by Hatvany, Amy
Reluctantly, she agreed with him. She couldn’t afford a private nurse for her mother, and since they were only dating at the time, there was no way she would let James foot that kind of bill, even if he’d offered. So it wasn’t until they were newlyweds that Olivia saw James’s house. She gasped as their driver pressed the button for the automatic gate to open, allowing her a view of the imposing structure at the end of the road. The house was hers, too, she supposed, now that they were married. Married, she thought. I’m twenty-three years old and married to an amazing, accomplished man. A man who adores me and has promised to take care of my every need.
It was a new experience for her, being cared for. Since her parents divorced when she was five and her father decided he’d rather not bother spending time with his daughter, it had always been just Olivia and her mother. “We’re better off without him,” Olivia’s mother said. They’d struggled over the years, trying to make ends meet, but her mother insisted that she’d never marry again—that overall, men weren’t worth the bother of having them around. “They take what they want from you and then spit you back out,” she told Olivia more than once. “They use you up and then throw you away.”
Her mother’s bitterness lingered in the air of their tiny apartment like secondhand smoke. Olivia did her best to not breathe it in, to believe that someday, she might find a man who would fall in love with her. She promised herself that when she got married, it would be forever. She remembered her mother constantly picking at her dad, screaming at him over silly things like him not taking out the garbage, and a small part of Olivia blamed her mother for her father’s abandonment of them both. She swore that someday, she’d be a sweet, gentle wife who never yelled, so her husband would never leave. She pictured herself living with him—cooking for him and climbing into his bed at night, giving birth to their children, growing old in the house they picked out together. Years of watching L.A. Law with her mother primed Olivia for the idea of becoming a lawyer—she fantasized that she and her husband might work at the same firm, defending clients together. She tried to believe that she didn’t have to share her mother’s fate.
Later, after high school, the few men she dated before James were just boys, wanting to split the check and wait for Olivia to call them instead of picking up the phone themselves. They wanted to “hook up” and “hang out,” vague relationship descriptors that left Olivia wondering if her mother was right—if any man was capable of true commitment. But James was different. James opened doors for her and pulled out her chair; he sent her long-stemmed red roses and helped her with her coat. He made her feel valuable and special. She glowed beneath the pleasure of his attentions.
“You’re lucky he’s rich,” her mother observed, after meeting James for the first time. “He can take care of you.”
“I don’t care about his money,” Olivia said, feeling her face grow hot. It was clear her mother didn’t believe her, but Olivia spoke the truth. The fact that James had money seemed beside the point. What mattered to Olivia was that he wanted a happy, loving marriage as much as she did. “I’m ready to settle down,” he told her after just a few weeks of dating. “I want to have the family my parents never gave me.”
It surprised her, at first, that James pursued her so fervently, since it was obvious with his money and level of success, he could have any woman he wanted. “I’m not sure what you see in me,” she said, feeling a little shy. She knew she was pretty, but she was far from the polished women with whom she knew James worked and socialized.
“I see your determination,” he answered. “I see how kind you are and what an amazing mother you’ll make. I see that you might teach me to be a better person.”
His words pleased Olivia; she loved that for all his sophistication, he felt as though she had something to teach him, too. Just a few months later, she agreed to marry him in a quick civil ceremony at the Tampa courthouse. “Who needs all the fuss of a big wedding?” James asked, and while a part of Olivia would have loved that kind of fuss—it was, after all, the only wedding she ever planned to have—it seemed that after everything he’d already done for her, asking for him to pay for an event like that would seem greedy. He took her to Paris for their honeymoon, and they took moonlit walks along the Seine, sipped wine and ate buttery croissants in their enormous hotel bed, made love two or three times a day. Afterward, James would rest his head on Olivia’s chest and she would run her fingers through his thick hair until his breaths slowed and deepened and he fell asleep. Olivia had never felt so content.
One evening, after just such a moment, Olivia tried to slip out from under the weight of him in order to use the bathroom, but James held on to her tightly. “No,” he said. “I won’t let you go.”
She softened her body and gave him a little squeeze. “Just for a minute, love. I’ll be right back.” In her experience, most men were afraid of their emotions; she loved how vulnerable he was with her, how willing he was to express how he felt.
He looked up at her with so much love in his eyes, she was almost startled by its intensity. “I need you, Liv. I need you so much.”
“I need you, too,” she said, feeling as though she was the luckiest girl in the world.
A week later, they arrived in Seattle, and James smiled at her in the back of the limousine as the heavy gate closed behind them. “What do you think?” he asked as they traveled up the driveway to the house.
Olivia couldn’t respond, still staring at the red-brick palace before them. It was three stories high with several turrets, a circular driveway, and a detached five-car garage. Towering maples flanked each side of the building, and a large marble fountain served as centerpiece to the extensive grounds. A tall, black iron fence enclosed the entire property—wired to shock the hell out of anyone who tried to scale it, James told her. She knew James was well-off, but he hadn’t made clear the exact level of his fortune. Olivia felt like it would have been in poor taste to ask for specifics.
The driver parked the car, then came around to open Olivia’s door. Both she and James climbed out of the vehicle and stood beside it. “Welcome home, baby,” he said, and then he kissed her, pushing his body hard against hers, making her feel drunk with arousal. When he finally pulled away, Olivia gave him a wicked smile.
“Let’s make love in every room,” she said, and immediately, James’s body went stiff. He gripped her forearm until tears flooded her eyes.
“Don’t talk like that in front of the staff,” he growled. “I don’t want them thinking my new wife’s a slut.” He released her arm, then smiled again, a wide easy motion, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Come on, beauty. Let’s get you cleaned up and I’ll tell the cook to get dinner started. I asked her to stock all of your favorites. Chicken Caesar salad sounds good, doesn’t it?”
Stunned, Olivia swallowed back her tears and nodded. Did my husband just call me a slut? The moment had happened so quickly, she wondered if she had imagined it. She glanced down at her arm then, and there it was: the bright red imprint of his fingers. She rubbed it, as though trying to erase the evidence. He’s just tired, she told herself. He didn’t mean anything by it. She promised herself to do as he asked, to be cautious of how she spoke in front of the people who worked for him. A man at his level of success had an image to maintain, and it was her job as his wife to support that. This was why he’d taken her on a shopping spree in Paris, helping her pick out an entirely new wardrobe: simple straight skirts, tailored slacks, and a rainbow of gloriously soft cashmere sweater sets. He bought her diamond stud earrings and a pearl necklace. “You know I already love how you look,” he told her. “I only want you to have the best of everything.” When she protested that she didn’t need him to buy her so much, he shushed her. “It makes me happy to be able to give it to you,” he said, and Olivia decided that she would do whatever it took to make him happy, too.
After he showed her their room—a master suite with an enormous walk-in closet and private bathroom all her own—she showered,
dressing simply in a pale yellow sundress, then found her way back down the curved staircase into the dining room. A tall, slightly homely woman in a black chef’s coat was placing a large salad on the table, but Olivia didn’t greet her, afraid James might walk in and hear her saying the wrong thing. The woman pressed her lips together and nodded at Olivia, then exited the room.
She took a moment to absorb the simple, luxurious beauty of the space: creamy white walls were accented by crimson drapes. An enormous, brushed-nickel-framed mirror hung opposite the French doors that led out onto an extensive patio. This room alone was bigger than the tiny apartment she’d shared with her mother; its opulence outweighed any other home she’d ever entered. Walking over to the doors, Olivia stared out across the property on the backside of the house, which held a kidney-shaped, sparkling blue pool and what looked to be a modest but lovely guest cottage. She wondered briefly why James had never suggested bringing her mother with them, since he obviously had an appropriate separate living space, but then she brushed away the thought, knowing she should be grateful for everything he had done, both for her and for her mother.
“What do you think?” James asked, and Olivia put a splayed hand over her chest, whipping around to face him.
“Oh god, don’t sneak up on me like that!” she exclaimed. “You scared me!”
“Sorry, darling. Bare feet on marble floors don’t make much sound.”
She dropped her arm back to her side. “Bear feet? I thought you had people feet.”
James smiled indulgently at her silly play on words. “Let’s eat, shall we?” He gestured toward the table and Olivia stepped over to it, sitting down in the chair he held out for her. She felt small in this high-ceilinged room, out of place in a house that was supposed to be her new home. I’ll get used to it, she reassured herself, then forced a smile at James, who was filling her plate, then his, with greens and thin slices of chicken breast. She watched him pour the dressing over his salad, then asked him to please pass it to her. He tilted his head the slightest bit to the side. “Are you sure you should have any? You had that scone for breakfast.”
His tone was gentle, but still, Olivia sucked in a tiny breath, suddenly self-conscious. Am I getting fat? They’d eaten out at so many fantastic restaurants in Tampa, indulging over candlelight dinners in buttery pastas and rich desserts. Perhaps it was time for her to scale back her diet. She smiled and nodded at him. “That’s right. I probably shouldn’t.”
He smiled, reached over and squeezed her hand, then passed her a bowl filled with quartered lemons. “Here,” he said. “With these and a little pepper, you won’t even miss the dressing.”
Now, thinking back to her arrival into James’s world, Olivia is dumbfounded by how easily she overlooked those red-flag moments. She sits at the same dining room table almost two decades later, and wonders how different her life would have been if she had walked out right then, that first day in this house. If she had stood up when he refused her the salad dressing and told him to go fuck himself. If she had understood that that was only the beginning of what she would face.
But then she looks at their daughter, born just a year after they married, sitting across from her now with bright eyes, rosy cheeks, and a properly functioning liver—so much stronger and healthier a year after the transplant—and she knows that every sacrifice she has made has been worth it. Staying was the right thing to do. If she tries to leave now, there’s no doubt that James will file for full custody of Maddie, so Olivia knows that she can’t walk out the door until her daughter turns eighteen. She almost lost Maddie once—she won’t risk it again.
“But I don’t want to go to an actual school,” Maddie says to her father, who is sitting, as always, at the head of the table, the two of them flanking him. “What’s the point?”
“The point is, you are healthy enough to start living a normal life,” James says, aiming a thick finger at his daughter. “The point is, I’m your father, and I say it’s time for you to start living in the real world with real people instead of being on that damn computer all the time.”
“She only has two years left until she graduates,” Olivia says quietly. “Maybe she’ll be fine with the tutor.” She and James agreed that for the first year after Maddie’s transplant, she would continue to be schooled at home so she could heal more effectively and be at less risk for infection. But now that her health is so much better, he is insistent that she attend Eastside Prep, the same elite, private high school he attended over thirty-five years ago.
“Maybe you shouldn’t butt into a conversation I’m having with my daughter,” James snaps, and Maddie’s eyes grow wide. Olivia cringes, hating it when her daughter witnesses James’s temper; she’d sheltered Maddie as much as possible from his darker side.
“Mom’s right,” Maddie says, dropping her fork to her plate with a clatter. “I’ve done fine with Mrs. Beck. I aced my SATs, right? I even took them early. That’s because of her.”
James shakes his head. “That’s because you’re brilliant, like your father.” He winks at Maddie, who only frowns. Olivia breathes a silent sigh of relief that the pendulum of his mood seems to have swung back in a positive direction. To make sure it stays there, she decides the best thing she can do in that moment is to back up her husband.
“I think maybe your dad has a point, honey,” Olivia says, tucking her hair behind one ear. “You are brilliant, but you missed out on so much while you were sick. I don’t think you even realize how much.” She glances at James, who gives her a brief, approving nod. The knot in her stomach that formed when he snapped at her relaxes.
Maddie rolls her eyes. “Yes, I do, Mom. I get it. I spent the last eight years doing nothing but think about everything I was missing. But that’s totally my point. I already missed it.” She waves a dismissive hand in the air in front of her. “Going to some stuck-up prep school where all the kids have known each other since they were like, in diapers would only make it worse. I’d be the weird, puffy girl who’s carrying around a dead girl’s liver inside her. I’d be a freak.”
“That’s not true,” Olivia says. “And the only way people would know about the transplant is if you told them.”
Maddie sighs. “As I’m taking eight hundred pills a day to ward off rejection. Sure, no one will notice that.”
Olivia tries again, ignoring her daughter’s exaggeration. “Well, some of the kids you’ll know from elementary school. Maybe you can reconnect with old friends.”
“Yeah, right,” Maddie says. “Like the bonding we did over Play-Doh and hopscotch will just carry right on over to being BFFs now.”
“Enough!” James bellows, startling both Olivia and Maddie. His eyes go dark as he glares at them; his brows furrow together into a deep V. Olivia can see the muscles along his jaw working in a tight motion, and she knows this means he is trying to restrain himself. She braces herself for what might come next.
After a moment, he shoves his chair back from the table and stands, pulls on his jacket, then walks over to Maddie. As he puts his hand on the back of her neck, Maddie freezes. Olivia holds her breath. “You’re already registered,” he continues, a cool edge in his voice. “I let Mrs. Beck go with a generous severance package. When school starts next month, you will be there. End of discussion.” He squeezes his fingers on her neck once, and Maddie flinches, closing her eyes. A single tear slips down her cheek, and Olivia’s heart aches at the sight. They are both silent, hands in their laps, as James grabs his briefcase and strides out the door.
After he leaves, Maddie opens her eyes and looks at Olivia. “I hate him,” she whispers.
“No, you don’t,” Olivia says. “You’re angry with him. You’re disappointed. You’re scared.” Feelings Olivia is all too familiar with when it comes to her husband.
“What a fantastic way to feel about my own father,” Maddie says with a sniffle. “Please, Mom. Don’t make me go.”
“You’ll be fine, I promise.”
“No, I won
’t,” Maddie groans. “I won’t be able to stand it!”
Olivia twists her face into what she hopes is an encouraging smile. “Yes, you will,” she says. “Believe me, honey. When it’s for the right reason, you can handle more than you know.”
Maddie
My mother is wrong, I think as I stomp up the stairs to my bedroom. I do hate my father. If she had any backbone at all, she’d hate him, too. Slamming the door behind me, I grab my laptop and plop down on my bed, quickly logging in to Sierra’s Facebook profile to write a status update. “Parents are soooo LAME,” I type. “Why do they think they can control my life?!”
After a few people “like” the post, I decide it sounds too immature and I delete it. I’ve listed Sierra’s age as twenty-one, and I’m pretty sure by that point, most girls aren’t constantly bitching about their parents. At least I hope not. Now that I’m fairly healthy, my plan is to get the hell out of this house the minute I turn eighteen. Two more years of dealing with my father will be enough; now, I have to deal with five hundred other kids at a school I don’t want to go to? Kids who won’t know me or want to know me, because even though I feel better than I did a year ago, my hair is still stringy and my body has a weird shape. I’m not an hourglass; I’m a barrel.
This thought is too depressing to deal with, so I decide to log in to my favorite gaming site instead. I discovered Zombie Wars about six months ago, when I was still stuck in bed a good part of the day and about to go out of my mind with boredom. It’s an online, alternate reality game set after the apocalypse, where you can create an avatar to join forces with other players to fight brain-eating zombies. I thought it was a little dorky at first, but once I got past the first couple of levels, I really started to get into the challenge of playing. Like pretending to be Sierra on Facebook and Twitter, I could pretend to be a butt-kicking zombie assassin who might just save the world. Maybe it was dorky, but it was definitely better than numbing my brain with daytime TV.
