Inside Out Girl

by Tish Cohen

  Rachel felt her stomach drop. She glanced across the room to see Len still preoccupied with the fire.

  Olivia looked at her, oblivious to the flaming daggers she’d just thrown Rachel’s way. She was so unperturbed, in fact, that her eyelids drooped at half-mast. The child was completely neutral while Rachel had wound herself into choking, suffocating knots. She dropped the knife with a clatter and snatched up what was left of Olivia’s cucumber pieces, hurling them into the trash.

  Olivia stared at the spot where her unfinished snack had been. She blinked fast and furious.

  Shit, shit, shit. “I’m sorry, Olivia. I didn’t mean…”

  Olivia ran from the kitchen and threw herself onto the sofa, burrowing under a folded quilt, while Rachel smiled at Len and tried to pretend nothing had happened.

  Having no luck soothing his daughter, Len returned to the kitchen and picked up his wineglass. “She’s not herself tonight. I think when I told her she’d recognize Dustin and Janie from school, it completely unglued her.” He lowered himself onto a stool.

  Rachel picked up a red pepper and turned it over in her hands, which were still shaking. “Sounds like she misses her mother.”

  “She doesn’t remember much. Virginia died when she was five.”

  “How did Virginia die?”

  He let out a slow breath. “Very suddenly. Even though it was raining, Virginia rode her bike to the school, pulling Olivia in her little bike trailer. By the time they got there, Olivia was cold, damp. Miserable. She gave Virginia a hard time in the foyer, the teacher said. She wouldn’t take off her wet raincoat and refused to go into the class. What made it worse was Virginia had forgotten Olivia’s Birthday Wishes Barbie, which she never went anywhere without. So there was Olivia, kicking and thrashing in a pile of kids’ boots and jackets. Virginia promised she’d go back and get the doll, if only Olivia would go inside. Olivia finally agreed to sit quietly in the boot pile with the teacher until Virginia returned. The whole trip should have taken twenty minutes.

  “The police said it happened instantly. On Virginia’s way back with the doll, a car clipped the bike trailer as she crossed an intersection, and the force threw her bike into the path of an oncoming van. The rain was nearly blinding and the first driver swore he never saw her.

  “Olivia waited on the floor, buried under the coats, crying, until I got there an hour and a half later.” Len massaged his brow, then let his hand fall into his lap, staring intently at nothing in particular. “It was horrible.”

  God, what a thing for a young father to go through, Rachel thought. She sank down onto the stool next to him. She put her hand over his. “How did Olivia take it?”

  Len twirled his glass, then stopped, seeming to lose himself in the spinning liquid. He looked up, his face taut. “She still doesn’t fully understand it. Still thinks she’ll see her mother again. Thinks Virginia just didn’t want to come home.”

  Rachel looked into the great room where Len’s daughter leaned on the edge of the sofa, wrapped tightly in the blanket, with only her face and one small foot showing. The child gazed, motionless, into the fire. That’s how a kid knows if her mother loves her. If her mom isn’t there, she doesn’t love her. Olivia had been waiting five years for Virginia to return, all the while thinking her mother just didn’t care. The child was talking about herself. And Rachel had snatched up her snack like a bully.

  “Olivia,” Rachel called softly. “Do you want to see those corn holders? You can get them out of the drawer for me, if you want.”

  The girl didn’t answer. In the tiniest movement, she shook her head side to side.

  Just then, what sounded like a team of horses thundered down the stairs. Janie skidded across the slippery floor in the front hall, herding her brother into the kitchen by poking him in the back. One final nudge landed him beside the stove. Rachel noticed he wore the same grass-stained khakis she’d told him to change out of, and Janie was lost inside an orange sweatshirt, size XXL, that made her look like a pumpkin squashed on the road the day after Halloween.

  “Hey,” they both grunted. Janie glanced at Len, then down at her feet. Dustin looked around the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time and determined to commit every detail to memory.

  Len stood up and reached for their hands to shake them. Dustin and Janie barely knew what to do, blushing profusely. “Mr. Dustin and Miss Janie,” Len said. “I’ve heard all sorts of things about you. And don’t worry, none of them good.”

  Janie giggled nervously. Dustin ran his finger along the counter’s edge and checked for dust.

  Len waved a finger toward Janie. “You know, I think I recognize you from the school. Olivia will recognize you for sure.” He turned around. “Sweetheart, come and meet Rachel’s kids.”

  The girl didn’t budge, so Len went to get her, leading her by the hand back into the kitchen. She looked petrified, her eyes wide as doughnuts. “Olivia, Janie and Dustin. Dustin and Janie, Olivia.”

  Rachel’s kids mumbled a hello at the same moment Rachel, slicing broccoli now, noticed a dark stain spreading down the legs of Olivia’s green tights. The child was wetting herself. Before Janie or Dustin noticed—without stopping to think about excessive bleeding, unsterilized metal blades, statistics for death by staph infection—Rachel held her breath, maneuvered her thumb directly under the knife, closed her eyes, and pushed down hard.

  It worked perfectly.

  She shrieked in pain—very real pain—and Dustin and Janie, as well as Len, rushed immediately to the island, ushering her to the sink where they busied themselves running her hand under the tap.

  Olivia ran straight to the bathroom, her nervous slip-up completely undetected.

  As Rachel wrapped her thumb in paper towel, Janie and Len debated whether or not the laceration needed medical attention. But Rachel wasn’t listening. That’s how a kid knows. How could she have missed this? Hannah wasn’t out there in the world wondering if her birth mother loved her. With no evidence to the contrary, Hannah knew she didn’t.

  CHAPTER 16

  “No Feelings”

  —SEX PISTOLS

  When Len had suggested the kids go “play” upstairs after dinner while the adults enjoy a liqueur by the fire, Janie glared at her mother, who smiled and said nothing. Turned out the glare cost Janie precious seconds, as it gave Dustin just enough time to slip out the back door with his skateboard. Which meant she was stuck entertaining Olivia Bean.

  Alone.

  Upstairs, Olivia ran straight for Janie’s window seat and dove headlong into the cushions, her dirty boots thumping against the glass panes. Sitting up, she reached for Janie’s binoculars and, holding them backward, tried to peer through the window toward Tabitha’s house. “These things don’t work very good,” she said, turning them over and over before giving them a try upside down.

  The sun was nearly down, blackening the tree branches and rooftops that grazed the edge of the fading sky. Lights had been turned on next door, illuminating the interior rooms like small stages and making it all too easy to see Tabitha Carlisle watching TV with her best friend, Charlotte.

  Which meant one thing. Janie Berman’s guest was equally visible.

  “Yeah, those binoculars are busted,” Janie lied, stretching behind the girl to tug the curtains shut.

  “Who’s your favorite band?” asked Olivia.

  Janie looked in the mirror and sucked in her stomach. Damn. She should never have eaten that second blue cupcake.

  “Mine’s Aly and AJ,” said Olivia, oblivious to Janie’s lack of interest. “They’re so cool.” She pulled a CD out from under her shirt and held it up for Janie to see.

  “Who?” Janie took it from her hand. Two pouty teenage girls with long blond hair stared back at her. The CD was called Into the Rush. What a couple of sellouts, thought Janie. They both looked like Britney Spears and the title was beyond lame. One thing was certain: Olivia needed to be introduced to some real music.

  “My favorite son
g’s called ‘Sticks and Stones,’” said Olivia, pulling her pink cap down until it nearly covered her eyes. “It goes…”

  Janie burped softly into her hand. “Forget that. Popstar bimbos are for losers.” She tossed the CD onto the window seat and waded through the rumpled clothing on the floor to the other side of the room. “I’ll play some real music for you.” She leaned down, thumbed through her collection, and pulled out a CD. “Ever heard of the Sex Pistols? This song’s called ‘No Feelings.’” Janie pushed a few buttons and looked back at Olivia, who sat on her hands and bounced up and down in anticipation.

  The song began with a few thumps, a couple of scratches, and a bar of frantic electric guitar. Janie blasted the volume and grinned. She shouted, “You like it?”

  All bouncing stopped. Olivia wrinkled her nose. “Sure.”

  Janie turned the volume up higher. “The singer’s name is Johnny Rotten.”

  “What?”

  “JOHNNY ROTTEN!”

  “I can’t understand what he’s saying!” Olivia called back.

  “That’s the whole point,” Janie said with a nod.

  The song worked itself into a frenzied conclusion and Janie shut it off. “I love that band,” she said. “They’re so real. No mainstream bullshit. You want me to burn you a copy?”

  Olivia nodded. As Janie inserted a blank disc, the girl came over to watch and dropped down onto a cast-off denim jacket on the floor, her knees snaked out on either side as if she had no bones. “Can I take it home with me?”

  “Mm-hm.” Janie fiddled with the stereo, which seemed to have jammed. “This thing’s a piece of shit. I totally need a new one.”

  Olivia scooted closer, her knee pressing into Janie’s shin. Janie couldn’t be sure, but she thought the child smelled like pee. Olivia said, “Janie?”

  “Hm?”

  “Who’s your, um, you know…your special person?”

  Janie looked up fast. “What?” She glanced toward the window to be sure the curtains were still squeezed shut. “That’s kind of personal. I don’t share that kind of info with…well, with anyone.”

  Olivia frowned. “I’m not anyone.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Can you tell me someday?”

  “Maybe someday.”

  “Janie?”

  “Hm?”

  “Is it someday yet?”

  “No.”

  “What about now?”

  Blowing her hair out of her eyes, Janie looked at her watch. Nine seventeen. It was going to be a long evening.

  Without any sort of warning, Olivia squealed and flung herself into the unloved clothes. She rolled around, wrapping herself in various items—black-and-white striped tights, army pants, a fraying tank—and beamed through the strap of a bra Janie had outgrown months ago. “No mainstream bullshit, right?”

  “Mm.”

  “I’m going to tell everyone at school you’re my best friend.”

  Janie froze. Her life just got a whole lot more complicated.

  CHAPTER 17

  Danger Pay

  Be careful when introducing your children to the new partner in your life. The risk you run with little ones is that they will form an immediate attachment.

  —RACHEL BERMAN, Perfect Parent magazine

  Sitting on the sofa, directly across from Len, Rachel readjusted the cushion behind her back. The only sounds in the room were the snapping and hissing of the damp fire logs. She tucked her hair behind her ears. Crossed her legs. The conversation had trickled into oblivion after the kids thundered upstairs, and the strained silence in the room threatened to pronounce Len and Rachel incompatible. Or worse, Rachel worried, pronounce her to be wholly dreary.

  She sprung forward to pour more wine, fully aware she was already over her absolute limit of three glasses but willing to suffer tomorrow’s crushing headache if it bought her a moment of busyness now. “So, did you ever think of having more kids? I mean, before…?”

  “We’d talked about it. Two kids wouldn’t have been easy, not with Olivia, but we figured we could bring on a team of nannies.”

  Rachel smiled.

  Len picked up his glass and shook his head. “Virginia wanted a son next. Wanted to call him Redmond. The crazy thing is, we’d just started trying that week.”

  “Oh God,” said Rachel. “I’m sorry for asking.”

  He said nothing, just stared into his glass.

  Rachel looked away from him, cursing her question. She stood up quickly and looked out the back window, where she saw Dustin alone in the garage practicing a skate trick without much success.

  Over and over, he set his board straight, perched carefully on top, centered his weight above the balls of his feet, and leaped up while simultaneously attempting to flip the board with enough force that he could land atop again. Over and over, the board shot out from underneath him. Over and over, Dustin landed on the cold, hard cement floor. After a few particularly nasty falls, Dustin rolled onto his stomach and pounded the concrete with his fist.

  Len, who had followed her gaze, started toward the back door. “I’ll go give him a hand. I used to skate back in the day.”

  “No!” Rachel rushed to stop him. Being peeled off the pavement would not soothe the boy’s spirit. Not when the rescuer was his mother’s new boyfriend. Rachel trotted after Len into the cool night air. “We’ll just call him in for dessert, pull out the Twister…”

  It was too late. Len was already jogging into the garage and lifting Dustin off the floor. As Len brushed off Dustin’s clothes, the boy flashed his mother a wounded look. She would be hearing about the injustice for days.

  “It’s okay,” Dustin said, backing way from Len and rearranging his rumpled hair. “I’m fine.”

  “Kick flips are tough to learn. Let me give you a few pointers…”

  Len couldn’t have known his next move would be considered the Ultimate Sin. He picked up Dustin’s board, the boy’s paramour, and after admiring the patchwork of stickers adorning the underside, set it down and climbed atop. The board groaned its objection as Len sprung up and down to test the tightness of the trucks, the feel of the deck. Dustin, probably not breathing, began to circle.

  “Watch this,” said Len, repositioning his left shoe. “You want to make sure your foot is angled in and your heel hangs off the side of the board. Your toes are just below the bolts…”

  “Dustin,” said Rachel. “Pay attention.”

  The boy rolled his eyes. “Can I just get my board back, please? I want to go inside.”

  “Don’t you want to learn how to do it?” asked Rachel.

  “It’s the same motion as when you ollie, only with the kick flip, you kick your foot away from the board…”

  “I can figure it out later. Seriously.”

  “Len, maybe we should let him go.” She slapped at a mosquito, moving back toward the house. “It’s getting buggy out here.”

  Thankfully, Len stepped off the board and surrendered it to Dustin, who leaped up on it, settled his front foot on top of the bolts, his heel nowhere near the edge of the board, and jumped up. He lost his balance and the board shot out from under him, straight into Len’s shin. It had to hurt like hell, but Len’s only reaction was a quick tightening in his jaw.

  Dustin scooped up the skateboard, mumbled a quick “Sorry,” and tore into the house.

  Rachel rushed into the garage. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Len walked with her across the driveway. “He’ll get it. Kid’s got seriously good balance.”

  He slowed as he approached the porch steps. Rachel, already at the top, turned to see he was limping, his blond hair flopped over one eye as he climbed. Before he reached the top, she stopped him and kissed his cheek, prickly with a long day’s growth.

  “What’s that for?” he asked, his grin lopsided.

  She led him toward the porch swing. “Danger pay.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The Doll’s Hand

  It was pouring
when Len dropped Olivia at school Monday morning, pouring harder when he’d gone home to a message from the neurologist’s office saying they needed to see him, and pouring harder still when he pulled into the parking lot at the medical arts building.

  God, he hated the weather.

  Virginia died in April. One of the most weather-laden months of the year. Ironic that a woman who braved the rudest of conditions, whose most beloved pastime was taking a leisurely hike in the rain, who chided those who lived their lives skirting around puddles—was killed by what worried her least.

  The aerosphere had chosen drizzle for the morning of Virginia’s funeral. A cruel and uninspired choice, considering it was a carbon copy of the morning Virginia died. Len had stared straight ahead, through the limousine windshield on the way to the burial site, numb, watching misty rain dribble down the glass. As quickly as the wipers cleared the view of the hearse in front of him, streams of water blurred it.

  An atmospheric apology perhaps, though far too little, far too late.

  A sea of black umbrellas burst into somber bloom as funeral attendees stepped out of cars, shivering while they waited for pallbearers to lead the way. The driver of the hearse opened the back door, exposing the hand-polished hardwood casket Len had chosen two days prior.

  Olivia trotted beside her father, sheltered by his umbrella, winding her arms in the hem of her new dress. It was one size too small but the navy fabric matched the sweatpants Olivia insisted upon wearing underneath. Besides, it had been the easiest thing to pull off the rack at Neiman Marcus.

  “Where’s Mommy?” asked Olivia as they approached Len’s parents, Henry and Grace, who were standing next to the hearse. Virginia’s family had yet to emerge from their hired town car.

  Len had explained it too many times to count. He reached down to pick up his daughter, pressing her against his body. “Mommy’s in heaven, sweetheart. Like I told you.”

  “When she gets back is she bringing my Barbie?”