Warm Foothills – Alt-J
OLIVE
It was filled with art supplies I’d bought over the years, heavy textbooks covering different periods of art history, and some art from past students I’d kept away as mementos and good examples. That’s what was left of my teaching career, tucked away neatly in a single cardboard box sitting ominously in the back seat of my car.
I drummed my fingers on the wheel, staring out at the porch wrapped house, all lights inside the house off. I’d been sitting in the car for at least twenty minutes, trying to find the energy to get out of the car and go inside, the pressure building with every moment that passed.
I still hadn’t told my dad I’d quit.
I hadn’t told anyone except Rob. I’d sat down in his office halfway through Monday and told him I couldn’t do it anymore.
Something had snapped, and I was still trying to figure out what had been the breaking point. It could have been losing the competition and the closure of the after school club, the drama with Ben, or if I’d simply finally found the bottom of the endless pit I’d been free falling into since the summer. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter.
Not when I’d marched straight in and told Rob this was my last week and that was the end of it. Hanna had called me later that evening in hysterics, asking why I hadn’t told her I was quitting, why I hadn’t given her any warning her best friend was leaving. I’d managed to calm her down, and finally, with a deep breath, she told me I’d done the right thing and she’d been waiting for a month for me to finally do it.
The rest of the week had been a weird dance around Ben; avoiding the teacher’s lounge in case he took his break in there, trying to stagger the times I left the classroom so I didn’t run straight into him. I’d asked for space, and he’d given it, no calls or texts. He hadn’t even come up to me at school until yesterday, when he’d found me at Mom’s piano and I’d finally told him I was leaving. The way he’d reacted, it had nearly torn me apart not to pull him close instead of pushing him away. But it was for the best. I needed distance, needed to push myself away from the safety and peace he offered, maybe more than I’d first thought.
I sighed, knowing it was long past time to go inside. I pulled the keys out of the ignition and climbed out of the car. I took the box inside, knowing if I left it in the car I’d avoid it for at least a month.
As I stepped inside the house, the smell of fresh paint quickly hit me, the smell hanging strong in the air.
“Dad?” I shouted, my voice ringing around the empty, dark living room. “Are you home?”
I heard heavy footsteps at the back of the house and a few grumbles followed.
“Hey.” He stuck his head out of the doorway to Mom’s office, white blotches of paint smeared on his face. “Sorry for the smell, I’ve tried opening windows but it’s still strong. I’ve had to put the dog outside.”
“Oh,” I said, slightly taken back. “What are you doing?”
“I’m painting,” he said simply, motioning me in with a hand. “Come see.”
He disappeared, and I took a moment to place the box on the ground before I followed him into the room. The smell was stronger from the doorway and I paused, scanning my eyes wildly around the room.
It was… empty. Completely empty. Never in my entire life had this room resembled anything close to tidy. Her books that never quite made it back onto the bookshelf her piles and piles of music, some half-finished melodies she’d had stuck in her head; the piano that used to stand grandly in the middle of the room that filled this house with such life and noise and music–all gone.
The hardwood floor was covered with tarps, old curtains, and newspaper. The walls had been a light neutral brown, but now they were a cozy red, the walls still wet and glossy with fresh paint.
Any sign of her was gone, and the moment I’d been completely dreading ever since he’d brought up the subject of changing this room had finally arrived and… I was still standing, could still breathe. I was adjusting, and the moment was enough to tilt me off center, but the change felt closer to relief than devastation.
“Where did you put her stuff?” The question pulled a knot in my stomach tight as I kept my eyes on the room, a little apprehensive to look at my dad.
“Mostly in storage,” he said. “I recycled most of the unfinished notes she had, but a lot of them I’ve been organizing into folders. Her books I’ve offered to some of her friends so they have something of hers too, but I’m also going to put a lot of them back where they should go.”
The moment eased further, tension melting away to relief.
“What do you think?” he asked. “I thought red would be a nice change because I always thought this room was cold.” Dad stood in the middle of the room, looking around and inspecting his work. “I repainted the roof too. You wouldn’t believe how dirty it’s gotten over the years.”
“It’s great,” I said, still taking it in. I finally looked at him, a grin on my lips. “She would’ve hated it.”
He laughed, rubbing his forehead. “The fights we used to have over paint. It could never be bright–God forbid I wanted a splash of color!”
“She liked neutral,” I said with a shrug. “And hated everything else.”
“I just wanted to do something for myself “Still not sure what I want to do with the space but since the piano’s gone, I wanted to start changing it.” He looked at me and the crinkle in his forehead deepened. “Are you okay?”
I pushed away from the doorway where I’d been lingering, suddenly needing some space. “Yeah” My voice came out weird and high-pitched. “But we should talk.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Does this have anything to do with the cardboard box you left by the door?”
“Maybe.” I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. I should’ve told him already. He’d been home all week so there were plenty of opportunities to talk to him. But getting through this last week had been hard enough without having to explain myself. I’d made this decision and I was terrified that if I talked about it, I’d be talked out of it.
“Were you fired?”
I shook my head. “I resigned.”
His reply was instant, firm, and unexpected. “Good.”
“Good?”
“That job was killing you. I’m glad it’s over,” he said, before turning his attention back to his painting, lifting the roller that had been sitting in the paint tray.
“You aren’t mad?” I asked, wondering if I’d ever felt more like a child waiting for my father’s approval.
He shook his head firmly, his attention still on the wall. “You’ve not been the same this year. I know with your mom it was always going to be hard. But it was harder than it needed to be.” He paused, and for a moment it was silent between us. He lowered the roller, and turned back to look at me. “I was losing my daughter, and a zombie was coming home in her place. It was breaking my heart every day seeing you like that, Olive. You lost your glow.”
I didn’t know what to say. What was I even supposed to say? That I knew? That I’d known I was drowning and that finding the surface had felt near impossible? I was still trying to find myself again, and maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe when she’d died, a piece that made me who I was had gone too, and after months of trying to find myself again, I’d realized that girl was gone forever.
I didn’t know what was next, who I’d end up being. But I knew now that trying to be the old me had been keeping me unhappy for far longer than I needed to be. I was ready for that to stop now.
“I’m sorry,” I said genuinely. I’d been so distant, so closed off when we’d always been close. I hated that I’d worried him.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” he said, with a shake of his head. “I’m glad you’ve made the decision.”
I nodded, not really knowing what else to say to him. Anxiety still bit around the edges, the freefall of unemployment looming. I knew I couldn’t stay there anymore, but did that mean giving up teaching altogether? I still had the other job offer, even if it meant moving away from here. Maybe that was more of an advantage than I could see. A fresh start, somewhere new and far away from all the security I’d used to stay uncomfortable here.
One step at a time, I tried to tell myself. This was all new, and I wanted to figure out my next step, not leap into something completely wrong because of fear.
“So I guess you’ll be around the house more often then?” Dad asked, back to painting, the red paint wet on the walls.
“Probably, until I figure out what to do,” I said, and cleared my throat. “But then… then I’m going to try and get my own place again. I think it’s time.”
He smiled softly at me. “You are always welcome home, Olive. Stay as long as you need.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Knowing that would be his reaction had allowed me to take this leap, to quit when I finally felt ready.
“Think you could handle dinner on your own tonight while I finish up here?”
“Sure, I’ll see what I can find in the fridge,” I answered, turning to leave the room. I heard a tiny yelp, and when I looked out the windows at the end of the room, Meatball was pressed right up to the glass, her wet nose leaving a smudge mark on the pane. She yelped again, jumping up and pressing a muddy paw to the glass.
“And can you let the damn dog in before she digs her way out?” Dad asked, wiping his brow with his free hand as he looked her way. There was a wide grin on his face at the sight of the small dog. He still pretended to resent her, complaining endlessly when she sat at his feet and whined for scraps of food, but I knew as soon as my back was turned he fed her bits of meat and leftovers.
I was beginning to think the dog might be eating better than me, judging by the size difference I’d seen in her since I’d moved in.
Leaving Dad to work in the study, I headed for the kitchen to let Meatball in. She rushed in with the cold breeze, any heat in the dark room leaving instantly. I grabbed a towel and called her over, making sure to give her a clean before letting her loose around the house. Her coat was mostly fine, a few leaves stuck to her wild fur, but I tried to clean her paws so she didn’t leave tiny footsteps all over the hardwood floor.
She used to only let Mom clean her like this, the dog too fussy to allow anyone to handle her roughly. But instead of resisting, she happily let me take her paws and rub them clean before of course looking up at me with her wide dark eyes, the implication clear.
Treat, or I’ll eat all your shoes.
Sighing, I relented far too easily, and grabbed one of the dental chew sticks we kept, throwing it her way. She jumped up, grabbing it easily between her teeth and scurried off to eat it somewhere nobody would find her.
She’d become more than just Mom’s dog, more than even just Dad’s secret love. She was mine now, had snuck her way into my heart and carved out a place for herself. Imagining the past few months without her pressed up beside me, keeping me company when getting out of bed felt too hard, or the moments where I’d found myself missing my mom and she’d somehow know and come find me–it kept me distracted long enough until the storm passed.
She had been Mom’s, and now she was ours. Or maybe, more accurately, we were hers. She’d given us both what we needed, even before we had realized.
I thought for a moment, wondering what else I had been missing. I’d only just left work, but slowly the heavy weight of it was lifting. It had been keeping me down for so long, I felt like I’d missed months of my own life. Like things had been happening to me, and I’d been so busy trying to survive that I hadn’t realized exactly what I’d been doing, who I’d been falling for all along.
My heart clenched hard at the thought. Missing him was unbearable. Thinking about him was torture.
I looked at the stove, remembering the time he’d come over when I was sick, and made me soup without any question. He’d given me exactly what I’d been craving that night too. But that was exactly the reason I needed space. For the first time in months, I was able to breathe on my own, navigate these messy feelings without help, without a map or a distraction from the pain of it all.
I needed this time. Even if it meant giving him up forever.
I knew what I needed to do at that moment, the solution so clear it was more annoying I’d not seen it before. I threw the dirty towel in the laundry basket and went back through to the living room to the cardboard box. It felt less threatening now, and closer to a means to an end.
I grabbed my phone and scrolled to my best friend’s contact. Even the dial tone made me tap my fingers anxiously across my belly until I finally heard her voice.
“Ol, what’s up?” She sounded slightly concerned considering we’d only seen each other an hour ago. But I let it go, trying to get to the point before I lost my nerve.
“Hey… is Rob there?”
