Contessa

by Lori L. Otto

  “That’s cool.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “Cool,” she repeats sarcastically. “So do you do the same thing?”

  “Huh?”

  “Are you working something out in your artwork? Is something upsetting you?”

  “Maybe,” I answer, having never given any thought to the process. I usually just paint what I want to paint. This week, though, did seem to be more of an emotive experiment. The tension between Dad and me. The lingering questions I had about Jon. I was considering it all as I played with colors, textures and brushes. I realize that all of my feelings had been put on display in my most current piece. It makes me blush, thinking about it, but the great thing about abstract art is that everyone walks away with their own interpretations.

  No one was astute enough to look at the painting and see my sheer and utter frustration with a father who refused to hear me out; who was completely unable to have meaningful conversations that didn’t involve him barking out some sort of order or imposing some sort of stupid limit.

  I wanted a cool dad, an understanding dad. Someone who could hear my concerns and remove his personal beliefs from the equation and provide thoughtful insight that wasn’t biased or fueled by some fear of his little girl growing up. My mom seemed to excel at this. I knew Nate would have been amazing at this. I mean, he was an artist, a musician, a poet. He understood that there were more than two colors, that the world was more than just black and white, that there was more to life than concrete and solid facts and unchanging truths. There was universal understanding and acceptance and general humanity to consider. My dad was too personally invested in my life. I needed space, and room to breathe and grow–and grow up. I was never going to get it in my home.

  I’d been praying every night for an unexpected business trip that would take him to another country for a few weeks. He hasn’t done that since Trey was born.

  “I want to give you something for your birthday, Livvy, but you can’t tell your parents.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s something I think might help you to really explore your creativity. Nate had a few sketchbooks, but there was one in particular that was really special to him. He used to carry it with him constantly. It was reserved for one purpose.”

  “What purpose?”

  “He drew in it, he wrote songs and prose in it... all about one thing. It was a study in that one thing.”

  “Which was?”

  “The love he felt for your mother, first as a friend, and then as something more. He struggled with his feelings for years, Livvy. But it’s fascinating to see how he worked things out–how he outlined his problems in a rough sketch and then a few pages later, had a brilliant work that resolved that issue for him. Well, as best as it could in the constraints he lived with in his life.”

  “What constraints?”

  “He never would allow himself to act on his feelings for Emi. He had a deep fear that she couldn’t return his love. And in truth, it took her awhile to get to that point. So the solutions he derived were all in the form of art or words. They were an outward expression of feelings he couldn’t get across in any other way.

  “I think you might be able to relate to his thought process. And I know your parents might consider it too mature for you, some of the things he grappled with. But in all honesty, they’re things that we all struggle with. Even sixteen-year-old girls. They’re just feelings that parents don’t want to consider their young children are having.”

  She sets a worn, brown, leather-bound book in front of me. It’s wrapped with a leather strap, and I can tell it’s been secured like this for quite some time.

  “Does Mom know about it?”

  “I told her about it a few times. She never wanted to see it, though. It was too painful right after he died, and I don’t think she wanted anything to come between her and your father a few years later. So don’t get me in trouble, okay?” She laughs slightly, but I immediately agree, never wanting anything to come between the precious book and me.

  “Why does my dad hate Nate so much?”

  “Oh, honey, he certainly doesn’t hate him,” she says. “You think I’d continue to work with a man who hated my son?”

  “Well, you both love my mom.”

  “True. Your dad came back into Emi’s life right after Nate died. She was still getting over the loss of Nate as she was falling in love with Jack. I think there were times when she was truly conflicted, and confused about her feelings. I know it caused your father some pain.

  “He’s the most patient man I’ve ever met,” she concludes.

  “Not these days,” I complain.

  “You’re a teenager,” she says. “You’re supposed to say that.”

  “You don’t understand,” I counter, trying to get her to realize the validity of my feelings. “He doesn’t understand. He never tries to. He just makes his snap judgments and he never looks back.”

  “Livvy, there is not a single parent on this earth who’s perfect. We try our best, though, and we’re always learning.”

  “I bet you were a great mom to Nate.”

  “I tried, but I’ll forever regret hiding his father’s alcoholism. I think my denial robbed Nate of precious years with his dad. And the guilt I felt after that caused me to give him too much freedom. He was angry at me for a few years, especially when I started dating again after his father passed away. He was about your age, actually. He rebelled. He was angry.”

  “I’d give anything for a little more freedom. I bet Nate would have given me freedom.”

  She cocks her head to the side. “What, if he was your father or something?”

  “Yeah,” I suggest, realizing it’s the first time I’ve ever said anything like this to her.

  She smiles somberly and a tear forms in one of her eyes. “We’ll never know,” she says sadly.

  “I’m sorry, Granna. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I think that if he had lived, and his baby had lived, she would have been just like you. In my mind, sometimes I like to pretend.”

  “Pretend what?”

  “I consider you my granddaughter,” she says as she shakes her head. “And I just see so much of him in you. I know that makes no sense–”

  “I see it, too,” I tell her softly. “I feel like he should have been my father.”

  “Not should have, honey,” she says. “Could have. In another lifetime, maybe, but you’re where you belong, with a beautiful mother whom I adore and a father who would do anything for you.”

  “He wouldn’t, though,” I argue. “Jack wants me to be some certain way, and I’m just not that girl!”

  “Livvy,” she stops me, concerned. “You don’t call him ‘Jack,’ do you?”

  “No.”

  “Please, don’t ever do that. I know you’re going through some rough times with him, but that would hurt him, sweetie. I don’t think you understand how badly you could hurt him. You are his world.”

  “I hear that,” I say, frustrated. “I hear him say that. I hear Mom say that. I hear you say that. But I don’t see that. I feel like just another possession of his. Something he owns and controls. I’m my own person, and I just want to be that person. And I want him to be okay with that! If I had a father like Nate, he’d accept me for me. He’d understand me. He’d help me to be different, to stand out. I know he would.”

  “Liv, I’m not sure it’s healthy for you to think like this, sweetie.”

  “You just said you think that way sometimes.”

  “When I do it, it’s a private thing and it doesn’t hurt anyone. It doesn’t have the potential to devastate a man who appears so steady and powerful and in control. He’s none of those things where you’re involved, Livvy. He is a fragile soul, when it comes to you. Every decision he makes that affects you is well-considered and fraught over, I have no doubt.”

  “The man you and Mom know–that you two defend–he’s not the same man I know. You’d see him differently through my
eyes.”

  “Okay,” Granna says, resigned. We can both sense that we’re not going to agree upon this tonight. “I’ll just say this one last thing. I think Nate would have struggled with parenting decisions much more than your father. Jackson was made to be a parent. Nate was not naturally suited for fatherhood. He was a lover,” she says, raising her eyebrows. I remember back to the conversation I had with my mom after my date with Jon.

  “Did you meet all of the women he was with?” I ask her.

  “Hardly any,” she admits. “He kept his love life private, where I was concerned. Although I wanted to meet them, he would always keep them from me.”

  “Did he get any women pregnant before Mom?”

  My question catches her off-guard. “I, um,” she stutters, looking at me curiously. “If he did, he didn’t tell me. I suspect it’s a possibility, but like I said,” she continues, blowing past the question hurriedly, “he didn’t share things like that with me. But it’s safe to say, if any woman had his child, she’d be on my front step asking for financial assistance. He didn’t hide his wealth from anyone.”

  I play with the leather strap on the book, making a mental note. If any woman had his child, sure, she’d be on Granna’s front step–if she could get there.

  “He could be selfish with his own needs,” she says, tapping my hand to get my attention once more. “I know he would have changed, for Emi, and for their baby, but I’m sure he would have made his share of mistakes. Nate had flaws. He was not perfect. He was my son, and I loved him more than anyone, flaws and all, but I will go ahead and state for the record that I think you ended up with the right father.”

  “But we’ll never know,” I repeat her earlier sentiment.

  “I know,” she says. “You’ll know someday.”

  I roll my eyes at her.

  “Are you ready to go? It’s pretty late and I know you’ve got homework.”

  “Yeah, I’m ready. Thanks, Granna, for the gift. I promise to keep it between us.”

  “I hope it inspires you,” she says as we head to her town car. “I know he would love to share his visions with a true artist like you.”

  I smile, imagining Nate as a father, explaining his sketches to me so I can really see all the meaning behind his work. I hope I can somehow channel him in this way.

  Her driver drops me off at my house. “Put it in your bag, sweetie,” she says as I get out of the car.

  “Yes, ma’am. Love you, Granna.”

  “Happy belated birthday, Livvy. Tell your parents I’m looking forward to Saturday night.”

  “‘Kay.”

  Dad opens the door for me when I’m halfway up the sidewalk. He waves at Granna as the car pulls away.

  “Did you have fun?” he asks.

  “Yep.”

  “How was class?”

  “Fine.”

  I hear him sigh heavily as I head downstairs to my room. I kick my shoes off and grab my phone, sitting down in the middle of the throw pillows on my bed. Jon has sent three messages.

  “I was just kidding, Livvy.”

  “You know that, right?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I decide to call him.

  “Hey,” he whispers into the phone.

  “Hi. I know you were kidding. Granna doesn’t like it when people use their phones at dinner. I should have mentioned that.”

  “Cool.”

  “Everything okay? You seem really quiet.”

  “Yeah, I don’t want to wake my brothers.”

  “Oh. Sorry, I forgot.”

  “It’s fine. I’m glad you called.”

  “Okay.”

  “So I’m definitely coming to the open house. What time will you be there?”

  “I’m supposed to be there to oversee the caterers with Granna at four.”

  “Then I’ll be there at four.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “Me, either. And we’re going to get away for a little bit,” he says. “I don’t care if it’s just a few minutes alone in the courtyard, Livvy, I want to kiss you again. I’ve been thinking about it all week.”

  “Me, too.”

  “And I’m going to find a way to get invited to your house for dinner or something. I can’t stand going a week without seeing you. If I have to hang out with your parents, damn it, I’ll do it.” He laughs. I cringe at the thought of my dad and Jon at the same table again. I know Dad’s not over the conversation we had last weekend, and I’m actually nervous to just have them in the same room. I’m glad we’ll be in public on Saturday. My dad has never been one to make a scene in front of people he doesn’t know.

  “Okay,” I say simply. “I’ve got to go do my homework.”

  “What are you studying tonight?”

  “I have a chemistry test tomorrow.”

  “What’s the test over?”

  “The periodic table. I have to memorize the whole thing.”

  “Happy Henry likes beer but could not obtain food.”

  “Ummm... who?”

  “Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen and fluorine. The first nine elements,” he says. “Happy Henry likes beer but could not obtain food. It’s just a mnemonic device to help you remember.”

  “Nice. Thank you. I’ll get nine right.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine. I loved chemistry.”

  “Is there any subject you don’t love?”

  He doesn’t pause for a second before responding. “Not really. Back to chemistry–are you good at it?”

  “It’s hard. And boring.”

  “Excellent,” he says.

  “Why is that excellent?”

  “No reason. Go study. And good luck tomorrow. Just remember Henry.”

  “I’d rather remember Jon,” I tell him with a smile.

  “Well, that won’t help you. There are no elements that start with ‘J.’”

  “Lame.”

  “You can remember me Saturday.”

  “I won’t have to. I get to see you.”

  “And kiss me.”

  “Yep,” I say shyly. “Can’t wait.”

  “Can’t wait,” he repeats. “Study hard. Sleep well.”

  “You, too. Good night.”

  Four-thirty. Anxious to see him, I decide to send him a text message.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I should be there in an hour. It starts at six, right?”

  “Yeah. See you soon.”

  I sigh, putting my phone away.

  “Are you alright?” my cousin, Lexi, asks me. She’s here to meet the parents of her music students.

  “Yeah. Jon was supposed to be here at four, but he’s running late.”

  “Oh,” she says with a smile. “But he’ll be here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You got something else on your mind, Liv?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You know, if you ever need to talk, I’m a good listener.”

  “Okay. Thanks,” I tell her politely. She straightens a stack of napkins and starts to walk away. “Lexi?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think I can ask you a question? It’s kind of personal.”

  “Sure.”

  “How old were you when you and Kyle... you know.”

  “No, I don’t know. I don’t think I know.” She looks at me, leery.

  “Had sex,” I whisper, careful to keep our conversation between us. I didn’t want Granna overhearing anything.

  “Livvy!” she says, surprised. “You’re too young to be considering that.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I mumble. “I’m not either. How old were you?”

  “I suppose I’ll be twenty-four.”

  “What?” I ask her quickly, unable to hide my shocked expression. “You guys haven’t–”

  “No,” she says. “We wanted to wait until we were married.”

  “Both of you?”

  “Yeah,” she answers with a blush
.

  “I mean–neither of you have had sex?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “But you’ve been dating forever!”

  “I know.” She shrugs and laughs at my reaction. “We decided early on that we didn’t want to let physical desires play a role in our relationship.”

  “But you were overseas with him for a year! Alone!”

  “Scandalous!” she says, mocking me. “We’re civilized people, Livvy. We can control ourselves.”

  “You kiss, though. Right?”

  “Of course we do! We kiss a lot!”

  “But nothing else?”

  “Well,” she says. “Not nothing else, but not everything else. I’ll definitely feel okay wearing white to my wedding. Why are you wanting to know all of this, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I don’t know. Jon and I had a talk last weekend about sex and stuff,” I say quickly. “He’s had sex before.”

  “He’s, what, seventeen?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That seems pretty young.”

  “Oh, come on, don’t tell me the boys in your high school weren’t having sex.”

  “I guess maybe they were,” she says. “Just not the one I wanted.”

  “And it never crossed your mind when you were my age?”

  “Livvy, you have to remember where I come from,” she says as she sits down at a table, patting the seat next to her. “My mom had me when she was seventeen. She had a difficult time bringing me up. She wasn’t ready for motherhood, and I think that drove her to do a lot of things she regretted later in life. I love my mom, but I didn’t want to follow in her footsteps.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Are you thinking about having sex with him?”

  “No,” I tell her confidently, but feel the insecurity that lies beneath my response. What if he wants to?

  “I don’t envy you, Livvy.”

  “Why?”

  “I mean, it’s one thing to be a teenager and have those pressures. It’s another thing to be the only daughter of Jack Holland who’s having to make these decisions.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Because everyone’s watching you, Liv. People love a train wreck. They’d love to see the darling daughter of a billionaire mess up.”