Mom had brought me here the last few weekends, working on her own projects while I painted mine. Even thirteen years later, the place still inspires her.
I stand in the main room, looking at my dad, nervous. It
’
d been four weeks since we fought, and even though he said I was forgiven–and I believed I was–things were still a little strained between us. It makes my heart ache, still. There was less small talk, fewer words wasted on a daughter that hurt him more than he was still able to admit. Even I thought I got off too easy. He let his love for me cloud his judgment, and even though his pride was hurt more than a little, he didn
’
t go back and try to punish me. I think he just wanted me to have more time to think about what I
’
d said and done. I knew it was awful. I knew that it would take a long time to get back to where we were a few years ago, when I thought he could do anything and be anyone for me.
I
do
still think that, but I haven
’
t been able to convince him yet.
“
What are you doing, Liv?
”
I realize I
’
ve been staring at a spot across the room. I shake my head in awareness, coming out of my daydream.
“
Um, Dad? I wanted to show you something.
”
“
Okay.
”
He sets his phone down on the coffee table and looks up at me curiously.
“
I
’
m ready.
”
“
You need to come in the guest room.
”
He nods and follows me into the spare bedroom.
“
The dance room,
”
he says with a laugh.
“
Mom said you proposed in here.
”
“
I did. Right about here,
”
he says, standing nearly in the center of the room.
“
Of course, there wasn
’
t furniture in here at the time. What am I looking at?
”
I walk to the closet and take a deep breath before opening the door. Inside is a canvas, five-feet tall by two-foot wide. It
’
s wrapped in kraft paper and tied with a navy blue bow. My aunt Anna had found the ribbon for me at a local fabric store after I failed to find anything wide enough and long enough. A little card hangs from the bow. I start to pick up the gift, but my dad quickly crosses the room to move it for me. It was a little too heavy for me to lift on my own. Mom had always helped me move it around.
Dad sets it against the wall horizontally in the guest room and glances at the card.
“
For me?
”
“
Yeah,
”
I tell him nervously.
“
You said you wanted to see what I
’
ve been working on.
”
“
You didn
’
t have to paint me anything,
”
he says as he crouches down and takes the card off, reading it aloud.
“
Thanks, Mister.
”
He looks puzzled at this strange address.
“
I thought you were back to calling me dad,
”
he says, confused.
“
Just unwrap the gift,
”
I encourage him. He leans the canvas toward him and starts to untie the bow.
“
Turn it vertically, though. The left end goes up.
”
“
Yes, miss,
”
he says, joking with me and repositioning the present.
“
May I continue?
”
“
Yes, Dad.
”
I put extra emphasis on the word
dad
, just in case there was any doubt in his mind about where he fits into my life. I hoped he
’
d understand when he saw the gift. He sets the bow aside and begins to remove the tape from the paper.
As he peels back the wrapping, he studies the painting intently. He moves the paper to the side so he can see the whole thing, unobstructed. He finally stands up and takes a few steps back, as if he was trying to find the meaning in it. His hand rubs the stubble on his chin, and his eyes begin to water. He presses his lips together, trying to stay composed.
“
You
did
call me Mister,
”
he says, and I can hear his breath catch in his throat. He moves his hand to clutch his tie, mimicking the motion depicted in the painting. Only it wasn
’
t
his
hand holding the neckwear, it was
mine
.
“
That was the first word you
’
d said to me. My Livvy
’
s first word.
”
Seeing his emotion makes me start crying. Not just tearing up, but crying.
“
Daddy, it
’
s not supposed to make you upset.
”
“
It
’
s just so moving, Contessa,
”
he assures me, finally looking at me.
“
Come here.
”
I walk quickly into his awaiting arms and hug him tightly.
“
It
’
s beautiful.
”
This time, I know that
’
s the exact word he means. When we let go of one another, we both look at the piece of art together.
“
I remember that tie,
”
he says.
“
I would never have remembered that, but I was wearing that one that night. Kelly had given it to me as a Christmas gift. Did I tell you about that tie at some point?
”
“
No.
”
“
Did your mother?
”
“
No, I remember the tie. I remember tracing the snowflakes with my finger. I was mesmerized by the way the threads in the flakes sparkled in the light.
”
“
You remember that day?
”
he says, really choked up now. He moves closer to the painting, touching the little beads around the tiny wrist.
“
Yes. And I
’
m not sure, but I think I was wearing plastic bracelets or something. I know I had been playing dress-up with some nurses.
”
“
You
were
wearing plastic jewelry,
”
he confirms.
“
Another thing I
’
d forgotten about the day. The second I saw your little smile, that was it for me.
”
“
The second I saw
yours
, that was it for
me
.
”
He turns around and grins once more.
“
I always wanted a picture of that moment... that moment when my life changed and my heart grew to make room to love a child of my own. My chest got tight, and it got worse as we left you at the hospital that night.
This
is what I
’
ve always wanted.
This
brings it all back. My little Contessa.
”
“
I
’
m glad, Daddy. I am so sorry.
”
I barely manage to squeak the words out before I erupt in sobs, remembering that day in perfect clarity, and remembering how I felt the day that I went home with him and Mom for good. I knew I was loved, more than anything.
“
I am, too. We
’
re going to be just fine, Livvy.
”
Dad carries his painting down to my car while I calm down and re-apply my ruined makeup. I think about not putting it back on at all, since I
’
m fairly certain seeing Jon will make me emotional, too. But I want to look my best for everyone–and especially for him.
I let my father drive my car to the Art Room. He pulls up to the curb, where my mom
’
s waiting for us.
One look into my eyes and she knows my dad has told me about Jon. And one glance in hers lets me know that he
’
s already here.
“
But why is he so early?
”
I say quickly, not really expecting an answer.
“
Donna wanted to talk to him beforehand. You
’
ll be fine,
”
Mom says.
“
He
’
s already asked about you.
”
I simply raise my eyebrows, and my mother nods in affirmation.
“
I
’
m scared,
”
I admit to them both.
“
Contessa, go be that girl in this painting. That confident, beautiful girl.
”
I take a few deep breaths as she unlocks the Art Room door, watching Dad carry my painting inside. I follow him closely, trying to keep my eyes from desperately scanning the room for him. I can
’
t help myself, though. Dad walks toward the wall on which Granna has hung my other three paintings. Jon is standing in front of the first one, staring at it intently. He
’
s wearing a well-fitting suit that I
’
ve never seen on him before. His hair is newly cut, a little shorter than the last time. His hands are clasped behind his back
;
his thumbs fidget nervously.
I decide to go talk to Granna. On my way across the room, though, I realize she
’
s talking to Jon
’
s mother. I stop abruptly, trying to figure out where to go.
“
Why don
’
t you get some water?
”
my mother suggests.
“
Sure.
”
I head toward the kitchen and grab a bottle from the stocked refrigerator. I linger in the doorway, watching Dad hang the painting as Jon moves on to the second in the series. He engages my dad in conversation, but I can
’
t hear either of them.
Dad removes the covering from my final piece, and Jon immediately shifts his attention to it. My dad backs away to make sure it
’
s hanging straight while Jon takes a few steps toward it.
I hear his voice for the first time.
“
My god.
”
I can tell from those two words that he likes it. I feel happy and relieved, knowing that I shouldn
’
t want his approval, but unable to help the way I feel.
“
Where is she?
”
I hear him ask Dad. Jon is still focused on the painting, and my father glances my way, as if to get permission. I take another sip of water before nodding to him.
“
She
’
s coming this way.
”
Jon spins around quickly, obviously unaware that I
’
m here already. He stays next to the painting, shoving his hands into his pockets. Finally ready to see what awaits me, I look at his face. A smile draws slowly across his lips, but his eyes look sad and tired. His shoulders relax as I feel mine tighten.
“
Congratulations,
”
I tell him, stopping about three feet in front of him.
“
Thanks,
”
he says.
“
I can
’
t help but think that you had something to do with it.
”
“
I didn
’
t,
”
I respond quickly, shaking my head.
“
I didn
’
t even know you got it until a few minutes ago.
”
“
Oh.
”
His expression changes, and he looks disappointed.
“
How have you been?
”
“
Busy,
”
I tell him. He nods in understanding, then turns his back to me to look at the series of paintings.
“
So I see,
”
he comments softly.
“
Olivia,
”
he starts, and my stomach flutters,
“
I
’
m astonished that you could channel so much emotion into these. I
’
ve never seen anything like them, but I immediately could identify with each one.
”