Safe With Me Part 6

"Pepperoni pizza!" Maddie says with a playful, sparkly smile.

"Nice try. Too much grease. I think we can manage tomato, mozzarella, and basil, though. And a salad." She waits a beat, hesitant to bring up anything having to do with school, not wanting to ruin Maddie's markedly improved mood. "Do you have homework?"

Looking away, Maddie shrugs one shoulder, as though she were trying to shake something off her skin. "Not really. Just some reading. And a trig work sheet, so the teacher can figure out what we already know. Or don't know."

"Okay, so, why don't you work on it in the kitchen while I cook?" This is new for Olivia, being able to spend time with Maddie, doing something other than caring for her daughter's immediate physical needs. She tries not to worry about something going wrong, that Maddie's body will reject her new liver or be riddled by some dangerous infection, but there are times she can't help it. Like tonight, when Hannah told them about losing her daughter, fear overwhelmed Olivia again.

"I sort of was going to check my email," Maddie says.

"Later," Olivia says. "Homework first."

Maddie sighs, but follows her mother into their enormous kitchen. She sets her backpack on the counter and settles onto one of the barstools, watching as Olivia digs through the refrigerator for the ingredients she'll need. "That was really sad about Hannah's daughter," Maddie says, as she pulls out her notebook.

"It was," Olivia agrees. She feels horrible about accidentally bringing up such a painful subject for this woman they just met. Olivia hadn't asked for any details-whether or not Hannah was married or how her daughter had died. "I like her."

"Me, too," Maddie says. She holds her pencil over a piece of paper. "Maybe you should get your hair done by her, too. You could go back to your natural color. We could match!"

Olivia smiles as she sets the ball of gluten-free pizza dough on the marble-topped counter and unwraps it. "I could. But your dad wouldn't be happy. He likes me blond."

Maddie makes a face. "And you always do what makes Dad happy, right? Not what you want to do?"

Olivia cringes, not looking at her daughter as she rolls out the dough into a thin circle. She wants to tell Maddie her plan. She wants to show her the cash she has stashed away, little by little over the past ten years. Money she made from the small bits of jewelry she sold-pieces James would give her after a particularly bad fight or bruise left on her skin. But this isn't the kind of thing Olivia discusses with Maddie-she wants her daughter to have plausible deniability if James should ever confront her. She has to keep Maddie safe.

"How about I think about it?" Olivia says, as she runs a sharp knife through a Roma tomato. Maddie shrugs again, keeping her eyes on the work sheet in front of her. Olivia hates that she hasn't been a better role model. "I stay with him for you," she longs to say. "I keep myself small, I keep my mouth shut all because of you!"

But she knows Maddie is too young to understand these kinds of decisions. Her daughter still sees the world in stark divisions of right and wrong, black and white, when the truth is, life is so much more complicated than that, colored by infinite shades of gray.

Maddie.

My dad comes home just as Mom and I are finis.h.i.+ng dinner, around eight o'clock. He walks into the kitchen, loosening his tie as he enters. He stops short when he sees me sitting at the table, his eyes wide, and stares at my head.

I set down my fork and speak so Mom doesn't have to. "My hair was so trashed from all my meds, I asked Mom to take me and get it fixed." I feel Mom's eyes on me, hoping she'll understand that I'm trying to keep Dad from getting angry. "I really love it, Dad. All the girls at school are like, fas.h.i.+on models or something. I'm just trying to fit in. And I feel so much better now." I wait a beat, trying to gauge how he'll react from the look on his face. "Do you like it?"

He hesitates before responding, looking to my mom then back to me again, his expression softening. "You look beautiful." I can almost hear Mom's internal sigh of relief. "How was your first day?" Dad asks.

"Okay," I answer, not wanting to get into what had happened with Hailey and Noah. Knowing my dad, if he found out what they said, he'd be on the phone with their parents in a hot minute, which would only make everything worse. "I still need to do some reading, though, so I think I'm going to head upstairs."

"Clear your plate, please," Mom says, then stands up, walks over to Dad, and gives him a kiss. She could win an Academy Award for her acting. He wraps an arm around her waist, squeezes her tightly to him, and makes the kiss deeper, which totally grosses me out. That's how it is with my parents, though. They run hot and cold, and I'm never sure which side of them I'm going to get. It's different when it's just me, alone with my mom. She's way more relaxed. She smiles more and even acts a little goofy. But when she's around my dad, it's like she turns into a skittish cat. She gets all twitchy and guarded.

I grab my plate from the table, hurry over to the sink to rinse it off, then put it in the dishwasher. Small ch.o.r.es like this are a new thing for me, since for years, I ate most of my meals in my bed, but I try not to complain about having to do them. It could always be worse, I figure. I could always be dead.

I rush up the stairs to the safety of my bedroom, the one place in the house that is completely mine. When I was twelve and stuck in the hospital for a month after having a shunt inserted in my liver to drain the toxins my body couldn't process on its own, Mom distracted me by bringing in endless stacks of decorating magazines and catalogs. "You're almost a teenager, now," she said, as we flipped through the pages together. "We should redo your room."

She was right-I'd outgrown the decor she'd picked out for me when I was a toddler: cotton candy pink walls and white lace curtains. "I like this one," I said, pointing to a page in the Pottery Barn teen catalog.

"Neon green and turquoise, huh?" Mom asked, eyeing the polka dot bedspread and thin-striped curtains. "Are you sure? It's a little bright."

"I like bright," I said. I tapped the page with my index finger. "This is the one."

"Let me talk to your dad," she said. In the end, he agreed. The one bonus of being a sick kid, I guess-parents who are willing to overindulge you. He even hired a decorator to manage the project since Mom was busy at the hospital with me. When I finally came home, the walls of my room were white, and the rest of the room was accented by loud spots of turquoise and bright green on my bedspread and curtains-exactly what I'd wanted. The decorator gave me a queen-size, four-poster bed and an entire wall lined with white bookcases. She filled the corner with a huge turquoise beanbag chair and fuzzy neon green pillows. Now, everything about the room is comfortable and plush. It is by far my favorite place to be.

As my computer boots up, I stand in front of the mirror above my chest of drawers, regarding my new reflection. I wasn't lying to my dad that I loved my new hair-in two hours, Hannah somehow made me look like an entirely different person. I tuck one side behind my right ear, turning my head back and forth and making kissing lips at myself, wondering what Hailey might say about me now. I still need to put on a little makeup and go shopping for some new clothes, but maybe now she and Noah will at least leave me alone.

My laptop chimes, letting me know it's ready for me to log on. But instead of immediately checking my email to see if I've heard from Dirk, I open Facebook and look up Hailey's profile. Even without her last name, it only takes a few minutes to find her under Eastside Prep's page. She's listed as one of the people "liking" the school, and with her mop of red hair, her profile picture isn't hard to pick out. Like Tiffani's, Hailey's account is set to public, so I don't need to send her a friend request in order to read all the posts on her wall or dig through her About.me page, either. She has over a thousand friends, she likes pages like Cosmopolitan and Your Daily Horoscope, and her most recent post was ten minutes ago: "Yo! Green beans = Yuck!" Eighty-seven of her friends "liked" this.

"Seriously?" I say aloud. "How old are all of you?" I scroll down through her other posts, most of them fairly similar in tone. She seems a little in love with herself, posting self-portraits clearly taken with her cell phone-her chin down, eyebrows suggestively raised, with coy, fis.h.i.+ng-for-compliment statements like "Who says a girl needs makeup to feel good about herself?"

"You might need it to cover up Mount Vesuvius on your chin," I mutter, despite the fact that I realize making fun of anything to do with Hailey's appearance makes me just as ugly as she was to me. I consider using my Sierra account to post inappropriate YouTube videos on her wall or signing her email address up to receive endless amounts of spam, but decide that cyberbullying might be a bit more retaliation than she actually deserves. Teenage girls are supposed to be catty to each other-at least, that's what I gathered watching movies like Heathers and Mean Girls, along with countless episodes of The Secret Life of the American Teenager when I was stuck in the hospital. Hailey's comment about my hair might have only been reflex, and not necessarily evidence that she is related to Satan.

Hoping it's not too late to chat with Dirk, I quickly log in to my email, smiling when I see his name in the inbox. Over the last two weeks, we'd all but abandoned the Zombie Wars game, choosing instead to chat over instant messaging and through emails. I learned that he works as a systems engineer for Google, helping to write the complicated scripting that makes things like Gmail and Google+ function on a day-to-day basis. He has two younger sisters-both still in high school, but they live in North Seattle with his parents, so at least I'm not in danger of running into them at Eastside Prep-not that they'd know it was me, since the only picture he has is the one I sent him of "Sierra." His apartment is downtown on Capitol Hill, a small studio inside a converted brick warehouse. "It definitely needs a woman's touch," he wrote. "I'm sort of a slacker when it comes to decorating. Unless you consider stacks of empty pizza boxes artistic expression."

"Hey Sierra," his note tonight reads. "I've been thinking, and I'm pretty sure it's time I get your digits. I mean, we've been talking online for a month now, right? I'd like to hear the voice attached to that pretty face. Call me tonight. I'll be up until midnight."

He included his number at the bottom of the screen, and I take a deep breath, considering whether or not talking with him on the phone is a good idea. I'm not sure if I sound like I'm almost twenty years old, or if I'll give myself away when I don't have the added protection of the computer screen. But my curiosity gets the better of me, and I grab my cell phone out of my backpack, dial his number, and immediately head inside my closet, shutting the door behind me so my parents won't hear me talking.

I can do this, I say to myself. I can be Sierra. The phone rings six times before he answers. "This is Dirk," he says. His voice is low and warm, and I suddenly feel like I can't breathe. "h.e.l.lo?" he says after a moment of silence. "Sierra?"

"Yes. Um, I mean, no." I cover my eyes with one hand and shake my head. Oh, G.o.d. I'm such an idiot.

"No?" The way he says it makes me picture the word curling up at the end.

"Well, sort of." I should just tell him the truth. I should just get it over with and get on with my life.

"You're sort of Sierra? Sounds like a name for a bad sitcom. Sort of Sierra, starring Blake Lively as the girl wrestling with an ident.i.ty crisis." He says it in a deep, mocking movie voice-over tone, which makes me laugh. So he's not just charming on the computer. "I'm happy you called," he continues.

"Me, too." I drop my hand from my face into my lap. "I mean, I'm happy you asked me to."

"So, what's this sort of Sierra' biz?"

I pause, feeling my pulse thud inside my ears. "Well . . . that's not actually my name."

"Oh." He is quiet, then clears his throat. "Like it's a moniker for the game?"

Tell him, I think. Tell him who you are, NOW. "Yeah," I say, the lie slipping out of me so much more easily than the truth. "I just like it better than my name, so that's what I go by online."

"What's your real name, then?" he asks, sounding clearly relieved.

"Madelyn. But I mostly go by Maddie."

"Maddie," he repeats. "Well, I think it's pretty, but coming from a guy named Dirk, I can totally understand wanting to use a different one."

"It could be worse," I offered. "You could be Cornelius."

"Ha! Totally true." He's quiet again, and I struggle to find something interesting to say. I don't really know how to talk with boys, and all I can think is I'm going to say something that's going to give me away. But then I don't have to speak, because he does. "It's nice to finally hear your voice, Maddie. I mean, it's cool and everything talking online, but this is better." He sounds so relaxed, so comfortable with himself, I feel terrible for deceiving him. "What are you up to tonight?" he asks.

"I got my hair cut and had dinner with my parents. Exciting, right?" I remember reading somewhere that the closer to the truth you keep a lie, the less likely you are to be found out. I'd already told him that "Sierra" still lived at home with her parents while she went to school to become a computer graphics artist. "What about you?"

"Well, I was helping my dad rebuild the engine on a '69 Corvette a little while ago, and now I'm back at my apartment, sitting on the couch, talking with a super-cute girl on the phone." My face warms, and for a moment, I feel like that girl-the girl in the picture I'd sent him. But then it hits me-that's the girl he's thinking of, not me. He's imagining Sierra's long, smooth torso, not my thick belly, marked by an ugly red scar. He's not imagining the Franken-babe. Even with my new haircut, I'm pretty sure if he saw me on the street, he'd look the other way.

"Maddie?" I hear my mom's m.u.f.fled voice, coming from the hallway. "Can I get you anything, sweetie?"

I sigh and s.h.i.+ft a little on the floor. "Hey, can you hold on a sec?" I say to Dirk.

"Sure," he says, so I set my phone down and quietly step out of my closet into my bedroom. I open the door to see my mom standing there, her face turned away from me, showing me only the right side.

"I'm fine," I say. "Thanks. Just going to read and go to sleep, okay?" She nods, and I notice her eye is watering. "Are you okay?" I ask, and she nods again. "Mom, look at me."

She turns her head a little bit, and gives me a half smile. "I just wanted to check to make sure you'll remember to take your meds."

And then I see it-the red mark on the other side of her face, next to her ear. "Oh my G.o.d. Did he hit you?" My stomach clenches. I've seen marks on my mother's body before-small, fingertip-size bruises on her biceps, a slight pink swelling around her eye-but she denies my dad had anything to do with them. She always has a good story.

"No," she says, but her voice breaks on the word. "I opened the pantry door too fast and smacked my cheek. That's all." She leans toward me and gives me a quick kiss. "I love you, sweetie. Get some rest, and I'll see you in the morning." She turns quickly and moves down the hallway toward my parents' room.

"Mom?" I call out, not knowing what I could possibly say to make her feel better. She pauses just in front of their door, then turns back, a questioning look on her face. Though her eyes are s.h.i.+ny with tears, she is so beautiful. My heart suddenly hurts. "I love my new hair," I finally say, faltering. "Thank you."

She holds my gaze a moment and then smiles. "You're welcome, sweet girl." And then she is gone.

I keep my hand on the doork.n.o.b a moment, wis.h.i.+ng I had the courage to run down the stairs and scream at my father. I wish I knew how to stand up to him-I wish I knew the right words to say. But before I can think of any, I remember Dirk, waiting for me on the phone. I rush back inside the closet, making sure I've shut my bedroom door behind me. "G.o.d, I'm sorry," I say, breathlessly. "That took longer than I thought."

"It's okay," Dirk says. "I like it when a girl plays hard to get." Despite the weight I feel in my chest after seeing my mom, I smile. "Everything okay?" he asks.

"My parents had a fight," I say, before I can stop to wonder if telling him this is a good idea. "My dad's got a temper."

"Like how bad a temper?"

I swallow hard, trying to push down the lump in my throat. "Pretty bad," I whisper. I can't help it, a tear rolls down my cheek.

"Hey . . . are you okay?" Dirk asks, with real concern in his voice.

I take a deep breath. "I'll be fine," I say, hoping that somehow, I can find a way to make those words come true.

Hannah.

That night, after Olivia and Maddie leave the salon, for the first time in months, Hannah doesn't go for a second run. Instead, she quickly cleans up her station and heads upstairs to her apartment, where she reaches into the top drawer of her dresser and pulls out the thank-you notes Zoe has forwarded to her. She counts them-eight in all-wondering if she can handle reading them without falling apart. But then her desire to know whether she has a letter from the parents of the child who received Emily's liver takes over and moments later she is sitting on her couch, sorting through the stack of envelopes. She puts them in order by the dates on the postmarks.

With a deep breath, she opens the first envelope and removes the card, which is white with the simple words Thank You in s.h.i.+ny silver letters on the front. Inside, are these handwritten words: We wish there was a way to express just how deeply we are grateful for the gift of your daughter's heart. Our son, Marcus, had been on the UNOS list for almost six months and his doctors weren't exactly hopeful that we would find a donor in time to save his life. When they told us about your daughter, some of our first thoughts were of you, what an incredible person you must be to give such a gift to another person's child.

We know that there is nothing to lessen the sorrow of losing her, but we want you to know that she is our hero. We think of you both every day, of your selflessness and generosity. We thank G.o.d for the gift of our child's life and will always grieve the fact that it had to come at the loss of yours.

Thank you seems too inadequate a phrase to capture how we feel, but we hope you find some comfort in knowing that your daughter-and you-will never be forgotten.

Sincerely, Pat and Sheila.

Hannah's eyes blur as she reads, and when she is finished, she lets loose a rough sob from her chest. Emily's heart saved a little boy. She finds her spirits lifted knowing this, knowing his parents are truly grateful. She quickly begins to open the other cards, most of them similar to the first. There are notes from the parents of the children who received Emily's lungs, her corneas, her intestines, her kidneys and skin, but none for her pancreas or liver. Hannah knows that the fact that there isn't a note from the parents of the girl who Emily's liver saved doesn't mean Maddie is that girl.

Still curious to know more about Olivia and Maddie's family, Hannah grabs her laptop from the bedroom and sits back down on her couch. Once it boots up, she types, "Olivia Bell, Seattle," into a search engine, surprised by how many links immediately populate the screen. Olivia's name is in almost all of them, but never alone-always following her husband's. JAMES AND OLIVIA BELL HOST A BENEFIT FOR SEATTLE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL, a recent headline reads, just above a picture of the two of them dressed in elegant attire-Olivia wears a simple silver sheath, cut perfectly to fit the lines of her lithe frame, and James, a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and broad shoulders, is movie-star handsome in a cla.s.sic black tuxedo. Hannah stares at his face a moment, wondering if she is just imagining the slightly gla.s.sy, reptilian look to his eyes. She reads the brief paragraph beneath the photograph: James and Olivia Bell honored the doctors at Children's Hospital this weekend with a benefit that raised well over two million dollars for the facility. Bell Investments is one of the largest firms in the Northwest, and supports not only the hospital but several other charitable organizations in Seattle.

Okay, Hannah thinks. So maybe he's not a reptile. Maybe the camera just caught him at a bad moment. But she can't help but notice the body language between him and his wife-how his arm is wrapped tightly behind her back, gripping her waist-the fabric is wrinkled and cinched beneath his fingers. And yet, her torso is turned from his like she's trying to pull away, and her eyes look up and over the camera. Hannah thinks about the strain having a sick child can put on a marriage, and she wonders what their relations.h.i.+p is like after years of managing Maddie's illness.

Clicking through various other articles, Hannah learns more about James than Olivia. She reads about his phenomenal financial success, a man who rose from meager beginnings and built himself into an empire. In one magazine article, the journalist asked him about his family, citing an interview James's father had given, in which he took credit for instilling "Jimmy's" innate business sense. The journalist noted that James instantly went silent when his father was mentioned, then finally replied, "My father is dead. And my name's not Jimmy."

"And your mother?" the journalist pressed.

"I didn't have one," James said, then refused to discuss the subject further. Hannah wonders what could have created such a substantial rift between James and his parents. There are pictures of him shaking hands with the governor and the mayor, shots of him playing golf with Bill Gates. In every picture he is smiling, a wide, car salesman grin, but again, in every image, his eyes appear vacant to Hannah, as though at any moment that smile might vanish and you'd be fighting for your life.

After reading a few more articles about James Bell and his family, Hannah is no more certain if Maddie is the girl who received Emily's liver than when she started. Closing the browser, Hannah shuts her eyes, suddenly not wanting to read any more about the Bells. Her body aches, missing Emily, and she wants to go for that second run, but it's past eight o'clock and too dark for her to be out on her own. As a few tears slip down her cheeks, she hears the front door of the salon downstairs open, and she quickly wipes her face and sets her laptop on the small coffee table in front of her.

"Hannah?" Sophie's voice travels up the narrow stairway. "Are you here?"

Hannah sniffles and stands. "Come on up," she calls out. She wonders if she should tell Sophie about Olivia and Maddie right away, or wait until she finds out more about them. Her friend appears in the doorway before Hannah has a chance to decide. Sophie's red hair hangs over one shoulder, expertly folded into a tight fishtail braid, and she's wearing dark jeans with a navy blue silk tank top. "I'm here to take you out for drinks," she says. "I need a wingman. Wing woman?" She pauses, tilting her head to one side. "Whatever."

Hannah smiles and takes a step over to hug her friend. "I don't think you need my help meeting men."

"No, but you need mine." Sophie pulls back and kisses both of Hannah's cheeks. "I do believe it's time to dust the cobwebs off your v.a.g.i.n.a."

Hannah laughs, surprised by the sound. Genuine amus.e.m.e.nt has all but evaded her over the last year-she's a little amazed that her body still knows how to react to the feeling. "My v.a.g.i.n.a's just fine, thank you very much. Perfectly happy."

"With a vibrator?" Sophie snorts. "Hardly." The only reason Sophie knows Hannah has such a device is that she's the one who gave it to her. And besides, the truth is that Hannah could care less about s.e.x at the moment-with herself or anyone else. She's fairly certain she's forgotten how to do it.

Sophie looks down the bridge of her nose and raises her arched brows. "You need to be careful with those things. I've heard they can desensitize you." Hannah shakes her head, but Sophie continues. "Really, darling. One day it's the vibrator, the next it's the paint shaker at the hardware store."

"Oh my G.o.d, Sophie, that's disgusting!" Hannah squeals, immediately visualizing herself naked, splayed upon Home Depot machinery, surrounded by an audience of slack-jawed carpenters and plumbers. But then she dissolves into laughter, the deep-seated, internal body-scrubbing variety that leaves her feeling lighter and slightly bruised.

Sophie grins, then grabs Hannah's arm and pulls her toward the bathroom. "Let's get you ready."

"I really don't feel up to it, Soph." Hannah dreads the idea of sitting in a club, ba.s.s music thudding in the air, surrounded by totally-inappropriate-for-dating twenty-five-year-olds. Clubbing is a young person's game, and now that they are in their midforties, Hannah feels as though she and Sophie don't qualify. And really, she has no interest in meeting a man. What would be the point, now? What would she have to offer anyone, other than sorrow?

"You can't let yourself waste away in this apartment," Sophie says, seemingly undeterred. "Do you think Emily would want that for you? Do you think it would make her happy to see her mother hiding from the world?" She pauses, then answers her own question. "Of course not. She wanted you to fall in love."

Hannah can't deny this is true. When she was a toddler, Emily often asked when she would get a daddy like all of her friends. "Where's my daddy?" she'd say, and Hannah would cuddle her close.

"I wanted to be your mama so much, I couldn't wait for a daddy to come along," she told her daughter, unsure of the appropriate time or manner in which to explain artificial insemination. It would have been easier if Emily had been adopted. Over the years, Emily brought the subject up every now and then, bemoaning the fact that she didn't have a father.

"You could get married to Mr. Tate," she said, suggesting that her first-grade science teacher would make Hannah a perfect match. "He has two dogs and pizza is his favorite food!"

"Mr. Tate is very nice," Hannah agreed, "but I think we're doing just fine on our own." She paused, worried by the disappointment scribbled across her daughter's face. "Aren't we?"