by Lori L. Otto
A small ding demands my attention toward the elevator, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the letter to greet Finn. Personal and confidential. The doors open, and slow footsteps move toward me. Dress shoes. I know that walk. It’s not Finn.
“Olivia?” I close my eyes. Although the footsteps have stopped, I know that was Jon’s walk. That’s Jon’s voice. That’s the name that only Jon calls me. I try to take a deep breath, but broken, shallow gasps are all that come. I turn my head and see him. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I answer quickly, standing up abruptly. We face one another and stare, as if we haven’t seen each other for years, instead of weeks. His hair’s longer. He’s more muscular. He’s wearing glasses. A small wooden box tied with a ribbon is tucked under his arm. “What are you doing here?”
“What’s the matter, Liv? You’re as white as a ghost,” he says as he takes steps toward me. I shake my head, hoping he’ll stop.
“What are you doing here?” I repeat. Anger underlies my words.
I hear him swallow. “It’s your birthday,” he explains, gesturing with his gift. “I just took a chance that you’d be here. If it’s a bad time, I’ll...” His voice trails off as he looks at me curiously.
“You’ll what?”
“I was going to say I’ll go, but I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s got you so distraught.”
My eyes glance down at the paper in my hands, just as they start to shake violently. It startles me when he takes the letter from me, since I hadn’t heard his footsteps as he closed the gap between us. He removes his glasses to read the note. “From Donna?” Noticing one of my hands still shaking, he presses his palm against mine in an effort to calm me. His thumb rubs against the back of my hand. In a daze, I look at our clasped hands, watching the motion until he stops when the pad of his thumb reaches the knuckle of my bare ring finger.
He clears his throat. “This is from Donna?” he asks again. I nod my head as I look up at him. “May I read it?”
“Yes,” I whisper. He scans the letter, reading it aloud very softly. I watch his lips move, comprehending only a couple of words every few seconds.
He looks up at me briefly, then returns to the letter, reading louder. “You accepted that answer, but I didn’t. What is this Livvy? Is Nate your father?”
“That’s where I stopped reading,” I admit to him. “I don’t know.”
“Where did you get this?”
“James Schaeffer brought it by. He said I should be alone when I read it.”
“Alone? For this news? Is this some sick joke?”
“It was her request,” I remind him. “I doubt James knew what the letter said.” Jon looks completely dumbfounded.
“I don’t give a damn if it was her request,” he says with a bewildered smile. “I don’t give a damn if it’s your request at this point. I’m not leaving you alone to finish this letter.”
“Thank you,” I can barely say. “I don’t want to be alone,” I admit.
“Okay,” he says, relieved. “Can we go inside?” he asks me. I lead the way into the loft as he continues reading the letter to me.
“I wanted to be confident that what I told you was the truth, and I wanted to make sure that you have all the information. When your parents were adopting you, they did their due diligence. We all did. We looked as hard as we should have looked for your father, but not as hard as we could have.”
I take a seat in one of the dining room chairs, the first seat that’s there when I walk in. Jon paces in the entryway, reading on.
“We made sure no one was looking for you. We spoke to some of your mother’s acquaintances, and it’s true that they never knew who your father was.”
“It’s not Nate?” I ask Jon, hopeful.
“I’m not sure,” he answers, then continues.
“When you asked me that question, though, I knew that someday you might want an answer to the real question you were afraid to ask. Who, then, is your father? I looked for that answer, and I found it.” Jon’s hand drops suddenly as he looks over at me in shock.
“Go on,” I encourage him, anxious to hear what’s next. Granna found my father. Jon inhales, looking to his left briefly as he raises his hand to read more. His face changes immediately from confusion to awe. He’s staring at the paintings. He glances over his shoulder as he walks into the main living area, looking back at me. I follow him into the next room, sitting down on a couch and pulling a large pillow into my lap. He looks at a few of the canvases, and I notice him shake his head as he returns to the letter. “My God,” he says softly, walking to a chair and sitting down. He glances up at me before continuing, his eyes watering. His voice sounds different when he begins reading once more.
“When our goal was to ensure your eventual adoption by your parents, it was easy to overlook the signs. When my goal was to find the man who gave you life, it was easy to see them.
“His name is Isaiah Grate and he is still alive today.” Jon pauses.
“Keep going.”
“He still doesn’t know about you, and he never has to.
“That’s all the information I’m going to give you. This may hurt your parents–especially your father–but it’s not meant to do that. I love Jackson and Emily as I love my own son, and as I love you. But you deserve to have the option of knowing the only living blood-relative you may have left. You may want to know for your own children someday... or you may want to burn this letter and never look back.
“You need to make the decision of whether or not you want to know him or know more about him. That has to be your choice. It is also your choice whether or not you want your parents to know this. I am here for you, Livvy.”
Jon’s next to me before the tears even hit my cheeks. He pulls me into him, letting me cry against his nice coat. “She may not be, Liv, but I’m here now, okay?” I continue to sob, unable to answer him coherently. “Shhh, Livvy.” He puts down his glasses and the letter, freeing both of his hands to glide up and down my back, trying to soothe me. He sniffles a few times, too. I look up at him at one point, catching him squinting at the paintings.
I concentrate hard to stop crying and regulate my breathing. “I don’t want another father,” I tell Jon with all the voice I have, which isn’t much.
“Baby, you’ve always had another father... he just didn’t have an identity until today. That doesn’t have to change anything, though, you know?” he asks as he gently pushes me back so he can look down into my eyes. “So he gave you life, so what? He didn’t give you this life. It’s safe to say he couldn’t have.”
I nod, picking up the letter and finding where he left off. “I can help you find him,” I say, getting choked up again, missing Granna more today than I have in a long time, “if you decide you want to meet him. I love you always, Granna.”
I blink for a minute, still stunned. “I wonder if she would have wanted me to have this letter like this... still, after she’s left us.”
“I’m sure she would have wanted you to have the news. Maybe not alone like this, though. She thought she’d be a phone call away. She thought there would be one person in the world who would know along with you. I’m sure she didn’t anticipate you taking this in on your own.”
“Yeah,” I agree, finding the name of my father and running my fingers over the letters. Isaiah Grate. “I’m glad you’re here,” I tell Jon. He takes the letter from me and puts it safely aside, hugging me again. I feel his lips press against the top of my head. I relax in his arms, allowing myself to feel comforted even though this isn’t how I’d anticipated him coming back into my life. The anger I felt is gone, replaced by shock and uncertainty. “Jack Holland is my father,” I declare aloud.
“Of course he is,” Jon says. “This information changes none of that, Olivia. Okay?” He leans back and places his finger under my chin, lifting my head so I can look into his eyes. “Okay?” I nod my head, but it seems to change everything. His thumbs swipe at tears as he smiles reassuri
ngly. “I love your hair.”
“I like your glasses.” I pick them up from the table and put them back on him. “They suit you.”
“Thank you.” With his vision restored, he leans back into the couch to look at the wall. He tugs my arm gently, requesting I lean back with him, and I do. He puts his arm around me. “This is phenomenal. You really did thirty paintings?”
“Of course. You read my letters?”
“Faithfully,” he says. “Every word. It took me a few weeks to read the last one, though. After I got the necklace back, I was afraid what the note contained. I should have read it immediately.
“I have to ask, though... was I dreaming that I saw you wearing the promise ring that night you came to see me? Am I mistaken in thinking you still wanted to be together?”
“Not now, Jon, okay?”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. Just... confronted by all of this,” he says as he motions to the wall of canvases, “it kind of makes me forget everything else and remember why I came here today. I don’t mean to be insensitive.”
I nod my head, silently accepting his apology. “If it had been any other circumstance, I wouldn’t have let you through that door today.” I stare at the wall across from us, but feel his eyes on me.
“I understand,” he says simply. “Would you like a glass of water or something?” he asks. I start to get up, but he urges me to stay on the couch. “I’ll get it. What do you want?”
“Tissues,” I request, “and water would be great. There’s a pitcher in the refrigerator. And I think there are some tissues in the bathroom.”
Isaiah... it’s a biblical name. Possibly Jewish, which would make sense. Mom was Jewish. Grate. Is it British?
“Liv, this place is unbelievable!”
“Huh?” I ask, taking a moment to comprehend what he said. “Oh, yeah. Thanks.”
“Oh, yeah? Thanks?” he repeats me with a smirk as he hands me a glass of water and places a box of tissues next to me. “I don’t get any other explanation?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him, my head still elsewhere. “Mom and Dad bought the place next door and did a bunch of renovation.”
“Over the summer?”
“No, after I left for Yale.”
“It’s amazing. It’s perfect for you, don’t you think?”
“Yeah.” I smile politely. “Do you think he’s still alive?”
Jon moves a coaster to the small table next to the couch and sets down his drink. “I would be happy to try to find that out for you. It seems like a fairly unique name. Would you like me to do that?”
“I think so, yes,” I answer. “What if he is?”
“Alive? Well... then you wake up tomorrow the same way you woke up today: daughter of parents Jack and Emi Holland, sister to Trey, and the most beautiful girl in the world to me.”
That gets my attention. When I look at him, he traces my cheekbone with the back of his finger. “Even with blue hair?” I laugh a little, feeling self-conscious.
“Especially with short hair and blue streaks. You wear it well.”
“I hate it.”
The musical chime rings in the apartment. Jon looks toward the door to see what’s making the sound. “A new intercom,” I explain, getting up to see what Francisco wants. I remember Finn as I walk toward the door, and immediately after that, I remember Jon’s face after he saw me kissing my friend last spring.
“Yes, Francisco?”
“You have a guest, Miss Holland.”
“Um... can you put him on the phone?” After failing to find a volume controller on the intercom, I glance back at Jon nervously.
“Hey, Liv.”
“Hey, ummm, Finn. I’m painting, and Matty said he’d help me later. When he gets back, he’ll help.” I sniffle, wiping my runny nose with the back of my hand and wishing I’d brought a tissue.
“You’re painting?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Sometimes I just have to take advantage of inspiration when it strikes.”
“You don’t sound okay.”
“I’m fine... really, I am. I’ll see you at seven. Okay?”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure. Thanks, Finn.”
“Miss Holland?” Francisco says quickly.
“Yes?”
“Just a second, Miss Holland.” The phone is shuffled around. “Have a good afternoon, sir,” I hear the doorman say, the sound muffled. “Okay,” he says, returning to me. “I have an urgent message to deliver to you personally.”
“Francisco, I don’t really know how many more messages I can take today.”
“Please, miss. I’ll be right up.” He ends the call before I have a chance to argue. I go out into the hallway, waiting for the doorman. Jon joins me by standing in the doorway.
“Why’d you lie to Finn?” he asks.
“I’m just not in the mood to be social right now,” I explain.
“I know there’s nothing between you two,” he tells me. “I understand he’ll always be a part of your life.”
“That’s nice,” I tell Jon quickly, distracted. The elevator finally reaches my floor.
“Sir,” Francisco says loudly to Jon before even acknowledging me. He steps out of the elevator, but doesn’t walk any further toward my apartment. “Might I have a moment alone with Miss Holland?”
“Of course,” Jon says, closing the door after he goes back inside. Francisco motions for me to come closer to him.
“What’s wrong?”
“If you’re in trouble, miss, let me help you.”
“What?”
“You didn’t sound like yourself on the intercom. Are you all right?”
“Oh, Francisco,” I say with warm smile. “Thank you. I’m fine. That letter James brought was... well, it just made me a little emotional, that’s all. And it’s fine, with Jon being here. I’m okay.”
“If you need anything at all, I’m right downstairs.”
“I know you think he’s violent, but he’s not,” I tell him softly, even though I’m sure Jon can’t hear us. “When he hit my agent, it was for good reason. He would never hit me. I’ve hit him, and he’s never retaliated, or even lifted a hand.”
“Okay,” he says. “I feel better knowing that.”
“Thanks, Francisco. I appreciate your concern.” He pats me on the back as I walk toward my apartment.
“Is everything okay?” Jon asks once I’m inside.
“It’s fine. Francisco’s just overly cautious.”
“Well... is there something I can help you with?”
I shrug my shoulders. “No, I’m fine.”
“Why was Finn coming over?”
“Not that it’s any of your business–”
“Liv,” he says, raising his voice above mine. “It sounds like he was coming over to help you with something, and you turned him away. All I’m asking is if it was something I could help you with.”
“Oh,” I say in a sigh, feeling bad that I took it wrong. I smile apologetically, and he grins back at me.
“Anything?”
“Actually, he was helping me move furniture.”
“I think I’m well suited for that job.” He takes off his trench coat, which he’d been wearing all this time. I guess subconsciously I thought he would just be here temporarily; maybe to give me the present and leave. It comforts me to see him hang his coat by the door. It means he might stay for awhile, and I don’t really feel like being alone.
I watch him roll up his long sleeves, and see arms that are defined with sculpted muscles. That’s new. Back when we were together, he’d been working out more, and was definitely more fit than he was when we started dating, but now he looks like someone who might have ripped abs if he were to remove his shirt entirely.
“What are we moving?” he asks, snapping me out of my admittedly ill-timed reverie.
“That couch,” I say, pointing to the one we had been sitting on earlier. “And the chair and coffee table.”
“Where to? Your studio space?”
“No, we’re just rearranging to accommodate my guests.” I look up at him, and wonder if I should invite him. Finn will obviously be here. And Emmanuel’s coming, but I’d already planned to let him know I just wanted to remain friends and photography partners with him. No one coming is a threat to Jon, but he may not see it that way. “I’m having a party, if you’d like to stay. Mainly my cousins, but also some people from Yale.”
“I’m probably not dressed for that.” He crouches down to pick up one side of the couch, realizing quickly how heavy it is.
“You look fine.” I try to pick up my side, but there’s no way I could lift that.
“Wait, Liv, I’ll get it.” I nod, backing off a few steps. “Won’t it be weird? The party?”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“Here,” he says, coming to the side of the couch I’m standing near. “Do you have any towels? Something old?”
“There’s nothing old here,” I tell him.
“Well, something replaceable then, just in case it rips.”
“Sure.” I find a brand new towel in the bathroom and rush it back to him.
“Spread it on the floor, and when I lift this end, just slide it under the legs. But wait,” he says, stopping me.
“What?”
“Can you hold up the towel first? I want to take a picture.”
“I don’t want to be in any pictures. I look awful. I just saw–”
“I want a picture of the towel... you can hold it in front of you.”
“Really?” I ask him, looking at him strangely.
“It’s for Will,” he says with a laugh. I hold up the towel, waiting for him to tell me he’s finished. “Thanks. Ready?”
“Ready,” I tell him. Instead of watching the legs on the floor, I watch his strong arms lift the heavy piece of furniture.
“Now, Liv.”
“Right,” I say, straightening out the towel before he sets down the couch.
“You know, I’m not trying to size up Finn or anything, but unless he’s been doing a lot of upper body workouts over the summer, there’s no way he would be able to lift this thing.”