Safe With Me Part 8

"I am," Olivia says.

Three hours later, after a trip to the gym and a quick shower, Olivia parks her car in front of Cafe Veloce and makes her way to the entrance. It's a warm September day-the air is sweet and the sun bathes everything in a golden light. The beauty of this season is one of Seattle's best-kept secrets, the reason why many natives are able to survive the other brutal months of near-constant rain. She sees Hannah already sitting at an outside table, and Olivia skips speaking to the hostess and joins her.

"Hi," she says, slipping into the black wrought-iron chair. "Nice to see you so soon."

"You, too." Hannah smiles and takes a quick sip of her iced tea. "Did you have any trouble finding it?"

Olivia shakes her head. "Not at all. GPS is a G.o.dsend." She picks up the menu, perusing the options. "What's good here?"

"I'm a big fan of the black-and-blue salad-blackened flank steak with blue cheese dressing. Or the grilled shrimp."

Olivia sets the menu back down and smiles. "The salad sounds perfect." Their server approaches and they both put in their orders. "So," Olivia says, wondering if she sounds as awkward as she feels. She's never been very good at this part-the small, getting-to-know-you chitchat. "Busy morning?"

Hannah nods. "But I have about an hour and a half before my next client."

"Did you always want to be a stylist?" Olivia asks, folding her hands on the table in front of her, taking in Hannah's delicate features, her wavy black hair and round, blue eyes. There is something so fragile about her-practically hollow-and Olivia knows that losing her daughter must have affected her deeply, carving away something fundamental from her personality. All of Hannah's decisions-like Olivia's-were likely made from one vantage point: that of being a mother. The times when Maddie was really ill, teetering on the brink of death, Olivia had often wondered how she would survive without Maddie there as the focus of all her actions, how she would learn to move through the world when her child was no longer there to guide her. She looks at Hannah and sees herself-the childless mother she might have been. It makes her feel as though she already knows Hannah, that in some way, perhaps they are meant to be friends.

"I did," Hannah says. "I used to braid the hair on the horses I grew up riding." She smiles. "I cut it once, too, much to my father's horror. Poor Blackie with his stubby tail."

Olivia laughs. "You grew up on a farm?"

"Yep. In Boise. But both my brother, Isaac, and I moved to Seattle after high school."

"And your husband?"

"I've never been married, actually," Hannah says, visibly flinching.

"Oh, wow," Olivia says, immediately backtracking. "I guess I just a.s.sumed . . . because of your daughter. I'm so sorry. I don't usually put my foot in my mouth so much, I swear." I apologize to James, constantly, too, Olivia realizes. It's her first line of defense with him-if she is properly penitent, she sometimes can keep his anger in check. This apologetic stance makes her feel ashamed of herself. It also makes her wonder once again what kinds of lessons she is teaching her daughter.

Hannah waves her hand in the air, as though to dismiss her concern. "You couldn't have known. I was engaged once, but it didn't work out and I didn't want to wait around for the right' relationship to become a mother. If I had, I never would have had Emily. I used a sperm donor."

Olivia takes a moment to digest this piece of information, thinking how much confidence it must have taken for Hannah to raise a child completely on her own.

The two of them take a few bites before speaking again. "This is wonderful," Olivia says, a little afraid to ask Hannah for details about what happened to her daughter, knowing from her own experience just how overwhelming it can be to discuss anything remotely painful having to do with your child.

"She was. .h.i.t by a car," Hannah says, as though what Olivia is thinking were written across her face. "I miss her every day." Her bottom lip trembles and she blinks away a few tears. "And I don't talk about it very much because when I do, it feels like it's happening all over again. Most people don't understand that. But with what you went through with Maddie . . . maybe you can."

Olivia sets her fork down and reaches across the table. She squeezes Hannah's hand, her heart aching for the pain she knows Hannah must be in, but also grateful that Hannah feels connected with her, too. "A little bit. We were very lucky to find a donor. A few more days and it would have been too late." Even now, even though Maddie is better, Olivia's throat still thickens when she speaks these words.

Hannah drops her gaze from Olivia's and pulls away, using the tip of her fork to toy with her salad. "Do you know . . ." She trails off, then starts again. "Do they tell you who the donor is?"

"Only general information." Olivia takes a quick sip of water before continuing. "Maddie really struggles with her guilt about that . . . that she lived and the other person didn't. She's too young to understand that life is rarely balanced or fair." Olivia wonders if she sounds as bitter as she sometimes feels about her life with James. And really, does she have a right to be bitter, considering she's the one who hasn't left him? She often imagines what other women would say, women who'd never been beaten by their husbands: I would have walked out the door the minute he raised a hand to me, they'd claim. I'd never put up with a man who hit me. Even if your child's life hung in the balance? Olivia would want to ask. Even if you would likely lose custody of your daughter if you tried to walk away? She looks at Hannah, unaccustomed to discussing such intimate details of her life with other women-Waverly and Sara Beth kept everything on the surface, and Olivia tends to do the same. But something about Hannah feels different, and for the first time in years, she feels like she might be able to open up.

"No, it's not fair," Hannah says. She waits a beat, taking a quick sip of her iced tea. "Can you contact them at all? The donor's family?" Olivia flinches this time, and Hannah quickly speaks again. "I'm sorry. You don't have to say."

"That's okay," Olivia says, forcing a small smile. "Yes, we can contact them. But James-my husband-is a very private person. He'd rather we remain anonymous." A familiar pang of guilt strikes Olivia's chest as she thinks about the mother of the girl who saved Maddie's life, how much Olivia wants to thank her for the sacrifice she made. Her eyes fill with tears and she blinks them away.

"Oh," Hannah says, clearly taken aback.

"He only wants to protect us," Olivia hurries to explain, hating that she always feels as though she needs to make excuses for James's behavior. "If I had my way, I'd want to thank the family, for sure, but it's not really worth trying to argue with him, you know? Once he's made up his mind there's not much I can do." Olivia wonders if Hannah can see the anxiety she feels even discussing the possibility of going against her husband's wishes. She thinks back to the night not quite a year ago when James forbade her to send a thank-you to the donor family.

"I won't risk them coming after us for money," he said. "I've worked too long and too hard."

"I don't know why they would," Olivia said, attempting to reason with him.

James rolled over in their bed and gave her a cold look. "Are you saying I'm being paranoid?" Olivia rea.s.sured him that of course that wasn't what she was saying, and fortunately, she was a good enough actress that he believed her.

Now, she waits for Hannah to ask her why Olivia wouldn't even attempt to change her husband's mind and wonders how in the world she might respond. But Hannah doesn't ask this; instead, she asks, "How long have you been married?"

"Seventeen years." Olivia says this as though it is a jail sentence. "I met James in my early twenties, before I really even knew myself, I guess. And then we had Maddie so quickly . . ." She trails off, letting Hannah draw her own conclusions about the quality of her marriage. "I actually just registered for college today. Only one cla.s.s, but I'm planning to get my bachelor's degree in criminal justice." Olivia wants to reel her revelation back in almost immediately, unsure whether she can trust this woman she barely knows.

"Really?" Hannah lifts her thin brows and smiles. "That's wonderful."

"I haven't told James about it yet. We're . . . he's . . ." She takes another deep breath before continuing. "It's complicated. He wouldn't exactly approve. So please . . . if you don't mind keeping it to yourself . . ." Olivia can hear the rising panic in her voice, so she knows Hannah hears it, too. Hannah gives her a puzzled look, as though trying to sort out why Olivia would want to hide this information from her husband. And while it's not like Hannah even knows James, like she'd call him up to tattle, Olivia hopes it's clear to her new friend that her going back to school is not something she wants discussed with anyone else. But then Hannah speaks and puts Olivia's fears to rest.

"We all have our secrets," she says. "I promise, yours will be safe with me."

Maddie

On my second day of school, there is a piece of paper stuck to my locker. I grip the strap of my backpack tighter and slow my pace, wondering if someone crafted an image of what they thought a "Franken-babe" might look like and pasted it in the hallway for everyone's amus.e.m.e.nt. People mill around me, chatting and laughing, totally oblivious to the tears stinging the backs of my eyes. I knew a stupid haircut wouldn't make a difference. I got up an hour early this morning just so I'd have time to style it the way Hannah had shown me; I picked out what I thought was a pretty decent outfit of jeans and loose-fitting blue blouse-I even put on some of my mom's mascara and lip gloss, but none of it matters.

I keep my head down as I take the final few steps to stand in front of my locker. "Excuse me," I murmur to the couple of kids in my way, and finally, as they step aside, I put my shaking fingers on the combination lock and force myself to look up. It's a standard piece of white paper, eight and a half by eleven inches, and on it is a detailed cartoon sketch of a guy who appears to be Noah, kicking himself in the b.u.t.t. In the corner, written in tiny, chicken-scratch letters is this: I'll kick my own a.s.s so you don't have to. Sorry for being a jerk. Peace, Noah. Careful not to tear the paper, I take it off my locker, fold the small bits of tape over the edges, and read the words again.

"You like it?" Noah asks, and I whip my head to the right, realizing that he was hiding around the corner, watching me. Today he wears black skinny jeans and a black T-shirt with the words THINK OUTSIDE OF THE QUADRILATERAL PARALLELOGRAM beneath the picture of a cube.

"Yeah," I say, nodding. "You're a good artist."

"Thanks." He swishes his bangs out of his eyes and squints at me. "You changed your hair."

I nod again, and he smiles, showing his silver braces. "Nice." He pauses and I'm quiet, too, unsure of what to say. He glances down at the piece of paper in my hands, then looks back to me. "I am sorry if I hurt your feelings, you know. I've just never met someone like you."

"Someone like me, how?" I feel my face start to flush, bracing myself for another insult.

"Like, you defied death. Which is totally awesome."

I shift my backpack on my shoulder and smile. "I guess I'm just not really used to thinking about it that way." I pause. "Or talking about it with people I don't know. So what you said . . . what you called me . . . it kind of took me by surprise."

"Well, now you know me. And you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. I just didn't want you walking around thinking I'm a jerk."

"I don't," I say, a little surprised to realize that I mean this. A real jerk wouldn't admit he had been one-he would have pasted an actual picture of Frankenstein's monster on my locker instead of an apology.

"Cool." The muscles in his face visibly relax. "So, I'll see you in computer science?"

"Oh. Okay." I hadn't noticed him there yesterday, but that probably had to do with me avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room other than the teacher. I glance at the clock on the wall above my row of lockers. "I should probably get to cla.s.s."

"Yeah, me, too." He stiffens his posture and raises a single hand in a mock salute. "Later," he says, then takes off down the hall. People make mistakes, I think, and decide to try and let it go. There have been plenty of times I've said things to my mom that I didn't mean-words pop out of my mouth that I don't even know I'm thinking. I wonder if my dad has ever apologized to Mom for all the times he's said she is stupid or fat; I also wonder if at this point, if he did, would she even be able to forgive him?

After I hung up with Dirk last night, I heard my parents continue to fight in their room. My dad's low, rumbling voice reverberated through the walls. "You coddle her too much," he said. I couldn't hear my mother's response, but I did hear her sharp, strangled cry a moment later. My stomach clenched, certain that he had hit her again.

I don't understand why she lets him treat her this way-why she lies to herself, to me, about what he does to her. Knowing he hits her is like carrying a sharp black stone around in my chest. I'm afraid that someday, I'll take too deep a breath and it will slice my already damaged insides to shreds. I'm often torn between wishing my father were dead and being terrified that if I speak up to anyone-if I tell a counselor or call the police-his anger might turn toward me. And then I feel guilty for keeping my mouth shut, like I'm not the kind of person who deserves anything good. I wonder what the parents of the girl who gave me her liver would do if they knew how selfish I am-what lengths I go to in order to protect myself instead of my mother.

Last night, instead of going to help her, I lay on my back in bed with my bottom lip trembling, pulling the covers up to my chin and trying to pretend I didn't hear my mother crying. I stared at the ceiling, remembering when I was eleven and went through a phase of being fascinated with the solar system-entranced by a night sky I was so rarely healthy enough to step outside and see. Mom came home one afternoon with ten packages of those glow-in-the-dark sticky planets and stars. "For your very own universe," she said, then spent the afternoon climbing up and down a ladder, carefully adhering each and every sticker to the ceiling. A woman like her deserves better than my dad.

As I sit through my morning cla.s.ses, I try not to think too much about my parents. I try to listen to my teachers, but much of what they talk about I already learned from Mrs. Beck last year-I wonder if I can talk to the school counselor about graduating a year early.

I don't see Hailey until I'm in the lunchroom, after I've already stopped by the office and taken my meds. I'm waiting in line for the salad bar when I feel her standing next to me-or rather, I smell her-the sickeningly sweet scent of watermelon gum. She's flanked by two other girls, both as pretty as she is, one with wavy brown hair and the other, stick-straight blond.

"Hi, Maddie," Hailey says, popping a bubble inside her mouth with a loud snap. "This is Kyla"-she gestures to the blonde first-"and this is Jade." Both the girls nod at me, and I give a brief bob of my head, too. It seems safer than talking.

Hailey peers at me. "Your hair looks way better."

"Thanks," I say, gripping my tray tightly so it doesn't shake. I hate that smug look on her face, like she's well aware that the only reason I changed my hair was what she said to me about it yesterday. She is wearing a short black skirt and tight white sweater. Her legs look like pale stilts.

"I saw you talking to Noah Bedford this morning." She pauses to blow a pink bubble, sucking it back into her mouth before it pops. "You know him?"

"Not really," I say. "I just met him yesterday."

"He's such a geek," Hailey says and then looks at me expectantly. I know I'm supposed to agree with her, but my phone buzzes in my pocket, saving me. I'd turned it to vibrate after I left the office a few minutes ago, in case my mom sent me a text during lunch. There hadn't been any marks on her face this morning, but she moved a little more slowly than usual and I wondered if she had injuries I couldn't see.

"Sorry," I say. "I should check this." Quickly setting my tray on the table next to me, I pull out my cell and see Dirk's name and picture on the screen. "Thinking about you today," his text says. "Hope everything is okay. I'll call you tonight."

Hailey peeks over my shoulder. "Is that your boyfriend? He's totally hot."

"Yeah," I say, the lie slipping out before I can stop it. "He's super-smart, too." This part isn't a lie-Dirk didn't go to college; instead, he taught himself everything he knows about computers by hanging out in online, geeked-out chat rooms. He was twenty when he landed his first job at Google, and over the last four years, he moved up from an entry-level position to being one of the top programmers in his department.

"What school does he go to?" Kyla asks, pulling a wisp of hair out of her overly mascaraed eyelashes.

I straighten and pick up my tray again. "He doesn't. He works at Google." I say this proudly, as though I had something to do with it.

"He does not," Jade says, rolling her blue eyes. "How old is he?"

"Twenty," I say, thinking this is more plausible than the twenty-four Dirk actually is. "We met online."

Hailey looks skeptical, too. "You're a junior, right? And he's cool with that?"

I shrug again. "It's only four years' difference. If he was twenty-four and I was twenty, no one would care. So it doesn't really matter to us. We just like each other." I'm a little terrified how easily this blatantly false explanation comes to me. Maybe pretending to be Sierra Stone has turned me into a professional liar. Maybe I should become an actress instead of a graphic artist.

"Do your parents know?" Kyla asks.

I shake my head. "No way. So you can't tell anyone, all right? It's a secret."

All three girls look at each other, as though gauging if they are willing to agree to my request, and then, as soon as Hailey nods, Jade and Kyla do, too, and I know that I may have managed to win them over. Even if I'm not one of them-if my hair isn't perfect and my body is far from lean-they think I have a hot, older boyfriend, and for now, that's all the power I need.

Hannah

On Friday night, Hannah's cell phone rings just as she's locking the front door to the salon. She fumbles for it, worried that it's Olivia, canceling their plans for the evening. After their lunch earlier in the week, Olivia invited Hannah to her house for dinner, and for the first time in months-even if it is for the wrong reasons-Hannah is actually looking forward to something other than going to sleep.

"Hi, honey!" her mother chirps. "Did I get you at a bad time?"

Hannah wedges the phone between her shoulder and ear as she makes her way to her car. "I'm just locking up," she says. "And I'm on my way to a friend's house for dinner." Friend might not be the exact right term, she thinks. But what else should she call Olivia? She wants to tell Olivia about her suspicions of who they are to each other-she knows she has to-but she doesn't know how. She's worried now, too, considering that Olivia said James doesn't want any contact with the donor family. The way Olivia talked about him, Hannah got the distinct impression that James's word was pretty much law in the Bell household, and she wonders what would happen if Olivia went against it. Hannah doesn't want to do anything that might put Olivia in a bad place with her husband, so until she's absolutely positive Emily was Maddie's liver donor, she's decided to keep her mouth shut.

"How nice!" her mother says, sounding as enthused as she might have if Hannah had just told her she won the lottery. "I won't keep you long. I just want to know if we'll see you for Thanksgiving this year."

Leave it to her mother to be planning a holiday meal almost three months ahead of time. "I'm not sure yet. I'll have to see how busy things get at the salon." Hannah climbs into her car and starts the engine, slipping her earpiece on so she can continue their conversation while she drives. "Is Isaac planning to come?" She feels like the only way she'll survive the holiday with her parents is having the protective layer of her brother there, too.

"Oh, you know your brother. It's always last minute with him." There is a melancholy edge to her mother's voice, and immediately, Hannah slips into an all too familiar sense of I'm-a-bad-daughter guilt for living so far away from her parents. She thinks about how much she misses Emily-how it feels as though there is a gaping, aching hole in her life-and she wonders if, even though she and Isaac are still alive, her mother feels the same way when they both can't wait to escape the confines of the farm. She has always seemed supportive of their decisions and proud of their accomplishments, but Hannah knows all too well that parents often wear a mask to protect their children from how they really feel.

"I'll try to make it work, okay, Mom? I promise." Hannah slowly backs out of her driveway, more of a cautious driver than she ever was before Emily's accident. It took her almost a month after the funeral to be able to get behind the wheel of a car, and now, she tends to ride her brakes and take corners in slow motion.

"Okay, honey. Thank you." Her mom pauses a moment to clear her throat. "So, your father had his yearly checkup the other day."

"Is everything okay?"

"Well, mostly. His blood pressure is a little elevated and his cholesterol levels could be better. Dr. Warren thinks he needs to slow down. That he shouldn't be doing this much heavy labor at his age." She pauses again, for effect. "I told him we've asked you to move home to help out, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen anytime soon."

"G.o.d, Mom." As though Hannah isn't already feeling guilty enough.

"What? I'm simply telling you about my conversation with your father's doctor."

"Uh-huh." Hannah leaves her response at this, knowing the more she engages her mother on this subject, the more her mother will push.

"Who are you having dinner with?" her mother asks brightly, apparently satisfied that she's accomplished whatever she meant to with the story about her father's checkup.

"Just a woman I met at the salon," Hannah says, thinking the fewer details she gives, the better. Even over the phone, her mom has a way of sniffing out when Hannah is hiding something. "We hit it off and she invited me over."

"Well, I think it's wonderful you're making new friends." Hannah hears her father's voice in the background, and then her mother speaks again. "Dad sends his love, honey. Call me soon, okay?"

"Okay," Hannah says, grateful to hang up. As she drives along, the guilt Hannah felt during the phone call nags at her. She worries that she is being too selfish. If her parents did lose their farm, would she be able to live with her decision to stay in Seattle? She isn't sure that she could. Now that the second salon is up and running, could she find a way to make living back in Boise work? Maybe she could let herself be lulled into the simplicity of planting a garden and watching it grow. She loved helping her parents when she was a child-riding on the tractor with her dad and pulling weeds with her mother-but as soon as she turned fourteen, all she could think about was a life beyond digging her hands in the dirt, a life without the constant scent of manure in the air. For years she was happy-happy living in Seattle with Emily, happy with her career and being a mother. But now that Emily is gone and Isaac still traveling so much, is there really anything keeping her here? Sophie could easily buy out Hannah's interest in their business and run both salons, then Hannah could put the profits from the sale into the farm. She could lose herself in learning how to manage a new business, just as she lost herself in the renovation. She could keep her parents happy and her mind busy. She could keep her grief at bay.

Her GPS spouts off navigation instructions to Olivia's Medina address, interrupting her thoughts. Hannah takes several deep breaths, trying to prepare herself for the evening. She's a little concerned she might say something to give herself away-that she might mention Emily's real age or the fact that her daughter was an organ donor. She promises herself that once she is certain, one way or the other, she'll tell them the truth.