by Dianne Dixon
And Persephone—saying in a murmur no louder than a breath: “Oh my god.”
Livvi
Pasadena, California ~ 2012
Livvi and Andrew have just finished a turning, gliding dance. Which began as a slow ballet. Led by Andrew. Deftly piloting Livvi. Bringing her, first, to the thrill of small tingles. Tingles he then subtly transformed into cascades of tiny shudders. Shudders that, under his expert touch, began to blossom. Individually. One by one. Each of them, rapidly expanding. All of them diamond-bright. Effervescent and luminous. Exploding low and deep in Livvi. Sparkling, erotic bursts of sexual gratification. Each and every one skillfully delivered—by Andrew—as a separate, glittering pleasure. Pleasure that coursed through Livvi like torrents of liquid electricity.
And now Andrew and Livvi are lying absolutely still. While he’s saying: “This is how I want to fall asleep every Saturday night for the rest of my life.” He is spooned against Livvi’s back, his breath warm on the nape of her neck.
The sweetness. The closeness. The murmured conversation. Andrew never fails to share these small gifts with Livvi after they’ve had sex. It’s an aspect of him she cherishes, a lovely place of intimacy.
Andrew’s voice is mellow with contentment as he’s telling Livvi: “This is perfection. You and me in your nice cozy bed. Grace sleeping in the other room, spending the weekend. The three of us leaving for Aspen the day after tomorrow.” His sigh is long and lazy. “I’m a happy man, Olivia.”
Livvi is inhaling the scent of their lovemaking and the clean, fresh smell of Andrew’s skin. It has been almost ten weeks since the chaotic afternoon in Rolling Hills—the confrontation in Andrew’s parents’ driveway with his wife, and his mother.
Livvi is aware that since that day Andrew has been devoting himself to making her happy. Lavishing her with time and attention. And love letters written in cocoa-brown ink on buff-colored stationery. Notes tucked into the pockets of her clothes and the corners of her dresser drawers. Little hidden treasures designed to calm and reassure her.
In each of these letters, above Andrew’s signature, there is the same phrase—the thought he’s expressing to Livvi now: “I adore you.”
And Livvi is replying: “I adore you too.”
But she hasn’t turned to look at him while she’s saying it. Livvi’s love for Andrew has changed, lost some of its intensity and purity. Lately, there has been a thread of mistrust in it. The suspicion that, as soon as some fresh hell breaks loose, Andrew will disappear. Into the drama of Palos Verdes and Rolling Hills.
“By the way,” Andrew is informing Livvi, “the feeling is mutual.”
Livvi gives him a questioning frown; she isn’t sure what he’s talking about.
“Haven’t you been listening? I’m telling you I’m not the only one who adores you. I have major competition from Grace. She thinks you’re wonderful.”
Just hearing Grace’s name lights Livvi with happiness. “And I’m crazy about her.”
“Believe me, she knows. The idea of the three of us going on this trip to Aspen has put her over the moon.”
Livvi props herself on one elbow, worried a little. “Do you think it’ll be a problem for her to miss a whole week of school?”
Andrew slides Livvi’s elbow toward him and pulls her near. “It’s the middle of November, and Grace is in kindergarten. She’s five. The biggest thing she’ll miss out on is making Pilgrim hats out of construction paper. And my guess is…not knowing how to turn cardboard into headgear won’t hurt her chances of getting into a decent college.” Andrew is yawning, switching off the light.
After a while. When Andrew is asleep. Livvi quietly gets out of bed—she’s thirsty and wants a glass of water.
On her way to the kitchen, she passes the sofa in the living room, where Grace is sleeping. The little pink pig is nestled on Grace’s pillow. And on Grace’s hands are a pair of brand-new, pink-striped, woolen mittens—a present from Livvi, for Grace to wear on their Aspen ski trip.
At the sight of Grace’s hands in those mittens, Livvi whispers: “I love you too, Gracie.”
For a long time Livvi simply watches Grace sleep. In complete, peaceful silence.
And then, unexpectedly, jarring noise is coming from a few feet away. In the kitchen. Loud, buzzing sounds. Livvi, worried that they’ll disturb Grace, hurries to put a stop to them.
Livvi’s phone—the source of the noise—is on the kitchen counter where she left it when she, Andrew, and Grace came home from dinner. While she’s taking her phone from the counter, she’s checking the caller ID.
It’s a number Livvi recognizes; one that she has seen more and more often, over the past few weeks.
Every time it appears it brings stomach-churning dread.
Yet she has no choice other than to answer. The person who’s calling refuses to interact with voice mail. If Livvi doesn’t allow this individual to connect with her, in person, even for a microsecond, the calls will continue. Relentlessly—throughout the night. Until Livvi surrenders and picks up the phone.
The pattern has become for Livvi to say hello and then quickly disconnect, before the whispery-voiced caller can get out more than a word or two.
Now, as she’s putting the phone to her ear, Livvi is thinking of Grace, and their trip—not wanting their time in Aspen to be shadowed by this stubborn intruder.
Determined to prevent the person from coming, even in the form of a phone call, anywhere near Grace, Livvi is insisting: “Don’t call here again. And don’t even think of contacting me in person. I won’t speak to you. I will not deal with you. Now. Or ever.”
Livvi is for a brief moment triumphant. But her bravado is rapidly turning into fear. Fear that she’s just jeopardized everything she was trying to keep safe.
The whispery voice has become an angry hiss. Warning her: “You’re wrong, Olivia. You will deal with me. Much sooner than you think.”
***
It has been a perfect Sunday morning for the three of them: Livvi, Andrew, and Grace. Silly games and laughter. Pancakes for breakfast. And a rush of last-minute packing for tomorrow’s trip to Aspen—to sleigh rides and fresh-fallen snow.
The exuberance of this morning and the beautiful California November weather, the clear skies and warm sunshine, are calming some of Livvi’s uneasiness about last night’s phone call. Making the threat it carried seem less meaningful.
With Grace’s hand snug in hers as they’re hurrying across the lawn that separates Livvi’s guesthouse from the main house, Sierra’s house, Livvi is trying to believe she’s being irrational in thinking the whispery-voiced caller actually has the power, or the desire, to reach beyond the confines of the phone. After all, the person who’s calling is someone from another place and time. And that’s where—Livvi is convincing herself—they’ll probably stay.
Grace is pulling at Livvi’s hand as she’s skipping up the steps of Sierra’s back patio where Sierra, in a rhinestone-studded warm-up suit and oversize sunglasses, is stretched out on a lounge chair.
“Livvi,” Grace is saying. “I bet I know what you’re thinking about.”
She pauses on the top step and gives Livvi a conspiratorial grin. “You’re thinking about chocolate chips.”
“Really?” Livvi has no idea how Grace has come to this conclusion.
Grace, running ahead, eager to greet Sierra, is calling over her shoulder to Livvi: “I know you’re thinking about chocolate chips ’cause that’s what I’m thinking about too.”
While Livvi is coming up the steps and onto the patio, Grace is telling Sierra: “After Livvi’s finished talking to you, we’re going back to her house to make cookies and that’s the kind I think we should make, chocolate chip. They’re for us to take on our trip tomorrow.”
Sierra lowers her sunglasses and announces to Grace: “Just for the record, honey-bun, when it comes to chocolate chip, I’m a purist. No nuts. And I demand a cut on any cookies baked on my property. Got it?”
Grace nods,
slowly, looking from Sierra to Livvi, not sure of what she has just agreed to.
“Sierra wants to share our cookies,” Livvi explains.
Grace’s uncertainty is replaced by a bright smile. “Okay. Then hurry up with the talking so we can go home and bake some for her.”
Livvi is about to respond, but Grace’s interest has been captured by a large bird fluttering onto a tree limb at the edge of the patio.
While Sierra, pointing to the file folder Livvi is holding, is asking: “Is that the bimonthly reckoning?”
“Yup. As soon as you’ve looked over the bills and signed the checks, I’ll get everything in the mail.”
“You know, if I wasn’t giving you cut-rate rent in return for you balancing my books I could be saving a lot of time, not to mention a shitload of trees, by doing all of this online. Like the rest of the world.”
Livvi laughs. “You’d have to start by figuring out how to get online.”
They have this same lighthearted exchange on the first and fifteenth of every month.
Livvi sits in a chair across from Sierra’s, putting the file folder and her phone on the ground nearby. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you’re a computer illiterate. I get down on my knees regularly and thank God for it.”
“You’re a smart girl,” Sierra tells her. Then she cocks her head in Grace’s direction and says: “You two seem to be spending a lot of time together.”
Livvi’s smile is instantaneous. “She’s got me wrapped around her little finger. And I love it.”
“I hope you understand the minefield you’re walking into. Grace is a great kid, but she’s not exactly a blank slate—she comes with a lot of baggage. The insanity with her mother won’t ever go away. And even if by some miracle it did, Grace’ll always be somebody else’s kid, not yours.”
“I’m aware of that, I am. But…” Livvi is trying to figure out how to make Sierra understand her bond with Grace and knows she can’t. “The only thing I can tell you is…the way I love her…it’s like she is my own.”
“Maybe so. But depending on how her mother wants to play it, the cost you end up paying on your love affair with that kid could be pretty steep.”
The thought of not being with Grace is too painful for Livvi to bear. She picks up the file folder containing the bookkeeping information and hands it to Sierra—making it clear she doesn’t want to discuss what the price tag might be for loving Grace.
Sierra puts the file folder aside, tilts her head in Grace’s direction, and says: “So…according to the little one, you’re taking a trip. Where to?”
“Aspen,” Livvi tells her. “Skiing. For a week.”
Grace, her attention still on the preening bird, is calling to Sierra from the edge of the patio. “Daddy’s coming with us! And we’re going on a plane.”
Sierra shoots Livvi a knowing look. “A private one, no doubt.”
Livvi blushes.
Sierra laughs. “The man’s got a pile of cash, nothing to be embarrassed about. And speaking of the man, where is he? Back at your place…sleeping in?”
“He’s at his office. He needed to take care of some things before we leave tomorrow.”
Sierra checks to be sure Grace isn’t listening. “What about his divorce…has he taken care of that?”
“He’s working on it,” Livvi says. “It’s a difficult situation.” She reaches for the file folder again—wanting to head off any discussion about Andrew’s wife.
Sierra studies Livvi for a moment. “I’m not saying this to rattle your cage. I’m saying it because I don’t give a shit about your boyfriend, and I care a hell of a lot about you.” She pauses, satisfies herself that Grace is occupied with the bird, then adds: “This bind he claims he’s in—the need to be so careful and take everything at a snail’s pace—how much of it is really about protecting the kid? And how much is about him still being in business with her mother?”
“I don’t know.” Livvi’s response is fast and flustered: Sierra has hit a raw nerve.
Livvi’s thoughts have gone to that afternoon in Rolling Hills: Andrew holding a phone to his ear. Taking his wife’s call. And looking at Livvi—mutely telling her he’s sorry. While he’s turning away with his shoulders hunched. Making Livvi wonder, “Is he trying to shield me from his wife? Or shield his wife from me…?”
And Sierra is warning Livvi: “I don’t know what’s going on with your boy and his crazy wife, but I can give you the bottom line—he’s in no hurry to shut the door on her.”
Sierra levels a gaze at Livvi that says “Go ahead. Try to tell me I’m wrong.”
Livvi puts down the file folder, glances in Grace’s direction, and signals to Sierra to walk with her to the other side of the patio.
Livvi is attempting to convince both herself and Sierra, as she’s saying: “I’ve seen Andrew’s wife. The only logical reason for the way he caters to her has to be that he’s protecting Grace. His wife is a mess. She’s horrible. There’s no way he could be in love with her.”
“It doesn’t mean he isn’t in love with her drama,” Sierra says. “Depending on where your kinks are…having somebody tell you you’re the center of their universe, and they’ll die without you, can be a real ego-stroke. Even if it’s coming from somebody who’s fucked up beyond belief.”
Livvi, wanting to think only about Grace and Aspen, is trying to push this idea as far away as possible. “What’s keeping Andrew stuck isn’t love,” she’s insisting. “It’s guilt.”
Sierra gives Livvi a steady, unblinking stare. “As long as he’s staying stuck, does it really make any difference what kind of fucking glue he’s using?”
Livvi flinches.
Sierra’s attitude immediately softens. “Honey, all I’m asking is how much of his not getting a divorce is about taking care of Grace…how much is about taking care of the wife…and how much of it is about taking real good care of Andrew. Because I don’t see where any of it is about taking care of you.”
Livvi doesn’t respond. She doesn’t know how to explain that none of this makes any difference—because, in her own way, she’s just as stuck as Andrew is.
As if she’s recognizing Livvi’s dilemma, and determined not to ignore it, Sierra asks: “So what keeps you from kicking him to the curb, kiddo?”
“A lot of things.” Livvi hopes Sierra is ready to let the discussion end.
Instead, Sierra puts her hands on Livvi’s shoulders, looks her straight in the eye, and after a long pause says: “Who was the first boy you had a crush on in elementary school?”
“Nobody.” Livvi ducks her head, embarrassed. “I didn’t go to elementary school, or high school. I didn’t know any boys.”
Sierra spends a long time looking at Livvi. Searching her eyes, and her face. Slowly connecting the dots of a story that Livvi has never told her.
“Holy shit,” Sierra murmurs. “No wonder you don’t know how to let go of him—Andrew was your first.”
“Not technically.” Livvi glances down, embarrassed. “There was an old man, a professor. When I was in college. It was only that one time. And—”
“—and then nothing till Andrew?”
“A few dates, here and there. But…” Livvi’s voice has trailed off. She’s being overwhelmed by shuddering sense memories. The passion. The intense physical pleasure. The sexual wonderland she’s been introduced to. By Andrew.
“It’s like before him, I’d never been alive,” she murmurs.
“Oh honey, that’s what everybody says when they get righteously laid for the first time.”
“I know…but for me it really is true. And the sex isn’t even the biggest part of it.” Livvi glances away, self-conscious. “Before Andrew, I’d spent my entire life in a box. Eighteen years, locked away in my father’s house. Then in college, locked up in my own prison. Too scared to even talk to anybody. And after college—for most of these last four years—I spent my workdays sealed in a research library, and my nights locked in my bedroom,
pouring misery onto paper, writing The Book of Someday.”
Livvi looks at Sierra and tells her: “Before Andrew, I honest to God had never known what excited, spontaneous happiness was. All I knew about happiness…or fun…was what I imagined it might be. And then there was Andrew—and he made those things real.”
Sierra winces. Then gives Livvi’s hand an awkward, affectionate squeeze. “You’re making this guy sound like God. ‘In the beginning, Andrew created the heavens and the earth.’”
Sierra’s tone is light—Livvi knows that she’s being teased.
“It almost feels that way,” Livvi says.
Then she adds: “I had never been anywhere. I’d never done anything. And I’d certainly never done anything just for fun. Sierra…Andrew showed me what joy was. He’s taken me places, taught me things I didn’t even know how to dream of.”
“Kiddo. The world, the fun, the joy, the great sex—it’s all out there. Open to the public. Andrew being the first one to show it to you doesn’t make him Master of the Universe—it just makes him a guy with a sense of adventure and a credit card.”
“Maybe. But I’ve never before known anybody even remotely like him…and I don’t think I could ever find anyone like him again.”
Sierra wraps her arms around Livvi, holds her tight, then steps back and says: “Oh baby, you have so much to learn.”
Livvi glances across the lawn toward her little guesthouse where she and Andrew, before they went to sleep last night, shared such intense, and spectacular, pleasure.
“He loves me,” Livvi says. “He’s the only man who ever has.”
“It doesn’t mean he’s the only one who ever will. You can do better, kiddo. While he’s playing around with you—having all that fun—he’s staying married to his wife. That makes him a jerk.”
Sierra has gently put her arm around Livvi’s shoulder.
And in the shelter of that gentleness, Livvi is admitting: “Sometimes I think, no matter what he does, I’m just lucky he wants me. There’re things about the weird way I grew up—the people who raised me. I’m not like everybody else. I’m different. A misfit. Sort of second-rate…”