by Lori L. Otto
“Yeah, of course.”
“Is your homework done?”
“No. I don’t have much, though. I can knock it out after dinner.”
“Subject?”
“English. I just have to read two chapters of Brave New World.”
“Ahhh, that’s one of your dad’s favorite books, you know?”
“He mentioned that. I don’t like it.”
“Of course,” she answers, giving me a strained look. “Five minutes.”
“I’ll be up.”
“Bring the smock up with you,” she says on her way back up the stairs. “I can stitch up that hole for you.”
“Alright, Mom.”
Many years after the first night I got to paint with brushes, I learned the real story behind the smock. When my mother was on bed-rest six years ago, pregnant with my brother, we had a lot of mother-daughter conversations. My dad was out of the country on business. Grandma Hennigan was staying with us while he was away. Mom’s pregnancy was high-risk, so she had to be very careful.
Grandma had taken over my bedroom and I was allowed to sleep with my mother when Dad was away. We had many late-night talks. I learned so much about my mother then, and just when I thought a new baby would drive a wedge between me and the parents that had been my own for almost six years, Mom and I grew very close, creating a special bond that we still have to this day.
We had been talking about how she met my dad. She was telling me about this “other guy” that she had been dating, and at some point, his name slipped out: Nate.
I knew the name, though. I knew that he was my mother’s friend. I knew that he was Granna’s son, who had died years ago. She had told me many stories about him over years of afternoons and evenings I spent first as a student, then as a mentor, at the Art Room. I had no idea Nate had been romantically involved with my mother.
“He was your boyfriend?” I’d asked Mom. She was reluctant to answer me, but finally did.
“Yes, briefly,” she said with a wistful smile. “But, really, we were just friends for most of the time I knew him.”
“Does Daddy know?” I’d asked first.
“Yes, Daddy knows.”
“Did Granna know?”
She laughed at that question. “Of course she knew. It’s not nice to keep secrets from your parents. We didn’t keep secrets from them.”
“Did they like it that you were dating?”
“Who?”
“Everyone. Granna, your parents...”
“Yeah,” she answered. “You know, Donna’s always treated me like a daughter. And Nate was friends with your uncle–Chris–and me. My family liked him, too.”
“Why didn’t you marry him?”
“Well, Livvy. I like to think it’s because I was meant to be with Jacks all along. And Nate and me, we were just supposed to be best friends.”
“Well, how come you broke up?”
“We didn’t exactly.” I could sense her hesitance, but I was silent, waiting for her answer. “Nate and I were together when he died.”
This revelation startled me, and I remember sitting up in bed, frightened at the thought of my mom’s life being in danger. I knew how Nate died. “You were in the car with him?”
She sighed. “Yes, baby. I was.”
“How come you lived?” I’d asked her.
She carefully rearranged herself in bed, sitting up against some pillows. She put her arm around me and pulled me close. “I guess because someone had to be here to raise you.”
“No, really, Mom,” I’d urged her. “Were you hurt?”
“Yes,” she answered quickly. “I had broken some bones. I was in a coma for a few days, and... well, my heart was broken, too,” she added. “I’d lost my best friend.” I’d learn later that she left out a very significant detail.
“And your boyfriend.”
“Yes. And my boyfriend.”
“So Granna could have really been my grandma?”
“Well, Livvy, I don’t think I would have ever met you if he hadn’t passed away. I only had the chance to meet you because your Dad volunteered at the hospital you were at. Do you remember that night?”
They’d told me the story so many times that I wasn’t sure if I remembered the night I met Jack and Emi or if my imagination just built around their description of that Christmas Eve when I pulled on my dad’s tie and instantly worked my way into their hearts.
“Yeah.”
“That was probably the best thing that’s ever happened to Dad and me. Meeting you.”
“It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, too,” I had told her. We were quiet for some time, reflecting on that night. At least I was.
“You know the smock you wear when you paint?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s actually a dress.” I had figured that out quickly when I saw the typical smocks at the art school I attended. “I was wearing the dress the night Nate first told me he loved me. He was painting, and I hugged him and got paint on the dress.”
“Why didn’t you wash it?” I’d asked.
“Oh, I did. Carefully. I hand-washed it, but I was careful not to remove the paint. I wanted to hold on to a little piece of that night. It was a pretty special night.”
“Did you love him?”
“Of course,” she told me.
“Like you love Daddy?”
“Yeah, a little like that. But I have to be honest, Liv, your daddy has made me the happiest woman in the world. I love him and I’m very much in love with him. Still.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Hmmm,” she began, contemplative. “You know how you love your cousins, your grandparents, even me and Daddy?”
“Yeah. Like, they’re family.”
“Right. Nate was kind of like family to me.”
“But Daddy’s family.”
“Right, Daddy’s family now. How can I explain this?” she struggled. “With Daddy, I kind of picked him, to love him... to fall in love with him. And I couldn’t help it. My heart just made me go to him.” I looked at her, unsatisfied with her simplistic answer. “Let’s see. With our family, we just accept who we have, and we care about them first because of who they are. And then as time goes on, that caring turns into love.”
“But Nate wasn’t family.”
“But he was to me. I don’t know how to explain this, Livvy. We just cared about each other first, and that caring turned into love. It just kind of happened. Does that make sense?”
“No,” I told her with a frown.
“Well, someday you’ll understand. When you fall in love with someone.”
“How will I know?”
“Your heart will tell you, Livvy. There will be no question.”
Even with that explanation, though, so many questions raced through my head that night. For Granna’s sake, I had always wondered what her life would be like if Nate was still here. She spoke so highly of him, and always talked about his exceptional talents. And that night, when I knew my mom had once loved him, I couldn’t help but wonder what her life would be like now if he had lived. My imagination began to blossom with ideas.
Over the five years following that night, I’ve continued to wonder, what if... but recently, I’d become obsessed with the idea.
“Liv, are you ready for dinner?” my dad calls out to me from the base of the stairs, bringing me out of my current daydream. I quickly check to make sure he can’t see the painting from where he stands. I take off the black paint-splotched dress first–then the real smock that actually protects my clothing.
“Yeah,” I mumble just loud enough for him to hear. “I told Mom I’d be up in a second.” After he goes back upstairs, I carefully pick up the wet painting and put it in the storage closet that no one ever goes into. I know the portrait of Nate will be safe in there.
CHAPTER 3
“Since Jackson doesn’t have t-ball on Saturday, I thought you and I could drive upstate to see your grandparents, Liv,
and get in some practice.” My dad’s expression is hopeful. I shrug my shoulders at his offer.
“Livvy, you were begging me for some time to practice driving,” Mom says.
“I want you to teach me.”
“Well, that’s not gonna happen,” she says. “When have you known me to drive?”
“You do sometimes–”
“Not often. Certainly not often enough to teach you. You need an expert. That’s where your dad comes in.” My parents exchange a look across the table, and then my dad looks back at me.
“What do you say, Tessa? We can even listen to your music. Maybe not with the volume as high as you’d like, but you can bring your iPod and I won’t complain. Deal?”
“Is he going?” I ask as I nod to my little brother.
“No, he’s got a birthday party to go to. It’ll just be me and you.”
“You don’t trust me enough as a driver to have him as a passenger, huh?” I ask him sarcastically.
“Well, honey, this would only be your fourth time to drive,” he reasons with me.
“That’s not true. Uncle Chris has taken me twice–”
“When was this?” he asks Mom.
“I don’t know, Jacks, a week or two ago. You were at your sister’s, I think.”
“Can he take me again?” I interrupt. “He’s a good driver.”
My dad drops his fork loudly on his plate and gets up to get something from the refrigerator. He refreshes my brother’s cup with some more milk. “Did you need any more water?” he asks me.
“No.”
“Okay,” he says, returning the carton to the refrigerator and sitting back down at the table. We all eat silently, the tension only amplified by the ticking clock on the wall behind me.
“Livvy painted a man today,” my brother says as I shoot a glance at him.
“A man? What man?” Mom asks.
“No one,” I tell her. “It’s just a portrait I made up. It’s not any good. I’ll probably paint over it tomorrow.”
“She said he was handsome,” Trey adds.
“He lies,” I rattle off. “I never said that. I was just practicing some shading I learned in class the other day.”
“I’d love to see it,” Dad tries to step into the conversation again.
“Like I said,” I tell him sharply, “I’ll probably paint over it tomorrow.”
“I could take a look tonight,” he counters.
“I’d rather you didn’t. It’s not any good.”
“I doubt that, Livvy,” my mom says. “But we’ll respect your privacy. I know you’ll let us see when you’re ready.” Again I catch my dad glaring at Mom.
He doesn’t speak to either of us anymore at dinner, instead engaging my brother in conversation about a movie he took him to see last weekend. It’s obvious who his favorite child is. After all, I’m not even really related to him, and Trey is the son he always wanted to have. Jackson Andrew Holland III. Trey. The miracle baby.
After Trey and I do the dishes, I hurry back downstairs to my room and shut the door. The painting was still on my mind, as was the mysterious man in it. I carefully take it back out of the closet and return it to the easel. Lying on the bed facing it, I look at his friendly eyes. Nate was more than a friend to my mother. He was more than just a boyfriend, as she tried to tell me five years ago. She had planned to marry him. She admitted it to me a few months ago when we had “the Talk.”
Of course I already knew the basics–I’d learned all of that when Trey came along–but she felt compelled to talk to me about other things that we hadn’t talked about before. Peer pressure. Disease. Protection and pregnancy, specifically an unplanned one. I could tell when we got to the last topic that it struck a particular chord with Mom.
“I hope you feel comfortable enough talking to me, Livvy. You’re getting older, and you’ll be allowed to date next year. Your father and I know the risks today, and see all the kids around, doing what kids today do. We encourage you to wait to have sex, Liv, but if you ever get to that point, I want to make sure you protect yourself. Talk to us; talk to Anna or Kelly or your cousins if you feel weird talking to us. You’re far too young to have a child, and I just want you to know, no matter what anyone tells you, it only takes one time without protection to get pregnant.”
“Carissa’s had sex,” I’d told her about one of the girls in my school. She wasn’t a close friend, but we were in many classes together, and she wasn’t afraid to talk about sex with us. “She doesn’t always use protection. She says that guys don’t like it. But she’s never gotten pregnant. She says there are ways to avoid it, even without condoms.”
My mom groaned at my response. “I’ve heard that before, Liv. I’m sure it happens more often than you think. I know.” The way she said it, I knew she must have knowledge of her own.
“But you always said you and Dad had been trying for years, and it took you that long to get pregnant.”
“Your dad and I had to overcome a lot to have Trey. I was told I couldn’t get pregnant again, even before we were married.” I’d picked up on the word again immediately, and I knew she had planted that word on purpose.
“Dad got you pregnant before you were married?” I was shocked. My dad was never one to be careless about anything. Ever.
Mom sort of frowned, unsure of her answer. What she told me next was what turned the whole world I knew into a place I wasn’t sure I wanted to be in. “It was Nate’s baby.”
“You had a baby with him?”
“No, sweetie. I miscarried shortly after the wreck that killed him. There were complications from the accident and the miscarriage that made it so difficult to conceive a child with Dad.”
“Oh.” My mind was racing with possibilities. “Would you have kept the baby? Or given it up for adoption?”
“We were going to raise the baby together,” she said. “I had decided that night that if he asked me to marry him again, I’d say yes.”
“He proposed to you?”
“In haste, Livvy, yes. When he found out I was carrying his child. I thought he was being stupid. Reactionary. I was angry and embarrassed about the whole thing at first.”
“Angry that you were going to have a baby?”
“A little, yeah,” she said. “We’d just started dating. It was too soon for a baby, for marriage, for any of it.”
I started to daydream immediately about my mom and Nate together, as parents. My parents. It wasn’t such a stretch now. They could have been parents together. They would have been.
I think she continued to talk to me, but my mind carried me far out of the room that night. From all I’d been told of Nate over the years, he was some untouchable idol to me. Like a rock star. His paintings fascinated me from a very young age, and the stories Granna would tell me about him only added to the ideal image I had of him. She would never tell me stories about the time he dated my mother, though, and Mom never really spoke of that time, either; never casually, anyway. I felt like it was a taboo subject in our household.
And that strain that I sense seems to draw me further away from Dad. From Jack.
I think it’s natural for me to be intrigued by the idea that Nate could have been my father, though. For one thing, I didn’t know my real dad. I’d been told that the man on my birth certificate wasn’t actually my biological father; that he’d agreed to put his name on the document at my mother’s request. DNA tests had been done to prove his story before my adoption was approved. The actual identity of the man who fathered me was a mystery. It was a mystery that lent itself well to my own curiosity about Nate.
It wasn’t such a stretch to imagine this man my mother once loved as my dad. Out of all the grandparents I have, I’m closest to his mother–and I’m not even related to her. It had dawned on me years ago, though, that I wasn’t really related to any of my grandparents, having been adopted. They could have been anyone.
By blood I’m related to no one in my family, but I relate best to Mom and Gran
na. They seem to understand me, to communicate with me, to appreciate me better than anyone else.
So it seems only natural to make that leap. Some days, I pretend I have a creative, spontaneous dad like Nate. Some days, I believe that it is Nate. Today’s one of those days.
I wonder what he would think of the portrait. “Well, Livvy,” I imagine his voice to be animated, his words quick and haphazard. I don’t think he’d be one to censor his thoughts like Dad does. “I do think it looks like me, but I think the cheekbones should be a little lower. And are my eyebrows really that uneven? I think you need to shade the left one in a little more, right above the arch. But it’s almost there. Here, let me show you.” I fantasize about him taking my paints and mixing the colors more, even better than I can, and adding the finishing touches, correcting my mistakes. Even my mom can’t do that for me.
I take the picture out one last time and critically analyze the two. I think the Nate of my daydream might be right. I again return the painting to the closet and decide to take a shower.
“Is everything okay, honey?” Mom startles me in my room, as I’m getting ready for bed. “Can I come in?”
“Of course,” I tell her. “I’m fine.”
“You seem angry with Dad tonight.”
“He just doesn’t understand me,” I tell her.
“What do you mean?”
“He just... I don’t know. He tries too hard, and it annoys me.”
She laughs quietly as she sits down on my bed. “Liv, you make it kind of hard on him. You put up this wall when you talk to him now. You two used to be so close.”
“Well, now he has Trey,” I tell her. “Maybe we still would be if he hadn’t come along.”
“Liv...” Her tone is a warning to me. “Your father loves you just as much as your brother. And you love him, too. You’re being silly.”
“No, I’m not,” I argue. “Dad spends more and more time with him.”
“Because you’ve been pushing him away for months. This needs to stop. What happened?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “I just sometimes wonder if he’s the best dad I could have had, you know? If maybe there was someone better I should have been with. Someone who really understands me.”
