The Book of Someday Part 27

As if he senses Livvi's gaze, David looks up and smiles at her. Grace's attention remains on the checkerboard-focused on her next move.

Livvi glances in Grace's direction and quietly tells David: "You're a remarkable man...being able to be so nice. To a perfect stranger."

David studies Grace for a second, then says: "It's funny you should use the term 'perfect stranger.' For a while, when I was a kid, I thought perfect stranger meant something entirely different. I thought it was the name for an earthbound angel...one who was a little shy. And absolutely terrific."

"Where did you get that idea?"

"From books. From the kind of story where a boy on his bike is. .h.i.t by a car, and somebody steps out of the crowd and holds his hand until help comes...or a poor family wakes up hungry on Thanksgiving morning and finds a feast waiting on their doorstep. The people who brought those little, quiet, unantic.i.p.ated gifts-they were always described as being perfect strangers."

David sends Livvi another smile, then turns his attention to Grace and the checkers. Livvi is realizing that David is extraordinary beyond measure. A man whose goodness-whose love-knows no bounds.

Livvi is about to tell David how much she treasures him-but Evelyn is saying: "Finish your question, dear. What were you wanting to ask me?"

And immediately, the anxiety is back.

Livvi quickly crosses to the kitchen counter, where Evelyn is putting away leftovers from the Christmas dinner of baked ham and roasted green beans that she, Livvi, and Grace shared earlier in the evening-before David returned from celebrating with his cousins in the city and joined them for dessert.

"Evelyn, I need to go to New Jersey-right now," Livvi says. "How do I get there from here?" Livvi asks the question very softly. She doesn't want Grace to hear.

A flicker of worry crosses Evelyn's face. "It's getting late. Are you sure this is the best time to go?"

"I can't just sit here not doing anything-the shop where I saw the portrait is closed for Christmas and won't be open until noon tomorrow. If I have to wait that long to start looking for answers, I'll go crazy."

Simply talking about the painting, and the woman from her nightmare, has Livvi in a cold sweat.

Evelyn leads Livvi to a chair at the table where Grace and David are, while she's telling her: "My mother used to say life is mostly a game of hide-and-seek. All of us looking for something. All of us hiding something."

When Livvi has settled in at the table, Evelyn adds: "Some people are defined by what they're looking for. Others by what they're hiding."

"I'm not quite sure what you're trying to tell me," Livvi says.

"It's been my experience that the people who define themselves by what they're hiding are in greater pain than the rest of us. And they can be a little dangerous-without meaning to. On this trip to New Jersey tonight, you should be careful. Take care of yourself."

David looks up from the checkerboard, surprised. "You're going to New Jersey? Tonight?"

In a flash, Grace has rushed out of her chair, upset. "You're going away, Livvi? Don't go away. Don't go!"

Livvi is taking Grace into her lap, a.s.suring her: "I'll only be gone for a little while. I'll be right back."

But Grace is insistent. "No. I need you. I need you to stay. Always."

Livvi is holding Grace, telling her-"I will, Grace, I'll stay, I promise"-and having no idea how to keep that promise.

David is pus.h.i.+ng the checkerboard aside, asking: "What's in New Jersey that's so important you have to go right now?"

"My father," Livvi says. "He's dying. I need to see him before it's too late."

Grace is clinging to Livvi so tightly that it's making it difficult for Livvi to breathe as she's explaining to David: "I have to go. I have to go there tonight." She's gazing down at Grace while she's adding: "And I don't know how to do it."

During this exchange between Livvi and David, Evelyn has reached across the table and picked up the red felt-tipped marker lying beside the checkerboard.

Evelyn is leaning close to Grace's ear-her voice infinitely gentle as she's whispering: "Do you remember I told you that Santa and I are old friends? And that's why he asked me to be the one to make sure your b.u.t.terfly wings were waiting for you, right in the middle of your bed, when you woke up this morning?"

Grace nods-but doesn't look at Evelyn.

"Well, I'd like to show you something. It's magic. The same as Santa is. I learned how to do it a long time ago when someone I loved needed to go away for a while to fight in a war, and I was afraid to be apart from him. Do you want to see the magic?"

Grace buries her face against the side of Livvi's neck and shrugs. "Maybe..."

"I need you to open your hand wide and hold it out to me."

Grace does as Evelyn asks.

Evelyn then moves the red felt-tipped marker in slow, sure strokes. When she is finished, she says: "Look, Grace. Look at the magic."

Grace hesitates. Leans away from Livvi just the slightest bit and turns her head. Curious to see what has happened.

In the cup of Grace's hand is a rounded, delicately shaded heart. One that is absolutely magnificent-so skillfully executed it seems almost three-dimensional.

Grace is gazing up at Evelyn. Evelyn's silver hair is s.h.i.+ning in the soft light of the kitchen-she's wearing a red-and-white striped ap.r.o.n over a Christmas sweater patterned in snowflakes. And Grace is asking, in a voice full of wonder: "Are you Santa's sister?"

Evelyn is folding Grace's fingers so that the heart is hidden within Grace's grasp. And she's telling Grace: "This isn't any ordinary heart. It's the magical part of Livvi where she keeps all her love for you. And now you're holding it right in your hand."

There's an awed excitement in Grace. "Really?"

"Yes," Evelyn says. "And that's why it's all right to let Livvi go away for a little while tonight. Because she'll come back to you, Grace. She'll always come back because you have her heart. You're where her love is."

Grace is fascinated-gazing down at her palm-murmuring: "Don't worry, Livvi. While you're gone I'll take very good care of your heart."

And David is asking: "Where in New Jersey do you need to go?"

Livvi's father's apartment is nothing more than three narrow rooms on the top floor of a sagging, wood-sided house. A house at the dead end of a bleak street in Pa.s.saic.

Livvi is loosening the top b.u.t.ton of her coat, trying not to inhale too deeply. The air is overheated, stale with the smell of fried eggs and sickness.

A man in a baggy sweater and cantaloupe-colored corduroy pants is leading Livvi through a maze of clutter-piles and towers of mildewed, dust-covered books. He has introduced himself as Albert and is scarecrow thin: an a.s.semblage of skin-covered bones. Livvi is following him along a path that winds across the living area, and spans the short distance between the front door and the apartment's bedroom.

Calista is nearby in a shallow alcove that contains a pitted sink and small refrigerator. And, incongruously, a brightly lit aluminum Christmas tree. She's hunched over an electric griddle that's caked with grime, sc.r.a.ping up bits of burned food, and informing Livvi: "You might as well leave. You're too late. You waited too long."

Albert shoots Livvi a sympathetic glance and says: "Your father'll be happy you're here. He was happy when he heard you were coming. I know he was-I know the signs."

It's obvious that Livvi is confused, and Albert explains: "I'm your father's hospice worker."

Hospice. The cus.h.i.+oned good-bye. Before the final breath.

Livvi is stumbling against a stack of books. They're banging onto the floor like crumbling stones falling out of a fortress wall-raising puffs of dust and the odor of decay.

David is waiting outside in the clean, cold air. Ready to take Livvi back to Grace-to a house where the rooms smell of fresh pine and ginger cake. Livvi wants to turn and run.

But Albert has already ushered Livvi to her father's bedside and discreetly left them alone.

The room is not much bigger than a closet. And has only a single dim lamp, on the floor, near the bed. When Livvi's eyes adjust to the gloom, she discovers that the walls are stacked with books. And with old cardboard boxes sealed with yellowed strapping tape, brittle with age. And wedged into a corner, among the books and boxes, is the little pine table that was her desk in Santa Ynez.

In the bed, lying on the hammock-shaped mattress, under a colorless blanket, is Livvi's father. His hair is thin; Livvi can see that his scalp is mottled and flaking. His eyes and mouth are closed. His arms are at his sides, on top of the blanket, motionless. He is slender and fine-boned.

Livvi is astonished.

She had remembered her father as being so intimidating. So dangerous. So much larger than life. For all these years she has been remembering and fearing a lion-and now she's looking at the remains of what, must always have been, a gazelle.

"Can you hear me?" she asks.

Her father says nothing.

Livvi is about to repeat the question but changes her mind and looks away. She sees that on the other side of the bed there's an open door. Beyond the door is a miniscule bathroom. A sink, a toilet, and a cramped shower stall. Above the sink is a gla.s.s shelf neatly stocked with bandages and cotton b.a.l.l.s and a pair of needle-nosed, stainless-steel scissors.

Livvi is recalling the skill and attention with which her father handled her cuts and sc.r.a.pes when she was a child. The bandages always pristine. Snug and precise. The touch of his hands was light and sure.

The memory of this is making Livvi's voice gentler as she asks him again: "Can you hear me?"

No response.

"It's Livvi," she tells him. "Olivia."

He doesn't move. The tempo of his breathing doesn't change. He remains uncannily still.

And there's a flash of fury in Livvi.

She knows that her father knows she's there. She understands he's choosing-deliberately-to die. Without giving her answers to the questions she has been asking for a lifetime.

Her tone is matter-of-fact when she tells him: "I think I hate you." But then without warning, she's strangling on the words she has just spoken.

Livvi leaves the bed and walks to the little pine table. It is stacked and crowded with her old schoolbooks and papers. All these years, her father has kept them-and Livvi wants this to make a difference. She wants the idea that he might have remembered her, and cared about her, to change everything. She wants to be overflowing with daughterly love.

But there is only the raging desire to be finished with him.

Livvi leans toward the pine table. And in a rapid series of swift, strong sweeps, she begins.

When she is finished. She has sent every dusty book. Every warped, moldering story from her childhood. Every relic of Olivia. Slamming onto the floor.

And when she straightens up and steps away-the tabletop has been wiped clean.

For a fleeting moment Livvi is bereaved.

And then she is set free.

She tells her father: "I hope you can hear me. I want you to know that you are a horrible, horrible man. And even if it's true that there's something more than just what happens in this life...if it turns out that even people like you can be redeemed in the end...I don't care. That's G.o.d's business, not mine."

Livvi walks back to her father's bed and stands beside him. "I want you to understand that I hate you. I hate all the mean, cold-hearted things you did to me. And the hate is making me tired. There's no point to it. There's no point to carrying the burden of you around with me anymore. I need to let you go."

Livvi has lifted her father's arm from its resting place on the sheet. She is pressing her lips to the delicate flesh on the inside of his wrist. His skin is wet with her tears.

She's heartbroken.

"It's over," she's telling him. "You're on your own now."

And then within seconds Livvi is outside. In the cold night air. With the sagging, wood-framed house, and her father, behind her.

She's running across the patch of frozen, scrubby ground that separates the house from the curb. Where David is waiting-with open arms.

His beach cottage is weathered and small-the wood-lath walls of the little front room have been sanded to a pearly beige, but not yet painted. The furniture is draped in white sheets. And on the floor, David has spread a thick, soft, heather-blue blanket.

Moonlight is streaming through the open door-s.h.i.+mmering and silvery bright.

Livvi and David are sitting, in their coats and gloves, side-by-side. On the heather-blue blanket. Looking out at the water. Listening to the waves rush toward the beach then pull away again.

In the time that has pa.s.sed since Livvi left her father's apartment, she and David have spoken only a few words: David asking, as they were driving away from New Jersey, "Do you need to go somewhere and just be quiet for a little while?" and Livvi answering, "Yes. Please."

For the better part of an hour they have been here, shoulder to shoulder. Gazing out at the moonlit ocean. David-gently, steadfastly, holding Livvi's hand. Livvi-silently, slowly, coming to terms with what has happened tonight. The finality of the loss she suffered. And the powerful sense of freedom she found.

Now Livvi has told David: "I'm okay. We can go."

Together they have gathered up the heather-blue blanket. They've folded it and put it onto a tabletop.

Moonglow is glimmering on the pearly walls and white-sheeted furniture.

The only sound is the rush of the ocean.

Livvi and David are in their own private dreamscape.

And Livvi is being swept into David's embrace. Being wrapped in his honesty, and his unwavering devotion.

"I love you," he's telling her. "Do you think you could ever love me?"

And Livvi's answer is: "Yes. Yes, I do."

David's sigh is a combination of elation and relief.

Livvi gives an involuntary s.h.i.+ver. The night air coming in from the beach is growing colder.

"It's getting chilly," David says. "Do you want me to take you home?"

Livvi nods-there is nothing she wants more.