by Barnes, Vivi
As the Mercedes pulls away with my heart inside, I rest my head on the steering wheel. For the first time since my mother died, I allow myself to cry.
…
Liv
The car is too quiet. Maybe the fancier the car, the more it blocks out sound. It sucks that probably for the first time in my life, silence bothers me, allows me to dwell on Jack’s words and go over and over our conversation until I feel like screaming.
This man who is my grandfather tries to start a conversation, but I can’t talk to him. The only one I could talk to isn’t here and never will be. All I can do is stare out the window, forehead pressed against the cool glass, willing myself not to cry.
I don’t understand what happened. Jack seemed eager to leave town with me, telling me he couldn’t care less about the life he was leaving behind. Said the kids at Monroe Street would be fine with Nancy and Bill. Said they didn’t need him at all.
He lied to me.
I want to punch something or someone. I can’t exactly hit the gentle old man next to me, so I just pinch my hands in my lap. I’m sure I’ve drawn blood by now. How could Jack do that to me? I know he was falling for me. Or I thought he was, anyway.
That’s why he’s a good recruiter. Jen was right. I couldn’t do the job, so he got rid of me.
I know he’ll be back at school in the fall, preying on some innocent girl, getting her to fall for him and then dumping her once he gets her to Monroe Street. Just like Jen. Maggie. Me. The list goes on.
I hate him. More than I ever despised Derrick or Bernadette or anyone else in my life who hurt me. Jack crept all the way into my heart and then smashed it.
Carlton Brownlow clears his throat. “The school is the same your mother went to. It’s private, one of the best in the country. What do you like to study?”
What do I like to study? Computer programming. I swallow hard and say “English lit” instead. My voice sounds weird, squeaky.
He starts talking about how he minored in English lit in college, but I don’t hear most of what he says. My eyes are now drawn to the neighborhood we’re driving through. Massive houses are set back from the road with long driveways and almost unnaturally green lawns, some with fountains, all with wrought iron gates.
The car slows and turns into the driveway of the last home. It is closer to the street than the other homes, flanked by huge oak trees.
“Olivia?” the old man says kindly. “This is my home. Your home.”
This is my new home? When the car stops, I stay frozen to the seat for a moment. I thought Bernadette and Marc’s house was huge. I thought Monroe Street was like a castle. But this obscene display of wealth can’t be real.
The driver opens my door as I take in the hulking mansion. The pristine white columns stretch up three stories. It’s like one of those pictures of the old Southern plantation homes in the history books, minus the horse and carriage.
“You live by yourself?” I ask.
He laughs. “Well, sort of. There’s a wing in the house for the servants.”
Servants? Who calls people servants? I guess old men with a buttload of money can call people whatever they want.
The driver takes my suitcase from the trunk and smiles at me.
“Olivia, this is James.”
Oh, well, of course he’d have a chauffeur named James. I’m convinced now that I’m in a really weird dream. Maybe Jack will be there when I wake up…
I follow James and the man who is my grandfather into the house. I’m prepared for a huge entryway, so I’m not completely shocked by the extravagant foyer.
I am, however, blown away by the grand marble staircase leading up to the next floor, then the one that climbs above it. I feel so insignificant in this massive house. If I lived here, I’d go insane.
Of course, I do live here now, so maybe I will go crazy.
A short, round woman appears from nowhere, her plump face one big smile. “Olivia,” she says in a surprisingly deep voice. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
“This is Mrs. Bedwin, our housekeeper. She’s been with our family for a very long time,” Carlton Brownlow says.
Mrs. Bedwin wraps her arms around my shoulders in a big hug. I’m too surprised by her familiarity to pull away. She is warm and friendly and smells of rosemary and cinnamon. Okay, I’ll go with it, since I’m dreaming anyway.
“Oh, she looks just like her mother did at that age,” Mrs. Bedwin says to the old man. He nods.
“I wouldn’t know,” I mutter, but no one seems to hear me.
Mrs. Bedwin takes my bag from James and offers to show me to my room. I follow her up the wide staircase, as out of place as Alice in Wonderland.
Down a long hallway, she stops at the fourth door and turns the handle. “This is your room. I didn’t have much time, so it’s a little plain, but I thought you and I could sit down to look at paint and fabric to come up with something that is more you.” She pushes the door open.
The room is about three times the size of my room at Bernadette’s. In fact, it’s about the size of some of the foster homes I’ve stayed in. I walk over to the four-poster bed and sit on the flowery comforter, taking in the mauve walls and floral print on the settee. Not my taste, but if I were to decorate according to how I feel right now, the room would be painted black.
Mrs. Bedwin is watching me closely, so I say, “Thank you. It’s really nice.” It’s like déjà vu. I just did this a few short months ago at the Carters’. And again at Monroe Street.
Just another house, another place to sleep for as long as it lasts.
Mrs. Bedwin smiles and points to a door behind me. “Your bathroom connects to this room. Like I said, feel free to make this as comfortable as you’d like. It’s been a while since I’ve had teens around, so I don’t know what your tastes are. Paint it black, if you want.”
She grins. Maybe she reads minds. That would make as much sense as everything else. “Thank you,” is all I say again.
When Mrs. Bedwin leaves me to “get comfortable,” I approach a set of French double doors on the other side of the room’s sitting area. I turn the latch and pull the doors open to a balcony. A light breeze sweeps across my face as I walk to the railing and cross my arms over it, peering down. It looks onto the quiet street, semi-blocked by one of the huge oak trees. It’s so peaceful here. It’s perfect within the surreal confines of this dream.
But when the dream ends and I wake up, what will I have?
Not Jack.
Not love.
Just myself and the longing for something that no longer exists.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“The regret of no recent separation was fresh in his mind; the absence of no loved and well-remembered face sank heavily into his heart.”
–Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist
Jack
During the next weeks, I move around Monroe Street like a zombie, not saying much to anyone. The times I don’t spend working, I’m on my Ducati, trying to steer clear of the rest of my family. I can’t take their sympathetic looks, their ridiculous attempts to cheer me up. Most of them think Liv ran. They have no idea I chased her away. Sam knows what really happened and makes several attempts to draw me out, to talk to me, but I ignore her, too.
A light tapping sounds at my door. I ignore it, knowing that whoever it is will eventually give up and go away like every other time.
“Z, open up,” Nancy’s voice calls, startling me. She never visits me here. “You can’t stay in there forever.”
I hear several clicking noises, then the door opens. I forget how good she is at opening locked doors. I swivel my chair around to face the window, laptop across my legs. The hot summer sun streams through the panes, baking my face. I don’t care.
Nancy places a hand on my shoulder. “She’s gone. It’s what you wanted, what you needed to do. I know you miss her, but this has gone on long enough. Talk to me.”
I remain still, withdrawn. “Jack,” she finally says softly,
touching my cheek gently. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
I don’t know if it’s the motherly touch or that she used my name for the first time in seven years, but I lean into her and let her stroke my hair as if I’m a small child. It’s a feeling that’s surprisingly more comforting than annoying.
“I made a mistake, letting her go,” I manage to say, my voice cracking from disuse.
“You didn’t, and you know you didn’t. Liv doesn’t belong here. She has family,” Nancy says. I had told her about Liv’s grandfather when I returned. And she helped me cover with Bill. “She should be safe. Bill doesn’t know who she is. He believes she just ran away.”
I know this, but I can’t stop hating myself for letting her go.
“Come on,” she says. “You look like hell. You need to take a shower and shave. And eat something. You’re getting skinny.”
I wait until she’s left the room before I go into my bathroom and look at my reflection. She’s right; I do look like hell. I run my hand along the whiskers on my cheeks and chin. Maybe I should switch to the grunge look. Fits my grunge feelings at the moment. I shake my head and start the shower.
Downstairs, the warm aroma of bacon and eggs is inviting for someone who’s avoided eating much for so long. At the table, everyone except Nancy looks surprised at my sudden, and maybe clean, appearance. Not that I care what they think. I slouch in one of the chairs and Jen immediately sits next to me. Her hand is on my knee, slowly moving upward under my shorts. Why not, I think to myself, eyeing the deep line of cleavage beneath her tank as she leans over to get the salt. It’d be easy, no strings attached.
Why not? Because I’m not interested.
I push her hand away and move to the other side of the table, ignoring the daggers her eyes are casting my way. I have no idea why she still wants me, considering the way I treated her.
After breakfast, Sam corners me as I head toward my bike. She looks around to make sure no one is listening, then asks, “How is she?” in a low voice.
“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to her since she left.”
Sam’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “You haven’t even texted to see how she’s doing?”
“Have you?”
“No. Nancy asked me not to. But come on, I’m sure you’ve peeked in on her or something.”
I run my fingers through my hair. She’s so nosy. But then, Sam really did like Liv, even if she never approved of our relationship. At least she’s stopped being angry that I let Liv go. “Yeah, I checked on her once. She’s fine.”
The one day I went to see her, I sat for a long time on my bike beneath the cover of a large oak across from the house. She was reading on her balcony, twisting her soft brown hair over one shoulder, as she tended to do when she was deep in thought. I watched her for almost an hour, feeling like a stalker. I knew it would only make things worse, but I didn’t care. I just couldn’t bring myself to call to her.
Sam sighs. “I’m glad she’s okay.” She cocks her head to one side. “Are you?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
She nods, but I know she doesn’t believe me. It’s strange, but I get the feeling she misses me. Still, she drops it and lets me leave.
I get on my bike and ride around aimlessly for a while, almost surprised when I find myself at the river. I park and follow the path to the waterfall, stripping off my clothes and sinking into the cold, clear water. It’s invigorating on my tired skin. I lie back in the water for a while, unable to clear my thoughts from the web of Liv. Her smile, her eyes, her kindness—everything haunts me. I’ve become useless—completely estranged from myself. And I can’t stand it. It would have been better if I had used and dumped her.
I wish she’d never come into my life. I wish I’d never let Sam talk me into twisting her.
I wade out of the pool and pull my clothes on, not caring that I’m getting them wet. I’ve got to see her, if she’s willing. I have to.
…
Liv
Three weeks and I still walk around in a fog, though mostly because I feel like a square peg in a round hole in this new life. Servants are always close at hand in case I need anything—new linens, lunch, even Starbucks lattes if I want. It’s disconcerting to say the least. They’re all polite and friendly, but they look at me like I’m some sad orphan from Annie. All except Mrs. Bedwin, who at least treats me like a member of the family, not whispering behind my back or tiptoeing around me like I might break.
My grandfather works most of the time, but we meet for lunch two days each week, more if he knows he’ll be late for dinner. He says he can’t stand the idea of me being alone all the time. He’s tried taking me shopping, to a play, to dinners at his country club. He’s tried introducing me to his friends’ granddaughters, but even though they’re polite, I haven’t really made a connection with any of them.
He tries different conversation starters with me. I’m respectful enough to answer his questions about school and stuff, but I don’t get into details about my past. I don’t want or need to open up to anyone. Not now, and maybe not ever.
I admit that I’m growing to like him more, though. He’s kind, the type of person who doesn’t understand how people can hurt each other. I know my mother hurt him when she ran away, but he never says anything other than wonderful things about her.
“Aggie shut down when my Olivia died,” my grandfather told me once. “That’s when she stopped calling her friends, when she started associating with kids I didn’t approve of. I made it pretty clear to her, especially about that one boy…”
He stopped short, flushing when he realized he was talking about my father. I didn’t care. I didn’t know my father, and since my mother ended up on the streets soon after she left, I’m guessing he sucked as a person. And I’ve kept the darkest side of his “sweet Aggie” from him. He doesn’t need to know she was pimping herself out, that she died of an overdose right in the middle of the street with her own little girl watching.
Grandfather doesn’t ask about my past, I’ll give him that. He made a comment when I first moved in about believing in fresh starts.
I once believed that, too. If I had met him before Jack, it might’ve been very different.
Jack. I spend my evenings staring out into the distance from my balcony. Once I thought I saw him on his motorcycle. It was dark, though, and I couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t someone else. And even though my grandfather gave me a new cell phone, I keep the old one charged up. I don’t have a clue as to why. It’s not like Jack will ever call. It’s not like I even want him to.
Mrs. Bedwin seems more understanding. She doesn’t bug me except for general questions about my health and comfort. She did find out over dinner that my favorite foods were tacos and pasta with meatballs, and now they’re on the weekly menu. Sometimes she tells me stories about my mother. The girl she describes sounds nothing at all like the sad, thin woman who never smiled.
I know my grandfather is disappointed that I haven’t gone out of my way to fit in here, but I appreciate that he’s trying to give me space. I can at least read in my room now without him hovering nearby like he did the first week, asking Mrs. Bedwin if I’m feeling okay. I could hear her through the door, telling him it’ll just take time. I don’t know about that. I guess I appreciate his effort, but a lifetime of shit can’t be washed away with tacos and a few smiles.
A knock sounds at my door, and Mrs. Bedwin pops her head in. “Mr. Brownlow wants to know if you can meet him for lunch today,” she says.
“I guess,” I say without enthusiasm, my eyes returning to Sense and Sensibility. I’ve read this book twice already, but it’s an easy escape without having to think.
Mrs. Bedwin sits next to me on the bed and smooths my hair over my shoulder. “You can’t shut him out forever, you know,” she says. “He loves you. He wants to get to know you.”
She gently removes the book from my hands and folds it over on the bed. “Olivia, your grandfather is trying. He ju
st needs a little help from you. I’m afraid I insist.”
I gape at this usually quiet, unassuming woman. “You insist?”
She smiles, but her smile is of steel. “Yes. I don’t like to see him sad. So you will go to lunch, you’ll talk with him about something. Anything. Sports, music, art, theater, books, whatever you want. But you will talk.”
I groan and bury my head in my blanket, but she’s unmoved. “James will be ready in thirty minutes.” She strokes my hair again. “I’m not going to pretend to know what you’re going through,” she says. “But I watched your mother spiral down into the black pit of depression before she left. I can’t watch you do the same. Especially not at your age.”
She stands up. “Your grandfather loves you, Olivia. All he wants in return is for you to start living your life.”
She leaves, closing the door behind her. I hug my pillow close. Start living my life—a lifestyle of legitimate wealth and privilege—without Jack. Just like I’m sure he’s doing without me.
I walk over to my dresser and stare at the cell Nancy gave me. It’s plugged into the charger as always, with no incoming calls or text notifications. I unplug it and drop it into my top dresser drawer. I don’t intend on recharging it again.
…
Lunches with my grandfather usually happen at stuffy cafés near his office. I’ve picked through my fair share of salads and am practically a connoisseur of cucumber sandwiches and salad dressings.
But today, James drops me off at a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant, several streets away from his office in a shopping district. At first I question him, sure he’s got the wrong place, but he says, “No, ma’am, this is where Mr. Brownlow said to meet you.”
My grandfather is sitting on the bench just inside the door, reading a paper and looking completely out of place in his business suit and tie. Other patrons are wearing shorts and T-shirts.
“Ah, Olivia,” he says, smiling and standing. “We’re ready,” he says to the hostess, who escorts us to a small wobbly table near the window.
“Well, this is different,” I say, smiling slightly at the sight of the old man trying to look dignified as he slides into the red vinyl seat of the booth.