The Yellow Braid

by Karen Coccioli

  “Sounds great then, as long as you and Tommy are going.” Caro peeked into the family and living rooms. “Where is he anyway?”

  Nina banged the whisk against the rim of the copper bowl. “Out.”

  “And Livia?”

  A wave of angry disdain transformed Nina’s calm exterior. “With him. He thinks I’m perverting her.” With that she stomped into her office and came out waving a photo mailer. “Look at these and tell me what you think.”

  Caro withdrew and raised her hands, refusing to take them. “I’m the wrong one to ask.”

  Nina shoved the mailer at Caro’s chest. “You’re an intelligent person with a PhD. A mother, for God’s sake, with opinions. All I want is an objective opinion.”

  Caro slid the photographs from the cardboard sleeve. Afraid of what she was going to see, she scanned them quickly and squeamishly with her eyes half-shut. Instead of being repulsed, however, the shock she experienced originated from the preview of brilliance she saw.

  Several of them were taken on the beach right outside Tommy and Nina’s house at the moment the sun began to set. Livia was in a cotton slip just as Nina had said, but it was a see-through gauzy cotton that revealed her figure. There was also a definite sensuousness to her pose—the way Livia looked askance at the camera over her shoulder, her hand resting on her thigh. Even her hair was different. Gone was the customary ribbon on the tail of her braid; her hair hung like a curtain hiding half her face so that she seemed to be flirting with the camera.

  In another photo Livia had her back to the camera. She wore a scanty sarong; her arms were extended so that her figure formed the shape of a cross. Her wet hair formed a long wave over her bare shoulder. The black-and-white treatment cast a dark, angry-looking ocean in the background.

  Livia came across as being timid and coy at the same time, a metaphorical encapsulation of the complex network of emotions that arises during the transition from girlhood to womanhood.

  Caro was speechless.

  “What?” Nina begged finally. “I can’t stand your silence a second longer.”

  Caro shook her head slowly. “I don’t know what to say except—except that these are extraordinary. I just never suspected you of such talent.”

  “This is why I’m so mad at Tommy. I see these as art. He seems not to see anything past the fact that I’m using Livia as my model. I wouldn’t do anything to humiliate or hurt her.”

  Caro nodded in sympathy.

  “The normal person,” Nina said, “the normal, socially adjusted person—”

  “So I suppose I’m not socially adjusted.” Tommy spoke through the screen door.

  Nina took the cookie sheet out of the oven and slid it onto the countertop with unnecessary clatter. She faced her husband with her hands on her hips. “Where’s Livia?”

  “Collecting shells.” Tommy walked in and immediately approached Caro. “And I suppose being a fellow artist”—he hung quotation marks in the air—“you condone these.”

  “I understand why they might be controversial.”

  Nina and Tommy reacted simultaneously to Caro’s comment.

  “At least you’re willing to admit there’s reason for argument,” Tommy said. “More than my wife will concede.”

  Nina stormed at Caro. “How can you! You said they were genius!”

  Caro signaled for a time-out. “Relax, both of you. Nina, do I think they’re exquisite? Yes.”

  Nina snorted in her husband’s direction.

  “And Tommy, do I think an argument can be made that they’re seductive? Yes. I heard you guys arguing the other night.”

  Nina poked a finger at Tommy. “I told you the whole neighborhood heard.”

  “Big shit.”

  “The point is, if I did, then Livia must have,” Caro said.

  “Then you also know the photos aren’t the whole issue,” Tommy said.

  Nina bolted over to her husband and stood so close that the hiss in her voice reverberated between them. “My career is my business.”

  “And I’ll tell you for the thousandth time it’s not fair to use her,” Tommy argued.

  “Know what bothers me the most, Tommy, is that you used to see the artistic value of my photographs, but now all you do is criticize.” Tears collected and dripped onto the curve of her cheekbones.

  Nina’s weeping did not dilute Tommy’s anger. “Would you still be hell-bent on publishing her pictures if she were your daughter?”

  Nina stared with assurance at Caro. “Tell him. You know better than he does what I would do.”

  Caro cleared her throat. “Tommy, I want to remain both your friends. At the same time I have to say that I think Nina would…and should photograph and publish what speaks to her as an artist.”

  “At any cost?” Tommy asked.

  “The only cost, as you put it, is the fact that Livia isn’t into the modeling. To be honest, I was against forcing her. And then I look at these and see how precisely they capture not only her physical beauty, but that inner essence that makes her a poet, and I—”

  “You see?” Nina said to her husband.

  “No, I don’t. No matter what you or Caro says,” Tommy said, and walked out.

  “Thank you for sticking up for me,” Nina said.

  “I have to ask,” Caro said. “What is your relationship with Livia?”

  “She’s my only niece. We’re a small family, only Carmen and me so we’ve always been close.”

  “Then you must have talked to her about—”

  “I know how much she hates modeling for me. And though I don’t show it, I do feel bad I’m pushing her. And yes, I see this as an opportunity for me. Over the last year, she’s matured in such a way… she was always pretty, of course. But not like she is now. So when I read that Art World Magazine was sponsoring a portrait exhibition at the National Center for Photography I came up with the idea of a series based around her.”

  “The National Center puts on major showings. I’ve been to a few,” Caro said.

  “That’s the point. I wouldn’t be doing this for any small-time show.”

  Caro indicated to Nina that Livia was heading toward the house.

  “Will you say something to Livia on my behalf?” Nina asked. “Maybe coming from you, she’ll listen.”

  “Sure, when she comes around to visit next time,” Caro said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The lessons of impermanence, the occasional despair and the muse, so tenuously moored, all visit their needs upon me and I dig deeply for the spiritual utilities that restore me… ~Sally Mann

  The next day, Caro’s eyebrows rose and a soft expletive escaped her lips as she climbed over the dune to find Livia looking straight at her not more than five feet away from the end of the catwalk. She was lying on a beach towel on her stomach. Her elbows made knobby imprints in the sand and her face rested on her knuckles. Her feet stuck up straight and were crossed at the ankles.

  Small-boned and slim, she wore a Speedo, which flattered her body. Caro noticed Livia’s toenails had been polished and supposed it had been at Nina’s insistence.

  “How about helping me with the cabana?” Caro asked.

  Livia scrambled to her feet. “I got it.” She popped it open against the bank of a particularly mounded dune that was overhung with tall, reedy grasses, and locked the legs in place. Then she ran ahead of Caro, scooped up the cooler, and set it under the cover of the canvas.

  It was the perfect time of morning. The sun was at an eastern slant and the only prints on the beach were those left by sandpipers and gulls. Livia picked a piece of grass and chewed its end; the rest of the stem fell away from her mouth in a graceful arc.

  “This is a nice surprise,” Caro said.

  “Aunt Nina’s on a shoot.”

  “Of what?”

  “Home in the Hamptons asked her to do a piece on the history of how the mill came about in Watermill. I was looking up stuff on the Internet for her and we read it’s been there since 1
644. Just imagine being one of the original settlers.”

  “I’m not so sure I want to. I’m more of an 1800’s woman myself.”

  “Maybe then, too,” Livia conceded as she drew designs in the sand with her fingers.

  The silence between them was calming, a mood Caro was wise enough to fully appreciate. These moments were rare in life, and she made this one special by handing Livia a book, soft-covered and slim. On the front was a woman sitting in a languid pose facing away from the camera, revealing just a hint of a profile. Her hair pinned at the nape of her neck and the collar and bodice of her gown were Victorian in style.

  Livia studied the cover front and back, and read the title aloud, “A Room of One’s Own.”

  “Most girls your age wouldn’t want anything to do with this. I think you might feel differently. It’s not easy though.”

  Livia flipped through the pages, pausing every now and then to examine some bit of writing. “Thanks.”

  “I feel like walking. What do you say?” Caro suggested.

  Livia got up, the book still in her hand. Before putting it down she said, “Did my aunt tell you it’s my birthday tomorrow? Is that why you gave me this?”

  Caro’s heart filled her chest. Her birthday, how fortuitous! “No, she didn’t.”

  “We’re having a celebration supper on Friday. Can you come?”

  “Your aunt might be planning something special.”

  Livia shook her head with such enthusiasm that her braid swung from side to side and coiled itself around her slender neck. “She said she was going to ask you. Besides, I get to choose. It is my day.”

  “If your aunt asks, then yes, I’d like to come.”

  They walked along a good stretch of beach. The tide was receding. A mellow surf coughed up background music rather than the insistent roar of high tide when the waves broke hard at the shoreline. Gulls made mad dives, searching for overturned horseshoe crabs.

  Under her straw hat and behind sunglasses, Caro felt oblivious to everything but Livia walking beside her. Once, in an eruption of maternal solicitude, Caro put her arm around Livia’s shoulder.

  Livia reciprocated by sliding her arm around Caro’s waist.

  Caro took pride in onlookers seeing them together in such an endearing manner when without notice, she felt herself being pushed into the surf.

  Giggling, Livia began splashing Caro.

  Caro initiated a counter-attack, when a wave broke over her, and knocked her down.

  Livia waded to her. Hand-in-hand, they struggled to get to shore against the battering of consecutive waves. On dry land, they laughed out loud to see a toddler about ten yards away wearing Caro’s beached hat, the saturated brim flopping over his ears.

  “Where are you going?” Caro asked.

  “Get your hat.”

  “In a minute. Let him play with it for a little while we dry off,” Caro said, content to sit right where she was, shoulder to shoulder with Livia, their legs stretched out in front of them.

  Later when they were back under cover of the cabana, Livia said, “I took out three of your books from the library. It’s all they had.”

  “Did you read any yet?”

  “Hard Edges of Love. My aunt told me your husband died.” Livia’s voice developed in reverence.

  “It’s okay to talk about him.”

  “Did you cry when you wrote the poems about him?” Livia asked.

  “Not during, but afterward I did when I read one back to myself that I especially liked.”

  “I bet “Gardening Ways” is one of them. Made Aunt Nina and me both cry.”

  “I know. He took such pleasure in tending the garden, especially the roses. Our home had vases of flowers year round, either home grown or bought. People used to comment that they were a luxury. They weren’t though. They made us smile every time we passed them.”

  “Aunt Nina’s favorites are orchids.”

  “Orchids are lovely, and seem the perfect flower for your aunt.”

  “How so?”

  “They’re sophisticated, if you can imagine such a thing, with their long graceful stems; and each one is quite unique. Like your aunt, she’s very talented you know.”

  Livia looked out to sea. “Did she ask you to talk to me?”

  “Yes, she feels bad how much you hate modeling for her.” Caro said.

  “Then why does she keep insisting that I do it?” Livia asked.

  “Because she’s an artist and she can’t help but appreciate how beautiful you are,” Caro said. “It’s like your aunt has to split herself in two. Half of her is your aunt who loves and wants to please you. The other half wants to do what’s best for her art.”

  “Yeah, I know. Like with each new husband, my mother says she gets torn between making them happy and making me happy.”

  “Don’t you think their concern shows how much they care about you?”

  Livia remained tight-lipped.

  “Otherwise they’d both do what they want and not give a hoot. Instead, seems to me that they’re trying to find the balance between doing what they need for themselves as well as for you. That’s not always easy to achieve.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And you love staying with your aunt and uncle, don’t you?”

  “My friends at school think that living on the ocean is pretty cool.”

  “I’d have to agree,” Caro said.

  Just then, Livia stopped and pulled Caro down with her to inspect a sea snail harboring its eggs in the water-packed sand. “Poor things,” Livia said. “She laid them when the tide was in and now she’s stuck.”

  Gently mounding sand around the snail, Livia carried it to the water’s edge. On the out-going tide, she let it go free, watching as the eggs floated away.

  Caro melted inside from her youthful compassion. In that moment, she pretended that Livia was her daughter, an extension of her, created by her in the same way she created a poem from a place she couldn’t have explained, maybe couldn’t even claim as her own, so little did she understand her own soul. And just as with a poem—which appeared mysteriously, and sometimes beautifully, sometimes darkly, fully formed—the thought of mothering Livia both frightened and exhilarated Caro.

  ***

  Nina placed a small box in front of Livia, a present from her mom.

  “Where is she?” Caro asked Tommy.

  “Hong Kong.”

  Livia tore at the wrapping, searching her aunt and uncle’s faces with a curious and touching gleam.

  “Go ahead,” Nina urged. “We have no idea.”

  Livia undid the catch of a jewelry box and, holding the gift close to her heart, peeked in. She gasped and her eyes came open like pale moons as she picked out a jade bangle. She slid it on and again, pressed it to her. “This is just like the one that George got Mom. Now I have one, too.”

  Caro asked, “Who’s George?”

  “Stepdad,” Tommy said.

  “It’s beautiful,” Nina said, as she twisted it around her niece’s wrist to get a closer look.

  Tommy said, “Mom made a good choice.”

  “Certainly did,” Caro agreed.

  “May I call her?” Livia asked.

  Tommy calculated the difference in time on his watch. “Yeah, give her a buzz. It’s a little after nine in the morning there.”

  Livia waited for the long-distance connection to go through, all the while staring at her bracelet, and smiling. “Mom, I just opened my gift, and I love it! It is so beautiful. I think Aunt Nina and Caro are very jealous,” she teased.

  “We are,” Nina called out for her sister to hear.

  “Happy birthday, darling, and I’m thrilled you’re happy with it.”

  “I am, very much,” Livia said.

  “You’ll have to thank George,” Carmen said. “It was his idea. He remembered how much you admired mine.”

  “I will,” Livia said.

  “How was your party? So nice that Caro came; you’ve mentioned her so much i
n your e-mails.”

  “Where are you?” Livia asked.

  “Hong Kong. In fact—”

  “I mean are you in the hotel?”

  “Yes,” Carmen said. “But I can’t stay on long because I’m meeting George for breakfast. He had to leave earlier for a meeting.”

  “I thought we were going to have a video call for my birthday,” Livia said, her voice dropping in disappointment. “Later can we?”

  Carmen let out a soft laugh. “Of course not, precious. Later will be your middle of the night. Remember I’m twelve hours ahead of you, so my morning is your night and your night is my morning next day. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll see how late I get back to the hotel tonight.”

  “But then my birthday will be past.”

  “It’s okay. I love you,” Carmen said.

  “Tomorrow,” Livia said in a small voice.

  “Hopefully, yes. No promises though.”

  When Livia put down the phone, she went over to her uncle and smothered her face in his chest. Moments later, she said in a teary voice, “Least she doesn’t promise anymore.”

  After Livia excused herself for the night, Nina said, “Wonder, if ever, when Livia’s old enough if she’ll accept her mother’s wandering lifestyle. Because the way it is now, Livia has expectations of Carmen, like the video call, only to be totally let down.”

  Tommy wiped his palms as if to disengage himself from the subject, and then refilled his wine glass.

  Caro thought of Abby so far away in London. “Abby did,” she confessed. “You don’t ever think it’s going to happen, and then one day it does, and your daughter’s gone. I feel bad for Carmen without even knowing her, as I do for Livia.”

  “Don’t,” Nina said. “Carmen’s choosing her life.”

  “I did, too, because I felt that I had no options. I always believed that I was a writer first and a mother second. Or maybe a wife second, and a mother third. I don’t even know. That’s one of the reasons I enjoy being with Livia so much. Reminds me of what I missed with Abby.”