Safe With Me (10 page)

“It’s a full-time job to look this good for our husbands, sugar,” Waverly responded, laughing. Sara Beth agreed, and Olivia smiled and went along with what they said when really, she didn’t believe it. In fact, it was a bit appalling to her that these women thought so little of themselves. Olivia knew James loved her for
her,
not just for the way she looked. She knew this because he had cried on her chest one night in Florida, after they made love for the first time. He told her that his own mother had never loved him, that his father constantly told James he was a worthless son. “He beat us,” James revealed. “Me, mostly. I’d get between him and my mother and just . . . take it.”

“Oh, honey,” Olivia said. Her heart ached hearing how James had been treated, and she understood more than ever why a stable, happy relationship was so important to him. “I’m so sorry.”

“I never thought someone like you would love me,” he said, shuddering as he pressed his face into her neck. “I never thought I deserved anything this good.”

So when James lost his temper or threw out a painful verbal jab, she remembered that moment. She remembered his tears, how his face was like a little boy’s, scared of what she’d think once she knew the most vulnerable parts of him. She remembered that moment after he told her the drink she’d made him tasted like shit. And she forgave him one more time.

“We were talking about the baby shower,” she said, thinking that the meal had improved his mood. He seemed much calmer than when he’d first walked in the door, so she figured it
was safe to bring this subject up. “And they were wondering if my mother is going to come.” She gave him her most charming smile. “I wasn’t sure what to tell them.”

James looked up from his plate, chewing a mouthful of chicken. “You tell them you need to ask your husband if he’ll pay for your mother’s flight.”

Olivia bowed her head a bit, averting her face from his gaze. There was a strange light in his eyes—she wasn’t sure what it meant. “Of course. If it’s too much trouble—”

“You think I’d let you tell your friends that I wouldn’t pay for your own mother to come to your baby shower? What kind of man do you think I am?”

Olivia took what she hoped was an inaudible, measured breath. She knew what he needed to hear. “I think you’re wonderful. The most generous man a woman could ask for.” She looked up, then reached over and grabbed his hand. “I love you so much, James. I know how hard you work for us . . . how hard you work for our baby girl. I am the luckiest woman in the world.”

His expression softened, and minutes later they were upstairs in their bedroom. He disrobed her carefully, running the tips of his fingers over her skin, making her feel like every nerve was a lit sparkler. He moved her to the bed, took off his own clothes, and then joined her, taking care of her before he moved behind her—the only position that was comfortable for her this late in the pregnancy. Olivia moaned the way she knew he liked her to, the way that helped him finish, and she waited and waited for the end to come. After twenty minutes, when it still hadn’t, she wondered if he really
had
had too much to drink at the office.

“It’s okay, baby,” she whispered, “if you can’t.” She thought she was giving him an out. She thought she was being generous.

But then James stopped moving, grabbed her by the waist, and wrenched her over onto her back. A sharp, twisting pain shot through her belly. She cried out, but before she could speak, he slapped her once, hard, across the face. Olivia closed her eyes and saw bright splotches of stars. She tried to keep from crying.

James dropped to her side and put his mouth up against her ear. “
You
don’t tell me what I can and cannot do.” He bit her earlobe until she yelped again. “Do you understand me?”

Olivia nodded, her chin trembling as she fought the tears in the back of her throat.
James just
hit
me. He hit me, he hit me.
She repeated the words over and over in her mind, until eventually, they held no meaning. She rolled away from him and pulled the covers up over her naked body. She felt his eyes boring into her back, but she couldn’t look at him. She was too afraid of what she’d see.

The next morning, after he’d slept in the guest bedroom, he brought her breakfast in bed. “Good morning, beautiful,” he said, placing the tray carefully over her lap. He’d made her scrambled egg whites with feta cheese and tomatoes—her favorite. “I squeezed you some orange juice, too,” he continued, holding up the small glass before reaching out to caress her belly. “Can’t give this sweet girl too many vitamins, right?” He smiled at her, the same wide, charismatic grin he’d given her the first day they met.

Olivia stared back, searching his face for some evidence of remorse for what he’d done. Some proof that she hadn’t just
imagined that moment in the dark. “Can you bring me a mirror, please?” she asked him.

He frowned. “What for?”

“I must look a mess,” she said, reaching up to flatten her hair. “I just need to put on a little makeup.” She smiled, and he brought her the lovely antique silver hand mirror he’d bought for her birthday. She took a deep breath, readying herself for a bruise on her face, some mark that would confirm that she hadn’t been dreaming, but there was nothing. Her cheeks were rosy from sleep, and though her eyes were a little puffy from crying, no one, not even she, would have believed that James had slapped her.

He left for work soon after, and later that day, two dozen long-stemmed yellow roses arrived at the house, followed by an email confirming that a flight had been booked for her mother to come for the shower. In the end, though, her mother was too ill to travel, afraid her aching hip joints wouldn’t be able to withstand a six-hour flight. “We’ll take the baby to see her once it’s born,” James promised Olivia that night. “She needs to see her grandchild.”
He was drunk,
Olivia told herself.
He didn’t realize what he was doing.
Just this once, she could let it go.

This morning, after he left her alone to take their daughter to her first day of school, Olivia knew she had to let it go again. It had become an art on some level, navigating her husband’s moods, reading his expressions and bodily tics. Much like a poker player, Olivia memorized James’s “tells,” the twitch beneath his left eye, the strange light in his eyes, the shadow across his face—minute signs that gave his impending reactions away. She knows that to some extent, Maddie has
learned to read her father, too, but she can push him farther than Olivia can. Though he sometimes raises his voice at his daughter, though his eyes flash and his fists curl up in frustration, he never hits her. At least, he hasn’t yet. Olivia believes that if James ever
does
hurt Maddie—even if he
threatens
to hurt her—that will be the catalyst for her to finally leave. Until then, she knows if she does, James will take Maddie away from her. It’s not what he’s said that makes her know this—it’s who he
is
. He wouldn’t let Olivia leave him without taking something from her, too.

Olivia knows little about family law, but she doesn’t doubt that James has the power, money, and connections to take custody of their daughter away, so she stays. She stays and stays and stays, enduring whatever she has to so she can take care of Maddie. So her daughter will be okay.

Her alarm goes off at six a.m. and Olivia silences it, then rises from the bed. She knows Maddie doesn’t understand why she doesn’t leave James. Maddie has never seen her father hit her mother—James is too smart to let that happen—but Olivia is certain that Maddie suspects. She is also fairly sure that Maddie thinks she’s a coward. But what her daughter can’t comprehend is how much strength it takes to survive a life like this. It’s a chess game—Olivia has to see ahead four, five, even ten moves to protect them both. It’s exhausting, really, to live like this, to second-guess her every breath.

But this morning, James isn’t home, so for the moment she can relax. She can fix Maddie breakfast, she can help her pick out what outfit she’s going to wear. She can focus on what’s important—she can take her daughter to her first day at a new school.

“I don’t
want
you to come inside,” I tell my mom, who has been hovering around me all morning like I’m two years old and might be in need of a diaper change. “I can find my classes, okay? I’ll be fine.”

It’s a slightly overcast September day, and we are sitting in the parking lot of Eastside Prep, watching the other kids mill around the entrance to the school, talking and laughing and generally looking more at ease than I’ve probably ever felt in my life. The girls all seem impossibly pretty to me, with long torsos and hip-hugging jeans, and the boys swagger with their backpacks slung over one shoulder, most of them with wannabe-surfer haircuts, their bangs too long over their eyes. I glance down at the black leggings and tan baggy sweater I decided to wear and suddenly wish I’d made a different choice. I’ve lived in pajamas and sweatpants for the last eight years, so I pretty much have the fashion sense of a third grader. And even though I’m telling my mother I’ll be just fine,
I’m positive I’ll never fit in with these people. Life is not a John Hughes movie, where the nerdy, weird girl ends up dating the captain of the football team. Life is me, sitting alone at a table in the lunchroom, wishing I could disappear.

Mom shifts her body to face me. “Are you sure? You remember the school nurse’s name?”

“Mrs. Taylor,” I say with a sigh. “And I will check in with her first thing so we can go over my med schedule.” Mom had visited the school last week, bringing the nurse a stockpile of all my prescriptions and strict instructions to call her if I show even a hint of a fever.

“You remembered your hand sanitizer, right? You need to use it before and after every class and after you’ve been in the bathroom. Even after you wash your hands.”

“
God,
Mom.
Yes,
I remembered it. You reminded me to put it in my bag, like, fifty-three times this morning.” Even though I am doing really well with my new liver, I’m still at a higher risk for infection from simple things like a head cold or the flu. If my mom had her way, I’d probably be walking around in a full-on hazmat suit. I glance over at her—she’s dressed casually in a swishy, knee-length, pale green skirt and snug white T-shirt—and I wonder if I’ll ever have her looks. Her hair is always the perfect buttery blond shade with lighter stripes around her face; her skin is clear, her body is lean, spray-tanned, and strong. She looks a little like Jennifer Aniston, which I know my father likes to brag about to his friends, but sometimes it makes me wonder if I was adopted.

Grabbing my backpack from the floor, I lean over and give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be fine. I promise. I’ll text you at lunch and let you know how it’s going, okay?”

“Okay,” she says with a nervous smile. “I love you, honey. You’re going to do great.”

“Thanks,” I say and have to fight off the tickle of imminent tears in my throat. I climb out of the car and make my way down the sidewalk that leads to the front steps of the school. I look up at the imposing building, which my father said used to be a monastery. The face of it looks like a church, with Gothic arches and intricate stained-glass windows. Last night, I looked up the floor plan online, so I would know how to get to the office and my classrooms. I signed up for AP English and trigonometry, world history, psychology, Spanish, and an advanced computer sciences class. Luckily, I get a free pass from PE, since there’s too much danger of being hit in the gut by a stray basketball or jabbed by an elbow.

A wave of other students practically carries me down the long hallway to the office, where I know the nurse is waiting for me. The walls are covered with posters:
IF YOU BELIEVE IT, YOU CAN BE IT!
and
THE ONLY WAY PAST IS THROUGH!
The words are set against impressive nature scenes, waterfalls and deep canyons, and are meant to be inspirational, but because they remind me of the lab at the hospital, they end up irritating me instead. There are a few other kids standing at the desk, so I get in line behind a girl with thick, cascading red curls and a purple checkered book bag slung over her shoulder. She turns around when my backpack accidentally brushes against her.

“Oh, sorry,” I say. Her face is peppered with tiny freckles, and I think she’d be pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way if she weren’t wearing so much makeup. Her eyes are thickly lined in black and her lips are sticky with bright pink gloss. She has on
jeans and a long, tight green T-shirt with the word
Aéropostale
scrawled in sparkling white letters across her chest.

“No worries.” She looks me over. “You new?” I nod, and she snaps her watermelon gum—I can smell it—before speaking again. “Cool. I’m Hailey.”

“I’m Maddie.”
She seems friendly enough. Maybe this won’t be as hard as I thought.

“Where’d you transfer from?”

“Um, I’ve sort of been homeschooled by a tutor for a while. Since fourth grade, actually.”

“Really? Are your parents like, way religious or something?”

I feel my face flame and I clear my throat. “No. Not at all. I just . . . well, I’ve been sick a lot, like in the hospital so much that it was just easier to have a tutor so I wouldn’t fall behind. That’s all. But I’m better now, so I’m . . . here.”

Hailey raises an eyebrow and leans away from me the tiniest bit, but enough for me to notice. “Sick with
what
?” From the look on her face, it’s clear she’s worried I’m contagious, that simply standing next to me puts her at some kind of risk.

“I had a bad liver,” I say. “But I got a new one last year.” I’m not prepared for her questions; the truth tumbles out of me before I can stop it.

“O . . . M . . . G.” She spells the letters out with a notable pause after each, then widens her eyes, as though I just told her I had a third leg or an extra breast. “
That’s
kind of creepy . . . isn’t it?”

“Not really.” I shrug, and attempt to appear confident, when I actually sort of agree with her. It
is
creepy, if I let myself think about it too long, the fact that I’m carrying around
another person’s organ inside my body. That a twelve-year-old girl had to die to save my life. I wonder about her sometimes, what she was like, if I would have wanted to be her friend. I wonder how her parents are doing, if part of them hates me for living when their child is dead. The transplant coordinator told me I could write them a thank-you letter—anonymous, of course—but when I asked my mom if I could, she told me my dad said no.