Safe with Me: A Novel

by Hatvany, Amy

  Sophie frowns, and her brow furrows. “Do you want me to drive you home?”

  “No,” Hannah says with a quick shake of her head. “Don’t worry. I’ll grab a cab.” She stands, picks up her purse from the bar, and gives Sophie a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for trying,” she whispers into her friend’s ear. “I’m just not ready for all of this.” Pulling back, Hannah smiles at Robert and Seth. “Be nice to Sophie,” she says. “Have a good night.”

  Pushing her way through the small crowd of people gathered at the bar, she tries to keep her breaths even and measured so she doesn’t cry. At the elevator, she pushes the down button over and over, as though the motion could hurry the machinery, and then, she hears her name being called.

  “Hannah, wait,” Seth says, half-jogging toward her. She keeps her eyes on the numbers as they light up over the elevator door. Seth stands next to her, not too close, his hands linked loosely behind his back. The elevator dings, and the door opens. It’s empty, so the two of them step inside and Seth presses the button for the lobby. “I really am sorry for the wall comment,” he says. “It’s kind of an occupational hazard. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  This piques Hannah’s interest, and she eyes him briefly. “What do you do?”

  “I’m a psychologist. Reading people is part of my job, and sometimes I do it at the wrong time with the wrong person.” They are quiet a moment, the only sound the buzz of the cables guiding the elevator to the ground, but then he speaks again. “What about you?”

  “Bricklayer,” Hannah says wryly. “Professional wall builder.”

  “Ha,” he says with a chuckle, and because he laughs at himself, Hannah decides she needs to apologize again.

  “I’m sorry for being rude, too,” she says. “I’m having a bad night.” A bad year, actually, she thinks but doesn’t say.

  “It happens,” Seth says gently. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Thank you,” she says and then realizes she hadn’t yet answered his question about what she does for a living. “And Sophie and I own Ciseaux Salon, one downtown and one here on the Eastside. We’re stylists.”

  “Ah,” he says. “No wonder you’re both so beautiful.” He glances at her with warm brown eyes, and suddenly, Hannah feels exposed, as though he can see right through her. “Whatever it is you’re dealing with,” he says, “I hope it gets better, soon.”

  “You’re doing it again,” Hannah says, though not unkindly. It wasn’t that he made these observations that bothered her—it was the fact that he was right about them. She thought she was a better actress than that. She thought she did such a good job of hiding her pain. Was she really so transparent? Maybe he was just really good at his job.

  “I’m telling you,” Seth says as the door opens and they step out into the lobby, “it’s like having psychological Tourette’s.”

  She laughs a little at his words, and once they’re on the street, Seth hails her a cab. She shakes his hand and looks him straight in the eye. She notices when he smiles, the lines around his eyes crinkle into small fans.

  “Good night, Hannah,” he says. “Take care.”

  She nods. “You, too.” She climbs into the back of the cab, and he closes the door behind her. She tries not to, but after she gives the driver her address and he pulls away from the curb, she looks back at Seth standing on the sidewalk. She wonders what it would be like to let a man like that into her world, and if Emily would have liked him. Before she knows it, she is crying, loud, gulping sobs that shake her core.

  The cabbie glances at her in the rearview mirror. “Everything okay?” he asks, gruffly.

  Hannah sucks in a quick breath and nods. “Just take me home,” she says, knowing that without Emily, no matter how hard she tries, things will never be okay again.

  Olivia

  Olivia walks down the hallway of Lakeview College, clutching her purse between her fingers until her knuckles turn white. An hour ago, after dropping Maddie off for her second day at school, she withdrew enough from the bank to pay her tuition in cash, and she’s terrified that some punk kid might decide to mug her and snatch away the handbag that holds her future.

  The idea of working toward a degree in criminal justice came to her one night last year, not long after Maddie’s transplant, when she and James got into an argument that ended with a three-inch round bruise on the back of Olivia’s thigh, where her husband’s heel landed when he kicked her. She doesn’t remember what the argument was about, but she does recall lying on the floor of their bedroom afterward, thinking if she didn’t find a way to leave James, someday he was going to kill her.

  She already has an A.A. in criminal law—it was a prerequisite for her certification as a paralegal—but she knows if she is ever going to make it to law school, she’ll need a four-year degree. Once Maddie turns eighteen and is safely ensconced at college, there will be no more threat of a custody fight and Olivia can leave James. She wants to be prepared. She wants to find a job, first, something that will pay her enough to support herself—something that will allow her to say “no, thanks,” to alimony offers from James’s legal team. After witnessing Waverly’s husband divorce her five years ago, seeing the hateful way she went after every penny she could get, Olivia is hesitant to become one of those women who live off their ex-husbands’ fortunes. She doesn’t care that the law says she’s entitled to 50 percent of James’s money, or that after her living with his abuse for almost twenty years, he deserves to pay a steep price for all he has done to her. She only wants to be free from him, and needs to do whatever it takes to cut all ties.

  Olivia enters the admissions office, glancing around the room to make sure there is no one there she knows. However unlikely it is, she is terrified someone will see her and tell James what she’s up to. If someone does tell him she was at the college, her plan is to say she was only doing research on whether it might a good school for Maddie. She isn’t sure if he’d believe this, but she isn’t going to let anything stop her. For now, she will register for one course, Criminology 201, scheduled three mornings a week, while Maddie is at school and James is at work so her absence will go undetected.

  As she stands in line to pay her tuition, unsure if she is doing the right thing, she feels her heart bang against her rib cage in an anxious rhythm. But all she can think about is last night, after James told Maddie her hair was beautiful and their daughter went upstairs to her room. When he was sure Maddie was out of earshot, he grabbed Olivia’s arm and twisted it behind her back. With a sharp intake of breath, Olivia bit her bottom lip and tried not to make a sound—she didn’t want Maddie to come back and see what her father was doing.

  “You should have asked me first,” he said, pressing his mouth against her ear. She winced as he squeezed her forearm tighter; her shoulder felt like it might pop out of joint.

  “I know,” she said, hoping to placate him. “But she had such a hard day. She was crying, James. She felt so different from the other girls and I just needed to do something to make her feel better.” She closed her eyes and waited for him to release his grip on her.

  After a moment he did, but when she tried to take a step away from him, he grabbed her hair at the nape of her neck and yanked it, hard. Her hand flew to the back of her head, and she cried out, her eyes filling with tears.

  “It’s not your place to make those kinds of decisions,” he said, spitting the words out through gritted teeth. He gave her hair a tug in emphasis. “Next time, you call me first. Do you understand?” She nodded, head down, and he released her again. This time, though, she stood still, waiting for him to tell her what to do. Her eyes flitted to the sharp silver pizza cutter resting on the counter, and she suddenly flashed on grabbing it and slicing it across his face . . . his neck . . . his chest. She imagined the blood and what were sure to be his howling cries as he fell to his knees on the pristinely white kitchen floor. She’d watched The Burning Bed. She knew that women in situations like hers sometimes committed such heinous act
s. But that wasn’t what she wanted—to murder him. She wanted him to see her thrive without him. Someday, she wanted to rub her freedom in his face.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, glancing up at him. His eyes squeezed into slits, and before she knew it was coming, he threw out his arm and backhanded her across her face. She cried out again, curling her shoulders forward and pressing a palm against where he’d hit her to try to reduce the sting.

  “You should be,” he said, then strode over to the table, where he sat down and took a bite of pizza. She cleaned the kitchen up in silence, feeling his eyes on her the entire time, and she wondered if he sensed what she was thinking, if he knew she had a plan.

  Now, after paying her tuition and confirming that the college will only communicate with her through an email address James doesn’t know about, Olivia makes her way back to her car, unsure how she should fill the rest of her day. For years, all she has done is take care of Maddie—her daughter is the foundation upon which she structures her time. She feels a little out of sorts until her cell phone rings, startling her. She grabs it from her purse, instantly worried something has happened to Maddie at school, ready to jump back into her caretaker role.

  “Hi, Olivia,” a woman’s voice says. “This is Hannah, from Ciseaux Salon?”

  “Oh, hi.” Olivia clears her throat and straightens in her seat. “Is something wrong? Did my debit card not go through?” James sometimes would transfer money out of her account without her knowledge, just to show her he was the one who controlled it. Normally, she checked the balance before even buying groceries, but yesterday at the salon she’d been so worried about Maddie being upset, it hadn’t even crossed her mind.

  “Oh no, nothing like that,” Hannah says. “This might be a little presumptuous, but I wanted to extend an offer for you to make an appointment with me for yourself. I know Henry’s a master with highlights, but I’d love to be able to win you away.”

  Olivia laughs. “That’s funny. Maddie liked you so much, she basically suggested the same thing.” She pauses. “When should I come in?” She doesn’t really need a touch-up, but she likes Hannah, too.

  “I have some time free early next week. Thursday morning at ten thirty? Or we can meet after hours, if that’s easier.”

  “Thursday morning is fine,” Olivia says, wondering if she is imagining that Hannah sounds a little nervous. “But hey, maybe we could get together before that? For lunch, or a cup of coffee?” She doesn’t know the words are there until they come out of her mouth. She’s been so wrapped up with Maddie and her illness, Olivia hasn’t made a new friend in years. The more time she spent in the hospital or at home taking care of her daughter, the more her interactions with Waverly and Sara Beth tapered off. They sent get well cards and flowers, stacks of books and magazines, but after Maddie’s transplant, neither of them came to visit her. For the most part, Olivia spends all of her time with her daughter or alone.

  There is a beat before Hannah responds. “Sure,” she finally says. “I’d like that. There’s a cute café right around the corner from me. Are you free today?”

  “I am,” Olivia says.

  • • •

  Three hours later, after a trip to the gym and a quick shower, Olivia parks her car in front of Café Veloce and makes her way to the entrance. It’s a warm September day—the air is sweet and the sun bathes everything in a golden light. The beauty of this season is one of Seattle’s best-kept secrets, the reason why many natives are able to survive the other brutal months of near-constant rain. She sees Hannah already sitting at an outside table, and Olivia skips speaking to the hostess and joins her.

  “Hi,” she says, slipping into the black wrought-iron chair. “Nice to see you so soon.”

  “You, too.” Hannah smiles and takes a quick sip of her iced tea. “Did you have any trouble finding it?”

  Olivia shakes her head. “Not at all. GPS is a godsend.” She picks up the menu, perusing the options. “What’s good here?”

  “I’m a big fan of the black-and-blue salad—blackened flank steak with blue cheese dressing. Or the grilled shrimp.”

  Olivia sets the menu back down and smiles. “The salad sounds perfect.” Their server approaches and they both put in their orders. “So,” Olivia says, wondering if she sounds as awkward as she feels. She’s never been very good at this part—the small, getting-to-know-you chitchat. “Busy morning?”

  Hannah nods. “But I have about an hour and a half before my next client.”

  “Did you always want to be a stylist?” Olivia asks, folding her hands on the table in front of her, taking in Hannah’s delicate features, her wavy black hair and round, blue eyes. There is something so fragile about her—practically hollow—and Olivia knows that losing her daughter must have affected her deeply, carving away something fundamental from her personality. All of Hannah’s decisions—like Olivia’s—were likely made from one vantage point: that of being a mother. The times when Maddie was really ill, teetering on the brink of death, Olivia had often wondered how she would survive without Maddie there as the focus of all her actions, how she would learn to move through the world when her child was no longer there to guide her. She looks at Hannah and sees herself—the childless mother she might have been. It makes her feel as though she already knows Hannah, that in some way, perhaps they are meant to be friends.

  “I did,” Hannah says. “I used to braid the hair on the horses I grew up riding.” She smiles. “I cut it once, too, much to my father’s horror. Poor Blackie with his stubby tail.”

  Olivia laughs. “You grew up on a farm?”

  “Yep. In Boise. But both my brother, Isaac, and I moved to Seattle after high school.”

  “And your husband?”

  “I’ve never been married, actually,” Hannah says, visibly flinching.

  “Oh, wow,” Olivia says, immediately backtracking. “I guess I just assumed . . . because of your daughter. I’m so sorry. I don’t usually put my foot in my mouth so much, I swear.” I apologize to James, constantly, too, Olivia realizes. It’s her first line of defense with him—if she is properly penitent, she sometimes can keep his anger in check. This apologetic stance makes her feel ashamed of herself. It also makes her wonder once again what kinds of lessons she is teaching her daughter.

  Hannah waves her hand in the air, as though to dismiss her concern. “You couldn’t have known. I was engaged once, but it didn’t work out and I didn’t want to wait around for the ‘right’ relationship to become a mother. If I had, I never would have had Emily. I used a sperm donor.”

  Olivia takes a moment to digest this piece of information, thinking how much confidence it must have taken for Hannah to raise a child completely on her own.

  The two of them take a few bites before speaking again. “This is wonderful,” Olivia says, a little afraid to ask Hannah for details about what happened to her daughter, knowing from her own experience just how overwhelming it can be to discuss anything remotely painful having to do with your child.

  “She was hit by a car,” Hannah says, as though what Olivia is thinking were written across her face. “I miss her every day.” Her bottom lip trembles and she blinks away a few tears. “And I don’t talk about it very much because when I do, it feels like it’s happening all over again. Most people don’t understand that. But with what you went through with Maddie . . . maybe you can.”

  Olivia sets her fork down and reaches across the table. She squeezes Hannah’s hand, her heart aching for the pain she knows Hannah must be in, but also grateful that Hannah feels connected with her, too. “A little bit. We were very lucky to find a donor. A few more days and it would have been too late.” Even now, even though Maddie is better, Olivia’s throat still thickens when she speaks these words.

  Hannah drops her gaze from Olivia’s and pulls away, using the tip of her fork to toy with her salad. “Do you know . . .” She trails off, then starts again. “Do they tell you who the donor is?”

  “Only general
information.” Olivia takes a quick sip of water before continuing. “Maddie really struggles with her guilt about that . . . that she lived and the other person didn’t. She’s too young to understand that life is rarely balanced or fair.” Olivia wonders if she sounds as bitter as she sometimes feels about her life with James. And really, does she have a right to be bitter, considering she’s the one who hasn’t left him? She often imagines what other women would say, women who’d never been beaten by their husbands: I would have walked out the door the minute he raised a hand to me, they’d claim. I’d never put up with a man who hit me. Even if your child’s life hung in the balance? Olivia would want to ask. Even if you would likely lose custody of your daughter if you tried to walk away? She looks at Hannah, unaccustomed to discussing such intimate details of her life with other women—Waverly and Sara Beth kept everything on the surface, and Olivia tends to do the same. But something about Hannah feels different, and for the first time in years, she feels like she might be able to open up.

  “No, it’s not fair,” Hannah says. She waits a beat, taking a quick sip of her iced tea. “Can you contact them at all? The donor’s family?” Olivia flinches this time, and Hannah quickly speaks again. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to say.”

  “That’s okay,” Olivia says, forcing a small smile. “Yes, we can contact them. But James—my husband—is a very private person. He’d rather we remain anonymous.” A familiar pang of guilt strikes Olivia’s chest as she thinks about the mother of the girl who saved Maddie’s life, how much Olivia wants to thank her for the sacrifice she made. Her eyes fill with tears and she blinks them away.

  “Oh,” Hannah says, clearly taken aback.

  “He only wants to protect us,” Olivia hurries to explain, hating that she always feels as though she needs to make excuses for James’s behavior. “If I had my way, I’d want to thank the family, for sure, but it’s not really worth trying to argue with him, you know? Once he’s made up his mind there’s not much I can do.” Olivia wonders if Hannah can see the anxiety she feels even discussing the possibility of going against her husband’s wishes. She thinks back to the night not quite a year ago when James forbade her to send a thank-you to the donor family.