the world–as you envisioned it. As you put it on each of these canvases. Each building and wall. What a thing to deprive them of! All of us!

  “Will it ever not hurt, baby? Will it ever not feel like a part of myself died the day you did?”

  I struggle to compose myself. To catch my breath.

  “What’s it like where you are? What are you doing with that extra love you took of mine? Half of my heart? What use is it to you up there? Wherever you may be?

  “Will you slowly give it back? Does it come back in… memories of you? Are they my own? Ones that others share with me? Or will this love come back entirely new?

  “Or is my love with you for good? Always. Everywhere. That is what we promised. But god, baby, it hurts, having it ripped from me like this.” I hold my hand over my heart. “You can keep it,” I tell her, “but at least sew up the wound somehow. I’m bleeding out here.”

  I think about her again and realize how selfish I am to complain. I’m here with our children, her family, our friends. “I’ll take care of them all, Olivia. I promise you. And please.” The tears seem endless on this winter night. “Find a way to know your son. He’s so sweet and good and everything you would want him to be, Liv. He gets stronger every day. He looks more and more like you. Had they let you hold him once, would that have been enough to keep you here with us?” The blanket is soaked with my tears. “Why didn’t they try? Had they let me see you, I would have held him against you. Held your hand. Reminded you how much I needed you.

  “God damn it, Liv, where are you?” Standing up, I go to the center of the room and shout it. “Where are you, Liv?!” Another 360-degree turn proves that she’s not here.

  And why did I come up here, anyway? To be closer to her through her paintings? To be closer to her through some… god… in the sky?
>
  I kick the legs out from one of her paintings and watch it crash to the floor–not angry but frustrated at the lack of response. At the relative silence. I find an unopened box of tissues in the corner and go through half a box of them in an effort to get out all of my emotions. I watch the snow fall. Blizzard conditions. I can barely see the Flatiron from here.

  When I turn around, I see her artwork on the floor. From this angle, it yields an entirely new perspective. I think I like it even better this way. “Is this how you intended it?” I ask her as I pick it up. Instead of setting up the easel again, I simply prop it up on the ledge of the window, its frame only slightly bent from falling to the ground. And after I just promised I’d never mistreat her art.

  Drained, I return to the floor with the comforter, curl up in it, and, staring at her unfinished masterpiece, my eyes drift closed.

  The sunlight naturally wakes me up in the morning. It must be around 7:30, because the golden orb is barely over the horizon. Warmer than I was when I woke up last night, but still cold, I stand up and stretch, then return the blanket to my shoulders and walk to the windows. The snow has stopped, but it’s left its mark over the city below me. Scant cars brave the streets, indistinguishable from sidewalks, and even fewer people appear to be walking in the wonderland left by last night’s storm.

  The whole city is white or gray; it’s not a common sight, and it’s not one we’ve seen since we moved into this building. It’s pretty awe-inspiring. If Liv were here, she’d probably be exactly where I stand, a mug of hot chai in her hand as ideas whirled through her magnificent mind. Deciding to take the path I know she’d walk, I slide along the perimeter, wishing I had socks, but forgetting about my cold feet as I see the city from another view. It’s gorgeous. It makes me want to draw again–something I haven’t done creatively in ages.

  On the north side, color jumps out at me. It’s a familiar pop of colors, but I haven’t seen it in a while, and I’m used to seeing it on a much smaller scale–on paper; in pictures. I’d seen her sketches and her studio mockup as she planned it, and only a handful of times had walked past the actual site. I’d avoided it since her death. This one’s 26-stories tall, nearly half the size of my building. It’s the wall Liv painted last winter for the Lexington Park Art Society to kick off their year-long, city-wide campaign for public art. It’s as vibrant as it was the day she painted it.

  She had signed a three-year contract with the society to paint the building every year. No one has mentioned what will happen to this piece come January, when this campaign has run its course.

  Leaning against the window, the bottom few inches coated in a layer of ice, I take in this particular masterpiece, hoping to remember all the details just as I see them now. If she could see it at this moment, she would appreciate the impact it truly has–the only spot of color on an otherwise white and gray day. She always loved it when nature played in her favor. Nature was loving her today.

  Turquoise and coral and red and deep blue–the only four colors on the whole sign–arranged in such a way, in different gradations that the depth played tricks on the eyes. It was powerful. Art in its finest. They even used her design in their brochures for the year–something Liv wasn’t used to seeing.

  And the LPAS logo, in a typeface I actually designed with her–for them. They’d wanted to rebrand and let us go carte blanche, but Livvy couldn’t pick a letterset that felt right with her art. I listened to her complaints and worked with her until we got it right. It’s humble, yet entirely unique, with spacing that gives it its own sense of harmony and understated strength.

  “Holy shit, Olivia. Do you see it?” I smile, standing up and walking to the farthest corner of the building–the closest I can get to her graphic artwork without going downstairs and walking there myself in the blustery weather, which I’m tempted to do. “LPAS. Holy shit.” I feel the stubble on my chin and smile. “I… I… I didn’t mean to, but… holy shit!

  “Baby… look…” I point as if she’s standing next to me. “You painted your little boy’s initials on the building! Luca. Paxton. Augustus. Scott.”

  I know it’s a coincidence. She didn’t pick the letters to paint, and she certainly didn’t pick his name, but… even still, I swear I’m sharing a moment with her right now. It’s like she’s reminding me of the beauty she left me to care for. And the colors, being so vibrant and lively, only lift my spirits. It’s why she put them together in the first place.

  “I guess I don’t need to second guess the name,” I say aloud, still grinning and feeling hopeful. “That was the one, right? That was what you were thinking, too?” I look upwards, wishing she could talk back, but feeling oddly comforted anyway. “What am I saying? You got Auggie. That’s all you wanted.”

  I’m sure Luca’s awake by now, and I should relieve my brothers, Callen and Shea. The girls will want to see the beautiful sight outside, too.

  I return downstairs the way I’d obviously come up–by the private stairway we’d built as a part of our bedroom, thinking we’d be going up to the studio a lot more than either of us had. I’ll go up later today and clean off her paintings, though, and cover them up for storage. Perhaps I’ll tidy up the rest of her space while the kids are out of school for Christmas. I know one daughter who’d get a lot more use out of her skateboard with those polished concrete floors.

  After putting on some jogging pants and a Yale sweatshirt, I leave my bedroom only to find silence in the rest of the apartment. The girls are both asleep in Edie’s room. Max’s arm is draped over his partner, but it’s literally the only thing keeping Cal warm, since Max has all the blankets and Callen apparently sleeps in his briefs. He must be freezing–the library isn’t the warmest spot in the place. I take a blanket from the back of an armchair and drape it over Callen, careful not to wake them up.

  I hear Luca stirring–in stereo over the monitor as well as from the next room. Before he awakens anyone else, I hurry in there and shut off the electronics in his room and close his door.

  “Little man,” I say, happy to be reunited with my son after a night without him. “It’s been too long, hasn’t it? Did you miss Daddy?”

  He starts to cry.

  “No, Luca, sweetie, I’m here now… let’s get you a new diaper…” By the mess that’s still on the changing table, I know someone was in here doing the job at some point overnight. “Who took care of you, huh? Was it Callen? Callen wouldn’t leave things in disarray like this, would he? He would?” I tickle the soft skin of his belly, getting him to smile for me. “There’s my happy baby.”

  After changing him, I look through his closet for something warm to wear. I find an outfit I’ve never seen before–long pants, a long-sleeved shirt that buttons down the front, soft as can be, and the best part is that it looks like a little baseball uniform. It’s a pin-stripe print with a big “3” on the back under the word “SCOTT” in bold, arced block letters. On the front, it says “Auggie” in cursive. I know where this came from.

  Smiling, I put it on my son, even though it’s clearly too big for him. I fold up the sleeves and pant legs a few times. The drawstring at the waist keeps the pants over the diaper; otherwise, they’d fall right off if I held him upright. There’s a cap to go with it, but it swallows his tiny head, and he squeals when I put it on him. Instead, I find a little red beanie in his sock drawer to keep his head warm.

  He looks adorable. I hold him up, earning myself another gorgeous smile, seeing Livvy in the way his mouth curls up and his nose crinkles. “Olivia, doesn’t he look like you?”

  I keep holding him up, making sure she gets a good look. “She thinks you’re so handsome, Luca. Auggie,” I whisper, just for Livvy’s sake. “Do you want to see something? We have to go wake up your aunt and uncle… let’s go do that.”

  Because of the angle of the building and the placement of our bedroom closet, Livvy’s mural can’t be seen from our second floor, so I take my son down the stairs and knock softly on the north guest room door,
where the entire outer wall is a window.

  “Come in,” Shea says. She responds quickly but sounds tired.

  She’s typing on her phone.

  “Where’s Will?”

  “He went to pick up Charlie.”

  “What? How? Have you seen the streets?”

  “My baby’s taking the subway.”

  “It’s so cold!”

  “Charlie’s got arctic wear, trust me. Will borrowed some of your clothes and your ski jacket… he said you were gone, too.”

  “No… not gone. Do you want to see something cool?”

  “Sure,” she says, getting out of bed and following me to the window.

  “What do you see out there?”

  “Snow… a lot of snow.”

  “And?”

  “Well… Liv’s art, of course.”

  “Notice anything… interesting about it?”

  “Is something different?” she asks. I shake my head. “It’s the only colorful thing out there today.”

  “I know,” I say with a sigh. “It’s also the only thing advertising my little boy’s initials.”

  She looks, then gasps playfully. “Wow!” She takes hold of Luca’s hand and leans over to his level, now speaking in baby talk. “Do you see that? Your mama painted LPAS on that building just for you!”

  “Isn’t that weird?”

  “That’s… incredible.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did you just now notice that?”

  “Can’t see it from my floor, and I don’t come in here… but I apparently made it up to the studio in a drunk stupor last night… and that’s what I woke up to this morning.”

  “You went to the studio?” she asks, her hand over her mouth. I nod. “You haven’t gone since… she…”

  “Since she got pregnant and told me it made her sick. No.”

  “Oh, Jon,” she says, giving both me and Luca a hug. “How was it? How are you?”

  “I had a talk with her. Or, rather, I talked at her. She didn’t say much back, but… I felt closer to her anyway. Seeing her artwork up there was great. It felt… cathartic. Maybe it’s something I should have done a lot sooner,” I suggest. “Seeing that acronym, though, and realizing they’re Luca’s initials… that felt good. Maybe it’s a sign or something. Maybe she’s saying she approves of the name… or approves of the job I’m doing.”