by Lori L. Otto
“Livvy, my God, don’t say things like that.” She gets up and closes the door to my bedroom. “Why would you even say such a thing? You know how much we went through to adopt you, Liv. He did all of that. I wouldn’t have even known where to start, but your dad did all of it.”
“That’s not true,” I tell her, remembering the story. “Granna had a lot to do with it, too.”
“You’re right. She’s a very influential woman. They worked together to make sure you had the best home. Dad fell in love with you the moment he saw you,” she tells me this fact that I’ve heard recited a million times.
“Why did Granna care so much, Mom? Why did it matter to her that I had a good home?”
“She wanted Jack and me to have a child, Liv. She knew it meant a lot to both of us, and she felt like you were brought into our lives at just the right time.”
“It meant a lot to you because you lost your first baby, though, right?”
“Well, it meant a lot to me because I knew I wanted to raise children with him, and I knew I couldn’t give him one.”
“But you did.”
“I did. But that wasn’t supposed to happen. We were told it couldn’t happen. You know this story, Livvy.”
“I know.”
“Okay.” She stands up and pulls the comforter back for me. “I love you, Livvy. Sweet dreams.”
“I love you, too, Mom.” I give her a hug before crawling into bed. I turn on the thunderstorm noise that I like to listen to while I sleep. Mom had told me once that Nate liked to listen to rain when he slept, too. She turns to walk out of my room, pulling the door behind her.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?” she says, smiling back at me.
“What do you think your first baby would have been like? The one you were going to have with Nate.”
She stands in the doorway for a few seconds before coming back in. She leaves the door cracked this time, but sits on the bed next to me. “I think it would have been a girl.”
“But you didn’t know?”
“No, it was too soon to have known the sex. But I just had a feeling it was a girl. Nate thought that, too,” she says. “He said God wouldn’t have sent him a boy to raise. He didn’t feel like a great role model.” She laughs to herself lightly.
“Was he?”
She wrestles with an answer. “His heart was always in the right place,” she tells me. “In the end, yeah. I think he would have been a fine father, to a son or daughter.”
“Do you think she would have turned out like me?” I ask her.
“It’s funny you should ask that,” she tells me. “I believe that children are a reflection of the way they were brought up, and I feel like I’ve done a lot to influence who you are. I think you’re a lot like me, but Nate and I were a lot alike, so yeah, I think she’d probably be a little like you. Definitely creative like you. Maybe not as smart, though. You get all that from Dad.”
“I get all that from school,” I correct her.
“Hey,” she cuts me off. “You’re giving him no credit, Livvy, and he has done so much to make you into the person you’ve become today. He’s the one who got you through all your hard Spanish and Latin tests. He’s the one who’s helped you with math, and biology. And if it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t have the opportunities you have. You go to the best school in the city, Livvy, and it’s his stature in the community that got you in. Without him, you’d be in public school right now, and I don’t know who’d help you with all of your homework. I’m not good at any of it.”
“You’re good at art, which is the only thing I really care about.”
“Well, you should care about it all. It makes you a well-rounded young woman, and that’s going to allow you to do anything you want when you graduate from college–”
“If I go,” I challenge her. “You don’t need a degree to paint. I bet Nate didn’t have a degree–”
“He most certainly did.”
“Where did he go?”
“He went to Parsons. He got a Bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts.”
“Well, that sounds cool.”
“It’s a great school. And to get in, you’ve got to be the best at what you do.”
“Do you think I could get in?”
“I think you have the talent, and training, but I think you need to open your eyes to the world around you, Livvy, and I think you need to try to see things from a different perspective. You need to find your own aesthetic.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Your own style. Your own artistic point of view. Something that makes you unique–that makes you stand out from all the other talented people out there.”
“How do I do that?”
“You soak in as much information as you can, Livvy. Look at our culture, and then look at other cultures. Learn about other people–historical people, influential people, interesting people–and keep your mind open to letting in new ideas and new possibilities. This is why all your other schoolwork is so important, Liv. Being an artist is more than just painting pretty things. You can make a statement in the world, be an instrument of change. You have the power to be truly important. But you won’t get there from inhaling paint fumes alone,” she says with a laugh. “Does that make sense?”
“Yeah,” I say, enthusiastic about finding my own aesthetic.
“Okay. Then I’ll tell you the first thing you need to do.”
“What?” I ask in anticipation.
“Go with your father on Saturday. He wanted it to be a surprise, but he wants to take you to a gallery up there. You can check out some works you’ve never seen before: sculptures, paintings, photography, drawings. There’s a special exhibit on women artists and another on New York artists. He read about it in the paper and knew he wanted to take you there. So will you go?”
“Can’t you go with us?”
“Liv, I’m going with Trey to the birthday party. I promise you’ll have a good time and you will learn so much. And it will mean so much to Dad. Please?”
I truly am excited to see some work of other artists, even if I’m not looking forward to the prospect of a long car ride with Dad. “Okay.”
“Okay. I’ll let him know. He’s going to be so happy.” She leans over to give me a hug.
“Alright, alright, Mom,” I tell her after she’s held on a little too long. She kisses me on the cheek and tells me good night.
“Sweet dreams, honey.”
“Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, too.”
Over the next few days, while the rest of my family works diligently on a science project for Trey, I spend the evenings making finishing touches to the portrait. Of course I had no intention of painting over it. I had every intention to make sure my current work had a proper place for display. I knew Granna would love it, and that she’d forgive me for taking the photo from her wallet.
On Thursday, I meet her at the workshop like I do after school every week. I volunteer once a week to work with kids at the foundation my parents started when they got married. A few months ago, I began teaching this class. The children are between seven and ten years old, and I teach them about colors. My art teachers at the private school I attend tell me they’ve never seen anyone so skilled in color. Tonight, the color is brown–and the perfect setting for me to reveal my portrait of Nate to Granna. His brown eyes, light brown hair, brown leather jacket. I had created a background for the photo, using blues and light green hues, mingled with an earthy taupe color. The painting created a sense of warmth, comfort, stability and calm.
“I’ve got a surprise for you, Granna,” I tell her as I carry the painting, concealed beneath a layer of craft paper. “I hope you like it.”
“I hope I do, too,” she answers. “This isn’t like ‘Big Grey Mess,’ is it?”
I laugh at her question, remembering the painting I had offered her a few years ago when I was experimenting with black and tonal greys. She wasn’t a fan, and told me so, explaining that i
t really didn’t go in her house. It’s one of the things I love about her. She tells me the truth. The painting ended up in my Dad’s office. He said it was beautiful, of course.
“No, it looks nothing like ‘Big Grey Mess.’”
“Good.” She smiles and gives me a big hug when I put the artwork down.
“Hi, Livvy,” Jordan, the youngest in the class, says to me.
“Jordy, I see you dressed for tonight’s lesson,” I comment on his tan corduroy pants and brown windbreaker that matches the color of his skin. His white t-shirt underneath has small holes in it and is tight against his tiny frame. The kids we work with don’t have a lot, and Jordan and his mother live with friends while his mother tries to find work.
Jordan nods with excitement and walks quickly to the break room to put his jacket away. I stop him on his way out. “Jordan, I’ve got something for you.” I reach up into the cabinet and pull out one of the embroidered polo shirts that carry the name of the school, Nate’s Art Room. “I bet you’ve grown out of your other one, right?” I know he hasn’t, but I also know he gets a lot of wear out of it. It is probably as tattered as the t-shirt he wears tonight.
“Thanks, Livvy.” He immediately puts it on, and then drapes it with his smock. All the kids have personalized smocks, one for home and one for school. We provide them with all the supplies they need to help them develop their creativity. Not all the kids in the Art Room program are artists, even though that was the original intent of the foundation. We started a new class on Wednesdays for kids who have exceptional musical abilities. One of my cousins actually works with them. Lexi is in her last semester at Juilliard and has already started rehearsals for her first off-broadway show. For those students, we buy their musical equipment. I guess my dad’s wealth is definitely good for that. He does help a lot of people.
The rest of the kids file in to get ready for class as I prepare their palettes with paint. I take my position at the front of the room while Granna hands out healthy snacks to all the kids. We always start off with a treat to give them a little energy and sustenance while I talk about the theme of that week’s lesson. When they’re done eating, we start painting.
I make the rounds, talking to each of the eight children individually about their paintings. Some choose to do portraits, some do abstract work, one–Amanda–does a still life of her dad’s work boots, which she brought with her.
“Dad’s sick tonight,” she had told me before class, “so he said he didn’t need them for work.” I knew her dad was an addict. Some weeks, she didn’t show up to our workshop. Granna would check on her at school every Friday to make sure she was okay and well cared for. At ten, she was far more grown up than she should have been. Most of the kids at the Art Room have similar stories. It was only recently that I found out Amanda had three younger brothers that she would have to care for when her Dad was at work and her mom was out.
I couldn’t imagine that life. Although I’d been coming to this school for as long as I’d known this life, I only got to attend because my parents were the founders. I’d always had everything I needed. Most people think I get everything I want, but I don’t. It used to make me mad, because I knew my parents could afford the toys I wanted or the shoes that my friends had. My parents weren’t wasteful, nor were they extravagant. I began to appreciate that about them both, and it probably had a lot to do with the people I met being here–the amazingly talented kids who were dealt a much more difficult life than my own. How easily that could have been my life, though.
After consulting with everyone, I decide it’s time to unveil the painting. Every week, I bring one of my own examples to show the class. They’re honest with their feedback, too. Sometimes they like what I do–sometimes they don’t get it–but I know they’re all talented enough to appreciate it. I let them critique it and I try to listen with an open mind to their opinions. I know this is an important lesson for them to learn–how to take criticism. As they get older, people will get more verbal–more real–with their feedback. I was lucky to have Granna from a young age. She wiped away many tears when I was younger. I can remember an argument she had with my dad after one of these critique sessions. My dad didn’t think it was good for her to be so honest with me. He hated to see me cry, and did everything possible to avoid that. It was one topic they had agreed to disagree on. Granna was stubborn. Dad had a lot of respect for her, but was never a fan of confrontation. I knew Mom had something to do with it. She was always the intermediary.
“Is everyone ready to see my brown painting?” I ask the kids. Most of them put their brushes down; a few continue to focus on their work, and I would never be one to interrupt their creative process. I unwrap the painting once I see Granna is settled in a seat in the back of the class.
She gasps loudly when she sees it, covering her mouth with both of her hands. Even from here, I can see her shaking. My heart pounds, afraid she doesn’t like it. It would hurt me dearly–this once–if she didn’t like it.
“He’s cute,” Amanda says with a laugh.
“I know,” I agree.
“Is that your boyfriend?” another young girl asks.
“No, actually.” I pause, making eye contact with Granna. She nods her head at me. “This is Donna’s son, Nate. You know that little boy in the painting over there?” I point to a portrait Nate had actually painted when he was young. “This is him, grown up. This is who our program’s named after.”
All the kids turn around as they hear a whimper fall from Granna’s lips. She takes a deep breath and swipes at a few tears, but then addresses us all. “Wasn’t he handsome?” she says, standing and walking toward the painting and me. “And Livvy, this is gorgeous. It’s simply stunning. I think it might be the best thing you’ve ever painted.”
“Thanks,” I tell her, happy to receive her compliment, her hug, and her kiss on the cheek. “It’s for you.”
“Oh, thank you, sweetheart. Should we hang it here?”
“No, I think you should take it to your house.”
“I know the perfect spot,” she says. “It’s lovely. Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome. I stole the picture out of your wallet. I hope you didn’t miss it.”
“I did, but I have copies. I just wondered what happened to it.”
“You can have it back.”
“You can keep it, Livvy. As a reminder of this amazing work of art. I just can’t believe it.” She steps aside and admires it while I ask the kids for their opinions. I have to remind the girls of the class that we’re discussing color theory, not a cute boy.
Granna offers me a ride home after all the kids have been picked up. Amanda’s mom was thirty minutes late, but she was happy for the extra time she got to spend painting. I tell Granna to go ahead. She always asks, but I only accept her offer when the weather is bad.
“Livvy,” a voice calls to me as soon as she drives away. It’s Jon, a boy who used to be a student here with me until a little over a year ago. I guess he’s not really a boy anymore. The soft sideburns and hints of whiskers on his chin prove that my former childhood friend is becoming a man. A very attractive one, at that. I’d always had a crush on him, and his early teasing turned into genuine interest and attention, so I’d wondered if he might like me, too. When he stopped coming to the school, I assumed he didn’t.
“Hey, Jon! How are you?”
“I’m good. I was hoping you’d be here. I heard you were teaching a class.”
“Who’d you hear that from?”
“The newsletter,” he laughed. “I still subscribe, you know. Just because I don’t go to the workshops anymore doesn’t mean I’ve left Nate’s Art Room behind.”
“Cool.”
“Plus, I have to keep up with you somehow. I know how your dad abhors things like Facebook.”
“He doesn’t abhor it. He just values privacy,” I explain, just as my dad explained it to me. Jon nods his head in understanding.
“I miss this place.”
>
“You can come back.”
“No, I can’t. Well, I wouldn’t–not while I have the money to pay for classes elsewhere.”
“The program isn’t as fun without you.” Now that his mother has gotten her degree and a professional job, she can afford to enroll him in art classes at a community college. That leaves one more spot for another kid who’s less fortunate, so I can appreciate what he’s doing.
“Can I walk you home? Your parents wouldn’t want you walking home at this time of night. It’ll be dark soon.”
“I’ve been doing it for years, you know this. I think Granna sticks around and spies on me until I’m within eyeshot of my house. That’s my theory, anyway.” We both look around in search of her car, even though I’m joking.
“How’s school?” he asks me as we begin walking very slowly toward my house. Jon goes to public school, and has always been at the top of his class.
“It’s hard,” I tell him. “I tested out of the tenth grade, but I’m having a hard time keeping up with my school work this year.”
“You’re a junior?”
I nod.
“That’s great, Livvy. I’m impressed.”
“Thanks. How’s your school year going?”
“Good. I’m studying for the SATs.” He holds up a thick paperback.
“You? Study?”
“Well, not all of us get a free ride to college, you know.” I stare at him, unsure what he’s implying. He knows my parents are wealthy–we always knew we were different–but it had never bothered him and he had never made an issue out of it before. “Oh, God, Livvy, no,” he stutters. “I wasn’t talking about your parents.”
“Right,” I come back at him curiously, walking quickly in front of him.
“Livvy, come back here,” he calls to me, his voice sounding sorry. I stop and cross my arms in front of my chest, but turn around to glare at him as I wait for his explanation. I melt at the expression on his face, and shiver at his close proximity. He is mere inches from me, and there’s no way I can continue be annoyed with him when I have this weird queasy feeling in my stomach. He puts his hands on my shoulders. “What I meant was not all of us are child prodigies who are sure to get art scholarships to any school they want to go to.”