by Lori L. Otto
No one moves.
“Please.”
“Is that a threat?” a woman asks, pushing her way to the front of the pack.
“No,” I assure her.
“We want a picture of Livvy.”
“I want you to vacate these premises before I call the police.” I pull out my phone. “This is a private residence.”
“We’ll move over here,” one of them says, gesturing for others to follow to the sidewalk and small yard of my neighbor’s home. Mr. Erland stands on his porch, watching.
“I’ve already called the police,” he says. “How are you doing today, Jack?”
“Fine, thank you, Harry.”
“I suggest you all clear out.” I notice more of my neighbors have gathered across the street. I suspect some are there to help – those that have lived here longer than I have – but I know others are just as curious as the paparazzi. Regardless, everyone starts to clear out, getting into cars and driving off or crossing the busy street on the side of my house when the signal allows.
“I appreciate your help,” I tell my neighbor.
“You may need to hire some security. These rats have been hanging around for days.”
“I’ll look into that today. Thank you.”
I get back into the car, only mildly rattled. “Are you okay, Tessa?”
“I’m fine. Are you?” she asks, backing out of the driveway.
“Just annoyed.”
“Why do they want pictures of me?”
“You’re a very photogenic young lady. I suspect this is only the beginning.”
“I looked the same a year ago. It wasn’t weird like this. There were people who took my picture from far away, but they get so close now.”
“You carry yourself differently today than you did a year ago. They know you’re growing up. And I suspect your photo commands a higher price today than it did a year ago.”
“I’m a nobody,” she laughs. “I’m only interesting because I’m your daughter.”
“You’re somebody, Contessa,” I say, hoping she doesn’t truly think she’s nobody. “And when word gets out that you’re an accomplished painter, I suspect the price will only go up higher. You’re carving out a nice future for yourself, but with it will come some unwanted attention. Livvy,” I say to her, putting my hand on hers when she stops at a red light. “If this ever becomes too cumbersome – too much of a burden – please don’t be afraid to tell me.”
“It’s fine, Dad.”
“I will move to keep you and Jackson safe.”
“You don’t have to do that. Not for me, anyway.”
“I’d move heaven and earth for you, sweetie.”
She laughs lightly and rolls her eyes. “I know, Dad.”
Once inside the market, Livvy keeps track of the ingredients we need on her phone.
“Avocados,” she reads off the next item.
“You know,” I begin, “I used to hate avocados. Every time I tried to cook with them, things just didn’t taste right.”
“So why are we getting them now?”
“Because your mother likes guacamole with her spinach enchiladas. There’s a trick to picking out the ripe ones. That’s what I was doing wrong all this time.” Livvy looks up at me, paying attention.
“The bright green ones, right?”
“No,” I tell her. “For these, we want a darker skin, but the most important thing is the way they feel in your hands.” I pick up a couple, a bright green one and a darker one, squeezing it gently. “Hold out your hands.”
I place the two vegetables in her palms. “Don’t squeeze with your fingertips. You can actually bruise them. Just use the rest of your fingers and palms. Do you feel the difference?”
“This one’s harder,” she says of the brighter one.
“Right. We want it to be just a little soft to the touch. That means it’s ripe.” I find another dark one that’s too soft, and show Livvy the difference. “So now you know how to pick out an avocado. Lesson one down,” I say with a laugh.
“Cool.”
“Donna taught me that a few years ago,” I say, trying to segue into a different conversation. Actually, Emi had taught me, but Donna had taught her, so I figure the lesson is the same. “We were making hambur–”
“Onions,” Livvy interrupts as she walks away from me, her eyes keenly focused on the list on her phone. “Unless those come with a Granna story, too,” she adds, turning around and looking up, challenging me with her eyes. My daughter’s a lot more perceptive than I give her credit for.
“Can’t we just talk about her a little?” I ask when I meet her at the onion stand.
“No,” she tells me.
“Contessa, listen.”
“I don’t want to, Dad.”
“Give me two minutes to say this, and then I’ll let it be.”
“You can talk all you want, but I don’t have to listen.”
“Spoken like a true bratty child,” I mumble, loud enough for her to hear.
She sighs and her expression changes, but she doesn’t look away from the bulb in her hand. “Go,” she says simply.
LIVVY
I wait patiently for Dad to continue. A part of me wants to cover my ears and run away, but he’s right. That’s how a child would handle this, and I’m no longer a child.
“I lost a close friend of mine when I was fifteen,” he begins.
“This is different,” I say, stepping on his next sentence.
“I asked for two minutes,” he says calmly. I nod my head, allowing him to continue as I glance at the time on my phone. There’s a part of me that wants to set a timer, but again… I’m no longer a child. “I grew up with him. When he was thirteen, he was diagnosed with leukemia. I won’t insult your intelligence by asking if you know what that is.”
“Cancer of the blood cells,” I tell him, just to prove that I know. “It can be chronic or acute, based on how quickly the symptoms show and the cancer spreads.”
“Yes,” he continues. “Philip had acute lymphoblastic leukemia. He started losing a lot of weight, and he had headaches quite often. When the pain spread to other parts of his body, he was diagnosed with the disease.
“When you’re fifteen, you’re just awakening to the sense that life is yours for the taking. You start making decisions that will start preparing you for the path you want to take. Philip and I were going to play major league ball together. We had been the best pitcher and catcher combo our neighborhood had ever seen. It was like we always knew what the other was thinking. We were always one step ahead of anyone else.
“After he got sick, I remember thinking that this was just a minor distraction. That once he was cancer-free, I’d practice with him day and night to get him back into shape. Even in the late stages of his disease, I kept assuring him he’d be fine. At the time, I believed it. At the time, no one had ever left my life.”
I can hear my dad swallow back a lump in his throat.
“And then he died. To me, I’d say he died unexpectedly, but of course he didn’t. Of course I’d had plenty of time to prepare. I just didn’t. So when my parents delivered the news to me, I was lost. It was the first time I’d realized that we are not invincible. It was the first time I’d realized that no matter what plans we were making, there was a higher power at play. We are not in control of our deaths.”
“We can be,” I interject. He looks at me curiously. “Like, suicide,” I mumble.
“Do you think about that, Contessa?” he asks, hushed.
“No, Dad!” I say emphatically. “I was just stating that…“ He hugs me quickly, and holds me tight. His hands move soothingly up and down my back. I let him hold me, even as onlookers whisper around us. “I didn’t mean to worry you,” I tell him.
He pulls away and smiles at me, pushing my hair behind my ears. He breaks away and picks up a yellow onion, putting it in a brown paper bag.
“Was that it?” I ask him. “Was that the end of your story?”
&
nbsp; “I’m not sure,” he says. “I was scared at that thought, that my life could be over in a split second. There was a certain amount of trepidation and paranoia that loomed over me for weeks. But I remember something my mother said to me, after days of talking through my feelings. She said, ‘We’re not in control of our deaths, but we are in full control of our lives.’
“That stuck with me,” he concludes with a nostalgic look in his eyes. “What’s next on the list?”
We are in full control of our lives. The phrase echoes in my mind. I am in full control of my life. Am I?
“Liv? The list?”
“Garlic powder,” I say, remembering the next ingredient without needing to check my notes.
“We have that at home,” he says, pushing the cart onto the next aisle.
“Dad, what was the point to your story?”
“To encourage you to talk to us. I’m not sure I ever really got to that point, though,” he chuckles to himself, looking at different packages of graham crackers as if he were looking for the meaning of life.
“What’s there to talk about?” I ask him.
“So much, Livvy. If you’re not ready to talk now, then please just assure me that you know your mother and I love you more than anything, and we will be here for you when you are ready.”
“I know, Daddy.”
He finally settles on a box of crackers and looks across the aisle. “Did you see any condensed milk?” he asks. I grab some off the shelf and put it in the cart. We pick up the rest of the items on our list in relative silence. It’s awkward.
As we put our items into bags, he clears his throat to get my attention. “I’m not good at this, Liv,” he admits.
“It’s fine, Dad.”
“I did all the talking. That wasn’t my assignment.” I knew Mom had put him up to this, but I did expect him to be more eloquent, or at least more succinct with a point. “You know, the best person to go to is your mother.” It sounds like he’s giving up, and as much as I don’t want to talk about Granna, I don’t want him to give up on me, either.
“Why, because she’s an expert on unexpected deaths?” I ask sarcastically.
“No, Liv. She’s an expert at being a survivor,” he corrects me.
JON
“Are you staying late tonight?” my boss asks when he walks by the studio on his way out.
“Yeah,” I respond. “It’s easier to focus when it’s quiet.” He comes over to my desk and studies my elevation drawing.
“It’s fantastic,” he says as he compares a photo of the current landscaping with my drawing. “You’re definitely an artist. It’s nice to see natural born talent like this. Anyone can plug in lines and numbers on a computer. But to be able to finesse such beauty into the design by hand. It’s a dying art, Jon. Don’t ever become too reliant on your computer. Machines will never replace the artists, and this industry will always need your kind.”
“Thanks, Wallace. I hope you’re right.”
“Kid, you’ll always be welcome here – you’re the fastest study I’ve hired. How was Europe?”
“It was great. I’d hoped to spend a few more days over there, but one of my friends and mentors passed away. Her funeral’s Friday, so I was hoping to take some time off for that.”
“You know my rule. As long as the work gets done – and gets done right.”
“Yes, sir.” I look up at him and smile while I sharpen the point on my pencil. “Have a good evening.”
With him gone, it’s just me and a junior architect left. I still can’t fathom why a man named Richard would willingly go by the name of Dick, but since it suits him so well, I don’t mind calling him that as often as I can. His work is sloppy. He apparently can think outside the box like no one else, but he doesn’t have the patience to translate those ideas to paper. That’s why I’m here today.
I study his sketch, still finding it difficult to see what’s so special about this building. I feel like I’ve seen it done before, except for one particular slope on the awning, the next thing I need to finalize in ink and colored pencil. I look at it more critically, reading the notes he’s made about his choices of materials.
Surely this is a mistake. I glance around the room, looking for cameras. This has to be a set-up; a test.
Before I start on the front of the building, I decide to run it past the designer himself.
“Dick?” I ask from his doorway. I catch him watching videos on his computer, and whatever it was, he’s embarrassed that I walked in on him.
“What do you want, kid?” he asks impatiently.
“Well, Dick,” I start, “I was just looking this over before I inked the front awning, and maybe I’m reading it wrong, but what you’ve drawn here doesn’t seem physically possible.”
“Just draw the building, kid. You’re not here to think about it, study it, or read anything into it. You’re here to draw it. So go draw.”
“It says concrete with metal latticework. I mean, it looks cool as hell, but then you have this one tiny post supporting all that, and I don’t think–”
“What did I just tell you about thinking? That’s not what you’re here to do.”
“But these are sketches for the client. We’re applying for permits with this, right? No one’s gonna give us a permit for this,” I nearly laugh at him. “Let’s present them with something that doesn’t go against all laws of gravity.” He looks up at me, clearly angry.
“What are you, an engineer? No, you’re a fucking college student who’s talking way out of turn right now.”
“Technically, I’m not a college student yet, nor am I an engineer, but I’ve done enough coursework, studied enough designs, and had enough practical experience to know that this minuscule pole cannot bear the load of an awning like that. And then what are you going to do? Backtrack after construction’s begun? That seems pretty irresponsible, Dick.”
“Draw the fucking building the way I sketched it, kid. If you like this job at all, you’ll just do what you’re paid to do.”
“I’m not paid to take orders from you, Dick.” It really does feel good to say it and mean it and not get my teeth knocked out for it. “Wallace hired me for a number of reasons. I draw very well. I’m efficient at what I do, and I rarely make mistakes. I’m thorough. I’m detail-oriented. I had the highest GPA in the most difficult courses at my school – not just last year, but in the history of that school. I had not one, not two, but six letters of recommendation for this job by respected people around the city of Manhattan. But – and I believe this is the one that was most important to him – I’m not afraid to stand up for what I believe in.” My heart’s pounding as I await his response.
“I’m leaving for the night,” he says, grabbing a satchel off the floor. “I expect to see the elevations finished and on Wallace’s desk for approval by the time I get in at 6:30. I know a lot of influential people in this city, too, kid, so if you want a career here, you’ll stop arguing with me. You’ll do as I say, you’ll do it when I say, and you’ll do it with a smile.”
He’s taller than I am, and when he steps past me to exit his office, he takes my chin in his hand. “I said with a smile.” I stare at him before the smile comes naturally. He doesn’t scare me. Nor does he control me.
“Have a good night, dick.”
I return to the studio, turning off all the lights except for the ones over my workspace. I glance at my reflection in the window, challenging myself to not only draw the building the way he wants, but to do a second one that’s modified with my own outside-the-box idea. I have nine hours to do it. It’ll be tough, but it’s not impossible. I take out my computer and set it up, carefully selecting a playlist in iTunes, and I get to work.
Hours later, I hear my phone vibrating in my bag. I was supposed to call Olivia, but I forgot. It’s a text message from her. It’s three in the morning?!
I’d been working quickly, but I had no idea it was so late already. I look over the second sketch and compare it
to the first. Even though time has flown by, I’m confident I can finish it. I finally read Olivia’s message.
Call me when you get up.
I suppose I’ll be going to bed around the time she expects me to get up, so I decide to call her back now.
“You’re awake?” she asks me.
“I’m at work,” I tell her.
“Why?”
“Long story,” I answer vaguely. “What’s wrong? Why are you up at three AM?”
“I’m lonely.”
A flash of warmth overtakes my body. “I miss you, too.”
“I want to see you, Jon.”
She sounds very needing. “What for, baby?” I ask her, setting my pencil down.
“What do you think?”
“Oh, don’t do this to me, Liv,” I whine. “Don’t make me say no to that. You know it’s not really possible anyway. Your whole family is there… and mine’s at my apartment – well, my brothers are there with a neighbor, anyway. We don’t have anywhere to go… and it’s not really the time for that, is it?”
“I can’t help it that I want you… like that…“ she says meekly. “It’s your fault.”
“I’ll happily take the blame for this, and I’m glad you still want to be with me despite how our night ended, but I’m not sure we’ll ever get another chance like that. Especially since I think Jack’s on to us and likely won’t let you out of his sight ever again.”
“He’s not either,” she tells me. “He would have confronted me if he was on to us. We’ve had plenty of time to talk, and it’s all he’s wanted to do.”
“Your family has about a million other things going on right now. I guess I can be glad our sex life isn’t at the top of his list.”
“Wow,” she says, the word sounding awe-inspired. “We have a sex life.”
I laugh at her comment. “I can die happy because we have a sex life.”
She’s quiet for a few seconds. “Did you like it?” We hadn’t had any time to talk about it after the fact, but I was sure she knew I liked it. It makes me sad to think she doesn’t know this already.
