Safe With Me Part 2

She starts down the street at an easy pace, relieved as her deepening breaths cause the claws in her lungs to retract. The sun is shining in a clear blue sky-a day so similar to the one of Emily's accident, Hannah stumbles as she makes the connection. She spent the anniversary of her daughter's death in the dark of her apartment, beneath the covers of her bed, feeling as though her every breath might be her last. Now, she focuses on the air moving in and out of her body, her feet pounding on the pavement, heel to toe, blood rushing through her veins and into her heart. She wasn't a runner before Emily died. She'd loathed exercise actually, never comprehending the ma.s.ses who poured in and out of the gym. "I'll run if someone is chasing me with a knife," she used to joke with her clients who espoused the glory of released endorphins. "My endorphins aren't imprisoned," she said. "They're peaceful protesters."

Now, though, running is her medicine. The only way to calm her nerves, to keep her focused on something other than what she's lost. One foot in front of the other, one breath at a time.

When Hannah returns to the house an hour later, the rest of the work crew has arrived. Hammers slam against wood; nail guns spit out metal into the walls. The bamboo floorboards went in yesterday, and the bright white trim around the doors and windows should be finished today. Then, the four vanities with matching mirrors that Hannah found at an antique shop up in Anacortes can be taken out of storage and set up as workstations for her and her other stylists. She loves the contrast of the warm cherrywood set against freshly painted periwinkle walls. The flyers she sent out in a ma.s.s mailing last week announced the grand opening for August fifteenth. That gave them six days to get the rest of the work done, and with the way things looked now, they might be cutting it close.

Carl, the general contractor, stands in what will be the clients' restroom, looking over the blueprints with Mike. He looks up when she comes through the door. "Just the woman I need to see," he says.

She nods. "Let me grab some water first." Sweat drips down her forehead; once in the small kitchen, she wipes it away with a paper towel, then pours herself a big gla.s.s of water from the pitcher in the fridge, gulping it down in one long swallow.

"Okay," she says as she approaches Carl and Mike again. "I'm all yours."

"Promises, promises," Carl says with a silly wiggle of his thick blond eyebrows. Hannah manages a small smile. He holds out the blueprints for her perusal. "Okay. So, Mike is installing the vanity for the sink today. I just need to know if you're good with where the plumbing comes in."

Instead of looking at the schematics, which she doesn't know how to read, Hannah eyes the pipes that are already through the wall. "Looks fine to me. It's such a small s.p.a.ce; I want to be sure the door isn't going to hit anything when a client opens it."

"It won't," Mike a.s.sures her, reaching over to pat her arm. Hannah jerks away from his touch. Since Emily died, she feels as though her skin is on inside out, all her nerves exposed. Physical contact, except from those she already loves and trusts, is excruciating. Mike raises a single eyebrow at her, but she averts her eyes from his, instead focusing on Carl.

"I'll be upstairs if you need me again," she says, her voice wobbly and thin. Don't cry, she thinks. Don't, don't, don't. She spins around, feeling their gaze upon her as she ascends the stairs. The small bit of peace she felt during her run has evaporated.

The phone rings as she is running the water for her shower. She hesitates only a moment before turning the water back off and grabbing it. After Emily's funeral, she went through a phase of not answering her calls, which only led to the callers coming to her house to make sure she was okay. Verbal check-ins were still easier than face-to-face visits, so she has learned to always answer the d.a.m.n phone.

"Good morning, Sophie," she says and drops to sit on the closed toilet seat.

"Good morning, love," Sophie says. "How are you?"

"I'm good," she answers. "Just got back from my run."

"Are we on schedule for opening?" Sophie asks.

"Looks like it," Hannah says. Initially, she and Sophie had planned to manage the renovation of the new salon together, but a few months after Emily's accident, Hannah latched on to the tasks of finding the right architect and contractor, of obtaining permits and designs, as a way to keep her mind busy. Spinning on thoughts of construction was the only thing that kept the grief at bay. Hannah decided the best way to stay on top of the project was to actually stay on top of it. Unable to live in the house she had shared with her daughter, she moved into the upstairs apartment of the new location. Hannah couldn't stand the emptiness of that house without Emily in it; she couldn't look at the street where Emily was. .h.i.t without spiraling into hysterics or being overcome by rage toward the woman who'd killed her. It was an accident, Hannah knew. The police determined that the woman wasn't intoxicated and that she hadn't been speeding-witnesses confirmed that Emily really did shoot out from the driveway-so there were no criminal charges filed. And yet there were moments when Hannah couldn't help but blame the woman. On her worst days, she hated her. It didn't matter that the woman's insurance company was paying out substantial death benefits to Hannah. All that mattered was that Emily was gone.

After Emily's small funeral, Hannah had the majority of their things moved into storage and rented the home to an older couple who had no children. Seeing Emily's friends around the neighborhood after the memorial was too much for Hannah. They wanted to talk with her about Emily, to have Hannah offer them some kind of comfort in their grief, but she couldn't give that to them. She couldn't even give it to herself. Their visits reminded her too much of all she'd lost. When she moved, she felt relieved, like the cramped apartment somehow contained her sorrow. Kept it from overrunning her life. She welcomed the constant noise below her, the Skilsaws and sanders. She liked the idea of starting over, refinishing the old to make room for the new.

Sophie seemed to understand Hannah's inability to continue to work at the downtown Ciseaux, where Emily had grown up, where she had taken her first steps and played dress-up in front of the mirrors. For now, her savings and the death benefit payments are more than enough to cover the cost of renovation and give Hannah some to live on. Sophie agreed to be a silent partner at this location, with Hannah running the day-to-day operations.

"Your clients keep asking for you," Sophie says now. "They miss you."

"They can come see me here," Hannah responds with a sigh. The truth is, she hates the idea of seeing her clients again-the pity on their faces at Emily's funeral had been enough. She wants to exist in a new world with new clients, women who don't know that Emily is dead. Women whose mouths won't screw up into dark frowns and who won't ask how she is doing. What does that mean, exactly? How do they think she is doing? Her daughter is dead. A hard knot forms in her throat, and Hannah swallows around its sharp edges.

"Hey, Soph," she says, attempting to sound cheery. "I was just about to jump in the shower. Can I call you back?"

"I'll just see you later this afternoon, darling. The meeting with the caterer for the opening?"

"Oh . . . right. Of course." Like Mike's name, Hannah had forgotten this. With the launch of the new salon next week, they are planning a catered open house to welcome clientele to the location, but Hannah has yet to decide on a menu. Party planning is more Sophie's thing, so she asked her partner to join her. "I'll see you at three, then."

"Two, actually," Sophie says gently, and Hannah smiles.

"What would I do without you, Soph?"

"Good thing you don't have to find out."

They hang up, and Hannah strips off her clothes. As steam fills the bathroom, she moves her fingers across her belly, brushing over the stretched, soft skin and silvery lines that carrying Emily created. She wishes she had more scars than these. She wishes the evidence of her pain were somewhere other than inside her body, believing that if other people could actually see how deeply she is wounded, they'd know to just leave her alone.

Climbing into the tiled shower, she stands under the hot water, letting it scald her skin. For some reason, she thinks about the cars she saw on the road during her run this morning. She watched the drivers talk on their cell phones and sip from their Starbucks coffee cups-how they took everything for granted. She wanted to warn them, to tell them how quickly everything can change, but she knew it was useless. There's simply no telling whose life will be touched by tragedy. There is only a before and an after, with no way to predict the moment when one is over and the other begins.

Olivia.

During the months that James traveled to Tampa to see Olivia on the weekends, he talked a lot about what it was like to live in Seattle. "It gets a bad rap because of all the rain," he told her, "but it's actually really beautiful. More shades of green than I can name."

"I'd love to see it sometime," Olivia said, hoping she wasn't being too presumptuous. The truth was she wanted to visit the city so she could have a better picture of what he was doing when he wasn't with her. She could pull up vague mental images of him surrounded by people wearing galoshes and holding umbrellas as he strolled around the base of the s.p.a.ce Needle or stood on the deck of a ferry, but that was pretty much the limit of her visual knowledge about the Pacific Northwest.

"You will," he a.s.sured her. "But your mother needs you here, doesn't she? It's easier for me to come to you."

Reluctantly, she agreed with him. She couldn't afford a private nurse for her mother, and since they were only dating at the time, there was no way she would let James foot that kind of bill, even if he'd offered. So it wasn't until they were newlyweds that Olivia saw James's house. She gasped as their driver pressed the b.u.t.ton for the automatic gate to open, allowing her a view of the imposing structure at the end of the road. The house was hers, too, she supposed, now that they were married. Married, she thought. I'm twenty-three years old and married to an amazing, accomplished man. A man who adores me and has promised to take care of my every need.

It was a new experience for her, being cared for. Since her parents divorced when she was five and her father decided he'd rather not bother spending time with his daughter, it had always been just Olivia and her mother. "We're better off without him," Olivia's mother said. They'd struggled over the years, trying to make ends meet, but her mother insisted that she'd never marry again-that overall, men weren't worth the bother of having them around. "They take what they want from you and then spit you back out," she told Olivia more than once. "They use you up and then throw you away."

Her mother's bitterness lingered in the air of their tiny apartment like secondhand smoke. Olivia did her best to not breathe it in, to believe that someday, she might find a man who would fall in love with her. She promised herself that when she got married, it would be forever. She remembered her mother constantly picking at her dad, screaming at him over silly things like him not taking out the garbage, and a small part of Olivia blamed her mother for her father's abandonment of them both. She swore that someday, she'd be a sweet, gentle wife who never yelled, so her husband would never leave. She pictured herself living with him-cooking for him and climbing into his bed at night, giving birth to their children, growing old in the house they picked out together. Years of watching L.A. Law with her mother primed Olivia for the idea of becoming a lawyer-she fantasized that she and her husband might work at the same firm, defending clients together. She tried to believe that she didn't have to share her mother's fate.

Later, after high school, the few men she dated before James were just boys, wanting to split the check and wait for Olivia to call them instead of picking up the phone themselves. They wanted to "hook up" and "hang out," vague relationship descriptors that left Olivia wondering if her mother was right-if any man was capable of true commitment. But James was different. James opened doors for her and pulled out her chair; he sent her long-stemmed red roses and helped her with her coat. He made her feel valuable and special. She glowed beneath the pleasure of his attentions.

"You're lucky he's rich," her mother observed, after meeting James for the first time. "He can take care of you."

"I don't care about his money," Olivia said, feeling her face grow hot. It was clear her mother didn't believe her, but Olivia spoke the truth. The fact that James had money seemed beside the point. What mattered to Olivia was that he wanted a happy, loving marriage as much as she did. "I'm ready to settle down," he told her after just a few weeks of dating. "I want to have the family my parents never gave me."

It surprised her, at first, that James pursued her so fervently, since it was obvious with his money and level of success, he could have any woman he wanted. "I'm not sure what you see in me," she said, feeling a little shy. She knew she was pretty, but she was far from the polished women with whom she knew James worked and socialized.

"I see your determination," he answered. "I see how kind you are and what an amazing mother you'll make. I see that you might teach me to be a better person."

His words pleased Olivia; she loved that for all his sophistication, he felt as though she had something to teach him, too. Just a few months later, she agreed to marry him in a quick civil ceremony at the Tampa courthouse. "Who needs all the fuss of a big wedding?" James asked, and while a part of Olivia would have loved that kind of fuss-it was, after all, the only wedding she ever planned to have-it seemed that after everything he'd already done for her, asking for him to pay for an event like that would seem greedy. He took her to Paris for their honeymoon, and they took moonlit walks along the Seine, sipped wine and ate b.u.t.tery croissants in their enormous hotel bed, made love two or three times a day. Afterward, James would rest his head on Olivia's chest and she would run her fingers through his thick hair until his breaths slowed and deepened and he fell asleep. Olivia had never felt so content.

One evening, after just such a moment, Olivia tried to slip out from under the weight of him in order to use the bathroom, but James held on to her tightly. "No," he said. "I won't let you go."

She softened her body and gave him a little squeeze. "Just for a minute, love. I'll be right back." In her experience, most men were afraid of their emotions; she loved how vulnerable he was with her, how willing he was to express how he felt.

He looked up at her with so much love in his eyes, she was almost startled by its intensity. "I need you, Liv. I need you so much."

"I need you, too," she said, feeling as though she was the luckiest girl in the world.

A week later, they arrived in Seattle, and James smiled at her in the back of the limousine as the heavy gate closed behind them. "What do you think?" he asked as they traveled up the driveway to the house.

Olivia couldn't respond, still staring at the red-brick palace before them. It was three stories high with several turrets, a circular driveway, and a detached five-car garage. Towering maples flanked each side of the building, and a large marble fountain served as centerpiece to the extensive grounds. A tall, black iron fence enclosed the entire property-wired to shock the h.e.l.l out of anyone who tried to scale it, James told her. She knew James was well-off, but he hadn't made clear the exact level of his fortune. Olivia felt like it would have been in poor taste to ask for specifics.

The driver parked the car, then came around to open Olivia's door. Both she and James climbed out of the vehicle and stood beside it. "Welcome home, baby," he said, and then he kissed her, pushing his body hard against hers, making her feel drunk with arousal. When he finally pulled away, Olivia gave him a wicked smile.

"Let's make love in every room," she said, and immediately, James's body went stiff. He gripped her forearm until tears flooded her eyes.

"Don't talk like that in front of the staff," he growled. "I don't want them thinking my new wife's a s.l.u.t." He released her arm, then smiled again, a wide easy motion, leaning down to kiss her cheek. "Come on, beauty. Let's get you cleaned up and I'll tell the cook to get dinner started. I asked her to stock all of your favorites. Chicken Caesar salad sounds good, doesn't it?"

Stunned, Olivia swallowed back her tears and nodded. Did my husband just call me a s.l.u.t? The moment had happened so quickly, she wondered if she had imagined it. She glanced down at her arm then, and there it was: the bright red imprint of his fingers. She rubbed it, as though trying to erase the evidence. He's just tired, she told herself. He didn't mean anything by it. She promised herself to do as he asked, to be cautious of how she spoke in front of the people who worked for him. A man at his level of success had an image to maintain, and it was her job as his wife to support that. This was why he'd taken her on a shopping spree in Paris, helping her pick out an entirely new wardrobe: simple straight skirts, tailored slacks, and a rainbow of gloriously soft cashmere sweater sets. He bought her diamond stud earrings and a pearl necklace. "You know I already love how you look," he told her. "I only want you to have the best of everything." When she protested that she didn't need him to buy her so much, he shushed her. "It makes me happy to be able to give it to you," he said, and Olivia decided that she would do whatever it took to make him happy, too.

After he showed her their room-a master suite with an enormous walk-in closet and private bathroom all her own-she showered, dressing simply in a pale yellow sundress, then found her way back down the curved staircase into the dining room. A tall, slightly homely woman in a black chef's coat was placing a large salad on the table, but Olivia didn't greet her, afraid James might walk in and hear her saying the wrong thing. The woman pressed her lips together and nodded at Olivia, then exited the room.

She took a moment to absorb the simple, luxurious beauty of the s.p.a.ce: creamy white walls were accented by crimson drapes. An enormous, brushed-nickel-framed mirror hung opposite the French doors that led out onto an extensive patio. This room alone was bigger than the tiny apartment she'd shared with her mother; its opulence outweighed any other home she'd ever entered. Walking over to the doors, Olivia stared out across the property on the backside of the house, which held a kidney-shaped, sparkling blue pool and what looked to be a modest but lovely guest cottage. She wondered briefly why James had never suggested bringing her mother with them, since he obviously had an appropriate separate living s.p.a.ce, but then she brushed away the thought, knowing she should be grateful for everything he had done, both for her and for her mother.

"What do you think?" James asked, and Olivia put a splayed hand over her chest, whipping around to face him.

"Oh G.o.d, don't sneak up on me like that!" she exclaimed. "You scared me!"

"Sorry, darling. Bare feet on marble floors don't make much sound."

She dropped her arm back to her side. "Bear feet? I thought you had people feet."

James smiled indulgently at her silly play on words. "Let's eat, shall we?" He gestured toward the table and Olivia stepped over to it, sitting down in the chair he held out for her. She felt small in this high-ceilinged room, out of place in a house that was supposed to be her new home. I'll get used to it, she rea.s.sured herself, then forced a smile at James, who was filling her plate, then his, with greens and thin slices of chicken breast. She watched him pour the dressing over his salad, then asked him to please pa.s.s it to her. He tilted his head the slightest bit to the side. "Are you sure you should have any? You had that scone for breakfast."

His tone was gentle, but still, Olivia sucked in a tiny breath, suddenly self-conscious. Am I getting fat? They'd eaten out at so many fantastic restaurants in Tampa, indulging over candlelight dinners in b.u.t.tery pastas and rich desserts. Perhaps it was time for her to scale back her diet. She smiled and nodded at him. "That's right. I probably shouldn't."

He smiled, reached over and squeezed her hand, then pa.s.sed her a bowl filled with quartered lemons. "Here," he said. "With these and a little pepper, you won't even miss the dressing."

Now, thinking back to her arrival into James's world, Olivia is dumbfounded by how easily she overlooked those red-flag moments. She sits at the same dining room table almost two decades later, and wonders how different her life would have been if she had walked out right then, that first day in this house. If she had stood up when he refused her the salad dressing and told him to go f.u.c.k himself. If she had understood that that was only the beginning of what she would face.

But then she looks at their daughter, born just a year after they married, sitting across from her now with bright eyes, rosy cheeks, and a properly functioning liver-so much stronger and healthier a year after the transplant-and she knows that every sacrifice she has made has been worth it. Staying was the right thing to do. If she tries to leave now, there's no doubt that James will file for full custody of Maddie, so Olivia knows that she can't walk out the door until her daughter turns eighteen. She almost lost Maddie once-she won't risk it again.

"But I don't want to go to an actual school," Maddie says to her father, who is sitting, as always, at the head of the table, the two of them flanking him. "What's the point?"

"The point is, you are healthy enough to start living a normal life," James says, aiming a thick finger at his daughter. "The point is, I'm your father, and I say it's time for you to start living in the real world with real people instead of being on that d.a.m.n computer all the time."

"She only has two years left until she graduates," Olivia says quietly. "Maybe she'll be fine with the tutor." She and James agreed that for the first year after Maddie's transplant, she would continue to be schooled at home so she could heal more effectively and be at less risk for infection. But now that her health is so much better, he is insistent that she attend Eastside Prep, the same elite, private high school he attended over thirty-five years ago.

"Maybe you shouldn't b.u.t.t into a conversation I'm having with my daughter," James snaps, and Maddie's eyes grow wide. Olivia cringes, hating it when her daughter witnesses James's temper; she'd sheltered Maddie as much as possible from his darker side.

"Mom's right," Maddie says, dropping her fork to her plate with a clatter. "I've done fine with Mrs. Beck. I aced my SATs, right? I even took them early. That's because of her."

James shakes his head. "That's because you're brilliant, like your father." He winks at Maddie, who only frowns. Olivia breathes a silent sigh of relief that the pendulum of his mood seems to have swung back in a positive direction. To make sure it stays there, she decides the best thing she can do in that moment is to back up her husband.

"I think maybe your dad has a point, honey," Olivia says, tucking her hair behind one ear. "You are brilliant, but you missed out on so much while you were sick. I don't think you even realize how much." She glances at James, who gives her a brief, approving nod. The knot in her stomach that formed when he snapped at her relaxes.

Maddie rolls her eyes. "Yes, I do, Mom. I get it. I spent the last eight years doing nothing but think about everything I was missing. But that's totally my point. I already missed it." She waves a dismissive hand in the air in front of her. "Going to some stuck-up prep school where all the kids have known each other since they were like, in diapers would only make it worse. I'd be the weird, puffy girl who's carrying around a dead girl's liver inside her. I'd be a freak."

"That's not true," Olivia says. "And the only way people would know about the transplant is if you told them."

Maddie sighs. "As I'm taking eight hundred pills a day to ward off rejection. Sure, no one will notice that."

Olivia tries again, ignoring her daughter's exaggeration. "Well, some of the kids you'll know from elementary school. Maybe you can reconnect with old friends."

"Yeah, right," Maddie says. "Like the bonding we did over Play-Doh and hopscotch will just carry right on over to being BFFs now."

"Enough!" James bellows, startling both Olivia and Maddie. His eyes go dark as he glares at them; his brows furrow together into a deep V. Olivia can see the muscles along his jaw working in a tight motion, and she knows this means he is trying to restrain himself. She braces herself for what might come next.

After a moment, he shoves his chair back from the table and stands, pulls on his jacket, then walks over to Maddie. As he puts his hand on the back of her neck, Maddie freezes. Olivia holds her breath. "You're already registered," he continues, a cool edge in his voice. "I let Mrs. Beck go with a generous severance package. When school starts next month, you will be there. End of discussion." He squeezes his fingers on her neck once, and Maddie flinches, closing her eyes. A single tear slips down her cheek, and Olivia's heart aches at the sight. They are both silent, hands in their laps, as James grabs his briefcase and strides out the door.

After he leaves, Maddie opens her eyes and looks at Olivia. "I hate him," she whispers.

"No, you don't," Olivia says. "You're angry with him. You're disappointed. You're scared." Feelings Olivia is all too familiar with when it comes to her husband.

"What a fantastic way to feel about my own father," Maddie says with a sniffle. "Please, Mom. Don't make me go."

"You'll be fine, I promise."

"No, I won't," Maddie groans. "I won't be able to stand it!"

Olivia twists her face into what she hopes is an encouraging smile. "Yes, you will," she says. "Believe me, honey. When it's for the right reason, you can handle more than you know."

Maddie.

My mother is wrong, I think as I stomp up the stairs to my bedroom. I do hate my father. If she had any backbone at all, she'd hate him, too. Slamming the door behind me, I grab my laptop and plop down on my bed, quickly logging in to Sierra's Facebook profile to write a status update. "Parents are soooo LAME," I type. "Why do they think they can control my life?!"

After a few people "like" the post, I decide it sounds too immature and I delete it. I've listed Sierra's age as twenty-one, and I'm pretty sure by that point, most girls aren't constantly b.i.t.c.hing about their parents. At least I hope not. Now that I'm fairly healthy, my plan is to get the h.e.l.l out of this house the minute I turn eighteen. Two more years of dealing with my father will be enough; now, I have to deal with five hundred other kids at a school I don't want to go to? Kids who won't know me or want to know me, because even though I feel better than I did a year ago, my hair is still stringy and my body has a weird shape. I'm not an hourgla.s.s; I'm a barrel.

This thought is too depressing to deal with, so I decide to log in to my favorite gaming site instead. I discovered Zombie Wars about six months ago, when I was still stuck in bed a good part of the day and about to go out of my mind with boredom. It's an online, alternate reality game set after the apocalypse, where you can create an avatar to join forces with other players to fight brain-eating zombies. I thought it was a little dorky at first, but once I got past the first couple of levels, I really started to get into the challenge of playing. Like pretending to be Sierra on Facebook and Twitter, I could pretend to be a b.u.t.t-kicking zombie a.s.sa.s.sin who might just save the world. Maybe it was dorky, but it was definitely better than numbing my brain with daytime TV.

I click on my profile's inbox to see if any other avatars have interacted with mine, and suddenly, an instant message pops up on my screen: "Hey Sierra. I'm Dirk. Saw you take down that giant zombie yesterday with one shot between the eyes. Nice work. Want to build an alliance?"

My fingers poise over the keyboard, hesitant. I tend to only message with other girls in the game, forming virtual friendships with people I will likely never meet, but this is the first time my avatar has been contacted by a boy. How could I not respond? His avatar is handsome, a blond-haired, black-leather-clad boy with bright blue eyes and a strong jaw. It's almost eerie, how human he looks. In Zombie Wars, you can design how prominent you want your cheekbones, the shape and color of your eyes. Computer graphics are getting crazy realistic, and it's totally what I want to major in when I get to college.

I check out his avatar again and wonder if he's this attractive in person or if, like me, he has a reason to hide behind the screen. "Thanks," I type, and for some reason, my heartbeat speeds up. "I like yours, too. Been playing long?"

"Just a couple of months," he responds. "A friend turned me on to it, since he knows how obsessed I am with Zombieland."

"That's one of my favorite movies!"

"Best movie ever made. Well, beside The Matrix. And Star Wars." There is a pause, and then he sends me another message. "So, what do you think? Want to partner up?" He ends the question with a winking smiley face, and I blush.

"Sure," I reply, and before I can read his response, there is a loud knock on my bedroom door.

"Maddie, honey? Can I come in?" This is a new thing for my mom, having to ask to enter my room. When I was sick, she just came and went as she pleased, oftentimes even sleeping on the bed next to me instead of with my dad. But once I had the transplant and started feeling better, I asked her to knock, and-probably more difficult for her-to stay in her own bed.