Livvy (15 page)

“Come on, Matty, don’t put him on the spot, he’s–”

“Jon, is it?” Nolan interrupts, crossing the room to shake his hand. “I’m Nolan. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Jon says to him, then diverts his attention to my uncle. “Matty, I have an apology to accompany every painting on this wall,” he tells him, “and then some.”

My uncle looks at him suspiciously. “Were they good enough, Liv?”

“He’s forgiven.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he says back to me.

“I think it does. I wouldn’t have forgiven him if I didn’t think he was sincere... okay?
Dad?
” I tease him.

“Oh, Jacks will be much worse. I promise that.”

“I’m ready,” Jon says after taking a deep breath. “I expect it.”

“You been working out, Jon?” Matty asks, changing the subject.

“Yeah, kind of.”

“Get over here and help us hang these decorations from the rafters then.”

“Sure thing,” Jon says, taking off his button down and revealing a t-shirt underneath. I was hoping I’d see his tattoo, but it’s covered up. His muscles give me other things to look at, though, and that’s okay with me.

“I’ll watch,” Matty says, staring at Jon, then nudging me as he winks at his partner. “Direct, I mean. I’ll direct.” I backhand my uncle before pitching in to help, even though everyone expects me to find something else to do.

“These decorations are cool,” I say, running my fingers over the fabric of a flag banner that says HAPPY BIRTHDAY. “I guess I don’t need to guess who picked them out.”

“Actually,” Nolan says, “they were for my son’s sixteenth, which was a few weeks ago.”

“You have a son?” I ask him, curious.

“And a daughter. My youngest is thirteen.”

“Yes,” Matty says, noting my surprise. “Nolan was late to
this
party.” He laughs lightly to himself before walking over to his boyfriend and pinching him gently in his side. Matty earns another friendly slap for this.

“I got married in college,” his partner says. “I came from a very conservative small town in Wisconsin. Back then, being gay was something you hid from people. But my ex-wife is a saint. We’re still very close, and she’s moved nearby so we can share custody of the kids. She’s remarried. It works out perfectly for us.”

“She reminds me of Anna,” my uncle nearly whispers.

“You keep saying that,” Nolan says. “When am I going to meet her?!”

“I’m keeping you away from her,” Matty says. “I don’t want you to lose your way.”

Nolan glares at him playfully.

“Thanksgiving, I suppose,” my uncle says, changing his answer. “I suppose Jacks will host a gathering.”

“I’m sure he will,” I respond, holding one end of the banner as Jon ties the other in a knot around an exposed beam in the ceiling. “So, Nolan, how long were you married? Oh, I hope I’m not prying–”

“Ask me anything, sweetie. We were married for four years. I came out to her when I was twenty-six and asked for a divorce. We waited a few years to tell our families, though. Her parents were quite gracious. Mine, not so much.” He stands back, inspecting the decorations from a distance and nodding. “Perfect. Here, Livvy. Let me have the other end.”

I hand it to Jon and help him down from the ladder. He carries it across the room to Nolan.

“I’m sorry to hear about your parents,” I tell him. “How about your kids?”

“Livvy’s not afraid to ask anything.”

“I told her to!” Nolan argues, glancing up to see my face turning bright red. “We waited until Samuel was thirteen to tell both of the kids. They’re incredible. And your uncle is great with them.”

“Him?!” I ask sarcastically, nudging Matty with my shoulder. He puts his arm around me, laughing. “Nolan, you should bring them here sometime. They could stay in the guest rooms.”

Matty’s phone dings, and he checks his texts. “The food will be here at seven,” he says.

Food
. I hadn’t thought of food. I haven’t planned very well for this party at all.

“They would love that,” Nolan responds to my suggestion. “And Angela would love to meet you,” he adds. “She’s seen some of your work. And, of course, she knows who you are. I told them both when I met you that you seemed like any other kid.”

“And I stood up for you,” Matty teases him, “and told him you were nothing like any other kid, and that you’re the most extraordinary kid in the world.”

“Do you say this in front of all the other nieces and nephews?” Nolan asks.

“He says it
about
all of the other nieces and nephews,” I tell him. Matty looks at me in disbelief. “We compare stories, Uncle Matty. Your secret’s out.”

He walks over to me and hugs me. “But you really
are
my favorite,” he whispers.

“I know.”

“Our work here is done. We will leave you extraordinary kids to your party. If you want a starter-beverage, the bar’s set up across the hall. But I’ll be keeping track, so don’t try anything stupid,” he instructs me, trying to be serious with his discipline, but failing miserably. Matty and Nolan close the door behind them.

Jon looks at me. “What is your dad going to say?”

“It was his idea,” I tell him. “He didn’t want Finn bringing a keg or something. So you can say the party will be moderately chaperoned,” I explain.

“Well, we both know what kind of chaperone he is.” Surprised by his reference to Mykonos, I look at him curiously. “Right?”

“Right,” I admit.

“Would you like a drink?” He takes a few steps toward the door.

“It wouldn’t hurt. It’s been an emotional day, and will probably be a very interesting night. Just get me whatever you’re having.”

“I’m not drinking,” he declares. “I don’t want to miss a thing today.”

“Then I’m fine, for now,” I tell him.

Soon after we’ve finished decorating, Jon leaves to get ready. I’m so glad he’s coming. He gave me a hug earlier, just after Matty left, and asked once more if I was certain I wanted him there.

“More than anything,” I’d told him.

“Maybe I should come later,” he’d suggested. “After you talk to this guy.”

“Please, Jon. Stay with me.”

“Are you afraid of him?” he asked.

“No, um...” I thought back to my date with Emmanuel. I remembered how he made me feel at the doorway of my loft when he dropped me off, but I’d felt that feeling–multiplied by a thousand–many times today. Love makes everything better. “You know of him, though. That guy who took my picture last year when I was on the campus tour.”

“Manny,” he’d said, not even having to think about his name.

“Yeah.”

He glared at me with a look that said ‘
I told you so.
’ “It wasn’t like that, Jon. Not then.”

“Mmhmm,” is all he mumbled, narrowing his eyes. “We’ll see about that. And then Finn’s coming, too, yeah?”

“Neither are a threat to you, I swear, Jon.”

“I’m not threatened, Liv. But I hope they can both see why later on.”

“What do you mean?”

“Us together?” he’d started. “I think we’re unstoppable, baby.”

I grinned, nodding in agreement.

“You have your words with Manny. I’ll say a few words to Finn–”

“Jon, please–”

“Livvy, trust me, okay? I know we have to move past what happened. I don’t want to pretend like it never did, though. Let me address it with him. Acknowledge it. That’s all. Please?”

“I want to be there when you do,” I told him seriously. “I care about him as much as I care about you. Just differently. You have to understand and accept that.”

“And I do. If you want to be there, that’s fine with me. When I come back, I want to spend as much time with you as I possibly can.”

“You’re leaving?” I’d asked.

“I’ll be back. I’m going to shower and change.”

I let him go, realizing I needed to do the same. Now that he’s gone, though, I look back into my quiet loft. The letter on the table is the only thing I can see, regardless of the colorful wall that I created with my own paint and tears a few months ago. I walk over slowly to pick it up, treating it as if it may bite me.

Once in hand, though, I go back to the third page where it has my father’s name.
Isaiah Grate
. Jon mentioned he’d look him up, but the curiosity is all-consuming. I grab my laptop out of my backpack and search for his name.

A few Facebook pages are returned in the results, but I accept immediately that they aren’t him, seeing profile pictures of men of other races. One link further down the page catches my attention:

Isaiah Grate, Hartford artist, donates sculpture to local park

Hartford, Connecticut? I click the link to find out. My heart pounds when the site loads and a portrait comes up. I recognize those eyes.

They’re
mine
.

I study his other features. His hair line is receded. His skin looks weathered. The picture’s black and white, but his coloring appears to be more fair than mine. I have always known that I favored my mother’s Italian heritage, with my olive-tinted flesh and dark hair. Isaiah’s nose is big, but flat; nothing like mine. The way he’s featured, in a posture similar to that portrayed in Rodin’s
The Thinker
, obscures his mouth from me. It doesn’t look like he would be smiling anyway. There’s no smile in his eyes.

I have his eyebrows, though. His hair may be lighter with age, but his brows are still dark and unruly. I touch the screen with one hand and my own natural brow with my other, thinking I could feel the similarities and disappointed that I can’t, as irrational as that seems.

I scroll down the page quickly for more pictures of him or a link to a second page, but neither is there. An image of his sculpture splits the article into two halves. They’re three huge, metal leaves–white oak, according to the caption–lying on the ground in a natural curve that makes each of them resemble a hand with too many fingers. I can tell that each leaf is painted to represent a season: spring, summer and fall. Children play in the basin of the midrib and climb on the parted lobes of each leaf.

Surely Isaiah Grate would be smiling if he could see the joy on their faces. What an inspiring thing, to create something that thousands of people will be able to enjoy all their lives; something that will stay for other generations to admire. It’s my dream to do that, and it’s the reality of my biological father.

My father is an artist. It’s what I always wanted to believe.

I start the article at the beginning and read the whole way through, thoroughly interested. Sculpting is only his hobby. He owns a small lawn care business, performing most of the labor himself during the week. He’s fifty-five–he was only fifty when the article was written five years ago. He would have been in his late thirties when I was conceived. My mother was in her early twenties.

He never married.

He never had children.

He never wanted a family until his mid-forties, he’d said in the interview. One day, he went home from work and realized his house was too quiet. He said that no matter how high the radio volume was, it never drowned out the silence.

The article goes on to say the sculpture is called
To Childhood
. In his lawn business, he’d often see children playing in the fall leaves. It was such a simple pleasure that he’d remembered from his own childhood, spent on a lake in northern New Hampshire where he grew up with three brothers, now all deceased. His younger two died in combat; and the older one, from an unnamed illness. Isaiah has an estranged ex-sister-in-law who had two children with his oldest brother. He hasn’t seen his niece or nephew in many years.

It makes me sad. I wonder if he’s married by now. Maybe he married someone with children already. Or maybe he now has a child of his own.

But of course he does.
I’m it
. I wonder what he would do if he found out.

I return to the article, unwilling to allow my thoughts to wander that far. It goes on to talk more about his metalworks. He has a passion for creating organic sculptures out of metal. He likes the contrast, the ambiguity. I appreciate that. When I finish the article, I search for more pictures, either of him or his artwork. I find a blurry group shot from a council meeting. It was obviously a print that someone scanned and uploaded, the colors from the picture already yellowed. There are a few more pictures of his art, too. Both different types of flowers, melded with bronze and iron and covered in flaking paint, adding purposeful texture. The details are astounding. He is incredibly skilled at what he does.

CHAPTER 8

The speaker on the wall chimes, and I check my phone to see what time it is.
Six forty-five?
I haven’t even started getting ready. I rush to the speaker.