Chapter 9 Olivia #2
I shower quickly, thankful I washed my hair this morning, since there is no shampoo in the pool house bathroom and I have none of my own.
Another thing to buy. And make-up — I don’t own a scrap of make-up.
I find an old can of spray deodorant for men and use it sparingly, not wanting to go overboard on the musky scent.
Maybe Charlotte has left some toiletries in the house that I can use.
I throw on the new underwear and the short gray jersey dress, adding the tan leather sandals. Mom’s no longer outside, but the table is set, and it’s nearly six.
I hesitate on the back terrace by the half-open bifold glass doors.
I can hear Mom and Dad inside, talking in low voices.
They’re out of sight, probably at the kitchen island.
From where I stand, the open living area is visible, furnished with a completely different couch and color scheme to the one I’m used to.
Instead of the beachy blues and grays that Mom and I chose so carefully — well, mostly I chose — it’s now decorated in deep reds with splashes of orange.
The huge couch is brown leather — the last thing you’d choose for a North Carolina coastal home.
It’s hideous. But then, in this world, I wasn’t around to decorate the interior.
And Mom’s taste has never been the best.
I step closer to the doors to get a better look at the gaudy painting above the fireplace. Mom and Dad’s voices are now audible. Dad doesn’t sound happy.
“—how much did the two of you spend on clothes?”
Mom’s voice is small. “Just over four hundred dollars, I guess. I know, Burt. I know. But that’s how much it costs to buy even the most basic of wardrobes.
And she had nothing. Only those awful hospital castoffs.
And it’s not like we don’t have the money.
I’d have gladly taken her to some nicer stores, too, but she insisted on going to the Gap and the discount shoe place.
So she’s not trying to get anything out of us. ”
A pause. I can just imagine Dad’s expression.
“I bought her a prepaid cell, too. Don’t look at me like . . . No. Uh-uh.” Another heavy silence. “Liv needs a phone, Burt. Yes, Liv. And I may have to buy her more essentials. She doesn’t have any money, Burt, not a dime. And she’s our daugh—”
“Tilly, what do you think is going to happen? How’s this meant to work?” I can hear the misery in Dad’s voice. I want to go to him. Hug him. But I can only imagine how that would go down.
“We’re going to feed and clothe her the rest of her life? Let her live in the pool house indefinitely? She’s a grown woman, but she won’t be able to get a job, Tilly. She . . . she doesn’t exist as a person, in the eyes of the law. And we . . . we don’t know her. She’s a stranger.”
A clatter of dishes. “She’s our daughter, Burt.
And as for a job, plenty of people come here and get jobs paid under the table.
And as for how this will work . . . right now, my love, we’re going to sit down and have a meal with our daughter.
We’ll figure the rest out as we go . . .
” Mom’s voice is rising. “Oh Burt. Just don’t — don’t you take away my joy at having her back. ”
“We don’t know who she is, Til. Not really.” Dad’s voice is barely audible now.
“That’s something else we’ll figure out as we go. Now, excuse me, I need to get the salad finished.”
I step backwards, deliberately scraping a chair against the stone pavers, making myself heard, as if I just arrived at the table. Dad comes out onto the terrace and stops as he sees me, his expression hard to read. “Oh. You’re here already.”
I smile at him, sitting in my usual spot, since Mom and Dad like the seats with the best view of the creek. “I was invited to join you for dinner at six. I hope that’s okay with you.”
Dad stretches out his mouth — a nervous habit of his. “Fine.”
“Can I help Mom with dinner?”
“She’s fine. It’s all done.”
In my old world, he’d chastise me for not jumping up and helping Mom, but it seems I’m to be treated like a guest. Or he’s not quite ready for me to step foot inside the house.
I don’t blame him. We’re in a crazy, impossible, unknown situation.
I’d probably do the same, as I’m just like him.
Mom’s always telling me that. If anything, I’m slightly judging her for being ready to accept, so easily, that I’m back from the dead.
The idea is preposterous. I’m not even sure what to believe and I know I’m me.
As Mom finishes dinner in the kitchen, I search for something to say that won’t offend Dad.
I want to tell him about my recent creek run in his boat with Jake, but that wouldn’t go down well.
Everything I come up with is a memory that isn’t true for him.
So, do I compliment him on the boat or the house, like I’ve never been there before?
That would be a lie — and worse, it would suggest my own story about being alive all this time is made up.
Instead, we sit in tense silence as Mom brings out a platter of grilled salmon, a bowl of potato salad, and a crisp green salad with cherry tomatoes and avocado pieces. Her go-to favorites for a summer meal on the terrace. Dad opens a bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc.
“Do you drink?” he asks, filling his own and Mom’s glasses.
“Uh, yes,” I reply. After all the bottles of wine we’ve shared, it’s incredible to me he doesn’t know this. “In fact, that’s a favorite. One of Charlotte’s, too, right?” After a second, he gives a curt nod of acknowledgment and pours me a glass.
I take a sip, the wine tart, chilled, familiar. “Speaking of Charlotte, does she know I’m here? I’d love to see her. But I understand if she’s freaked out and doesn’t want to see me.”
Dad says nothing, digging into his salmon.