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 shiny 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 God 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 classic black tuxedo. Hannah stares at his face a moment, wondering if she is just imagining the slightly glassy, 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 relationship 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 vagina.”
Hannah laughs, surprised by the sound. Genuine amusement 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 vagina’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 sex 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 god, 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, bass 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?”
Emily shrugged, and Hannah couldn’t help but feel her daughter’s longing for a father was an indication that the life Hannah had built for them wasn’t enough—that she was failing Emily in the most fundamental way. Emily was twelve before she finally understood the logistical circumstances surrounding her conception, and she was not happy about them.
“So my dad is just some random guy you picked out of a book?” she asked, disgusted.
“He wasn’t random,” Hannah explained. “I picked someone very healthy and smart.”
“It’s totally creepy,” Emily said with a dramatic shudder. “Do you tell the guys you go on dates with how you had me?”
“Some of them, yes.” It wasn’t something that Hannah offered up front, but if a man asked, she told him the truth.
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Emily concluded, and every time Hannah went on a date after that, her daughter would inquire if she thought he might be “the one.” Hannah hated to disappoint her, but the truth was she didn’t believe in soul mates, that there was one perfect person for her in the world. She thought of relationships as many possible paths she could walk down, but so far, she hadn’t found one she wanted to travel.
She had thought she found it with Devin. The first day she saw him sitting alone at a table at the coffeehouse she used to frequent before work, she was struck by his rugged good looks. He had short brown hair, eyes almost the exact shade of copper pennies, and wore jeans and a T-shirt amid a sea of men in well-cut suits. He caught her staring at him and his lips curved into a slow, languid smile. Not wanting to gawk, she averted her eyes as quickly as she could, but she couldn’t deny the attraction she felt. After she paid for her drink, she was about to go talk with him, but he beat her to it; before she realized he had left his table, he was standing next to her. He was tall and thin, but muscular, too. As he rested an arm on the counter, she could see one of his exposed triceps working beneath his skin and she had to restrain herself from reaching out to caress its contour.
“Do you need any furniture?” he asked, and she laughed.
“Well, that has to be the strangest pickup line I’ve ever heard,” she said, wrapping her hands around her travel mug.
He smiled and tilted his head at her. “Am I trying to pick you up?”
Hannah’s chest flushed with heat, but still, she looked him straight in the eye. “I hope so,” she said, grateful that he laughed, too.
They sat down together and drank their coffee, making small talk and stealing lust-laden glances at each other. Their attraction was immediate and visceral, something she felt like she couldn’t deny. It turned out that Devin designed and built beautiful custom furniture for a living. He had just opened a small studio with a storefront a few blocks from the salon, so he invited her to come see it that night. Normally, she’d play a little bit hard to get, but something about Devin made her say yes right away.
When she arrived at his studio, it was illuminated by candlelight, and her first impression was that he was laying the romance on too thick for a first date. But then, as he began to show her the pieces he’d built, he explained how the candlelight brought out the truest beauty of the wood, the wisps of texture and changes of color in each. She ran her fingers along a burled walnut end table, marveling at the pattern of the grain.
“Mesmerizing, isn’t it?” Devin said, standing so close to her she could feel the heat coming off his body.
“Completely,” she said and turned to face him. He kissed her and led her to the bed he kept in the back room. Their lovemaking was beautiful and slow; Devin coaxed pleasure out of her body the same way she imagined he created art out of wood. His skin held an intoxicating scent of sandalwood and sap—she breathed him in like he was her new oxygen. Hours later, sated beyond anything she’d ever experienced, she felt sure she’d found her match.
Within a couple of months, they were engaged. Devin moved into her apartment, and for a while, everything was better than Hannah could have imagined. She introduced him to Sophie and Isaac, and then took him back to the farm to meet her parents. Everyone agreed he was the right fit for her. They talked about the babies they would have, the house they would build together just outside the city. They occasionally argued about money, but Hannah assumed this was a normal part of being in a long-term relationship.
After about a year together, though, Devin began staying nights at the studio again. “I work better at night,” he told her. “I like the quiet and the dark.”
She tried to be understanding, but she had a hard time with the distance he suddenly put between them. Then one evening, at an opening they hosted at the studio for his new line, Hannah saw him in the corner leaning a little too close to an obviously younger, twentysomething girl in a red dress. She giggled when he whispered in her ear, and Hannah felt sick.
“It was nothing!” he said later when she confronted him. “She’s interested in marketing the line for me, so I was just being friendly.”
“It looked way more than friendly,” Hannah said, trying not to cry. She loved him so much she tried to overlook that one moment, what she hoped was a simple misjudgment of his behavior. But then as time went on, even when he was with her, he was constantly checking his phone, telling her over and over again it was business related. But the look on his face as he read whatever was on the screen was one of pure lust. She recognized instantly because it was the way he’d stopped looking at her.
Her suspicions ate away at her thoughts, so much so that one night when he was in the shower, she opened his laptop, which he’d left on the coffee table. His email was still up on the screen, and as she clicked on one message after another, reading the notes from a woman named Nadia about the recent nights she’d spent with Devin at his studio, she felt increasingly ill.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Devin demanded a few minutes later as he stood in the threshold between the hallway and the living room. He had a white towel wrapped around his thin waist and his hair was still wet.
She looked over to him, her eyes glassy with tears. She pointed at the screen, her entire body shaking. “How long have you been screwing around on me?”
“I’m not,” he said, though his shoulders curled forward, as though a weight had suddenly been set upon them.
“Please don’t lie to me.” She swallowed back the bile that had risen in her throat. “Please. I asked you how long.”
“I don’t know,” he said, clearly deflated. “A while. I think I have a problem, Hannah. I think I need help.”
She stood up, clenching her fists at her sides. “I think you’re right,” she said. “And you’re not going to get it from me. Get the hell out.”
It took almost a year after Devin left for Hannah to work through the shock she felt over his betrayal. Only then did she start focusing on what it was she really wanted in her life, and it turned out what she wanted was Emily.
Now, fourteen years later, Hannah sighs, defeated by Sophie’s logic. Emily would want Hannah to be happy. She would want her mother to move on, so Hannah allows her friend to drag her into the bathroom.
Sophie puts her finger under Hannah’s chin and lifts it, examining her face. “Have you been exfoliating? Your skin is positively gray.”
“It hasn’t exactly been high on my list of priorities. I’m a little busy running the salon.”
“Pfft!” Sophie dismisses Hannah’s excuse with a wave of her hand. She grabs a bottle of astringent off the counter and douses a cotton ball before cleaning off Hannah’s face. As she carefully swipes on a mineral base, Sophie chatters about business. “I can’t believe how many new clients I have time for now,” she says. Part of the reason she and Hannah decided to open a second location was how many potential clients they’d had to turn away because of lack of space on their stylists’ schedules. Even during an economic downturn, they’d been lucky enough to prosper. “The only things that are certain are death and taxes,” Hannah liked to joke. “And the need for twice-weekly blow-outs.”
Sophie quickly applies Hannah’s makeup, then takes her into the tiny bedroom and stares into the closet, clucking with disapproval. She finally pulls out a pair of decent boot-cut jeans and a fitted scarlet sweater. “Put these on. And don’t smear your lipstick.”
Hannah complies, and twenty minutes later, she and Sophie are seated in the bar of Daniel’s Broiler, an upscale restaurant not far from the salon. The lighting is warm and low, and a grand piano tinkles quietly in the background. At least Sophie hasn’t brought her to a club. Hannah figures she can have a drink or two to placate her friend and then go home.
Sophie orders them both a glass of Merlot and with a stealthy eye, surveys the room. “By the window,” she murmurs. “Bachelors on the prowl.”
Hannah gives them a perfunctory glance, pretending to take in the stunning view of the city lights. The two men look to be in their late forties and are attractive enough—one with thick, slightly wavy black hair and the other a cropped-cut blond. Both are wearing jeans with casual button-down shirts, along with expensive-looking silver watches. The black-haired one catches her eye and smiles, so she quickly looks away. She decides the only way to keep Sophie from inviting them over is distraction, so she tells her friend about Olivia and Maddie appearing at the salon. Not wanting to appear obsessed, she doesn’t mention that she spent an hour reading about the family on the Internet.
“Do you really think it’s them?” Sophie asks after she takes a sip of wine. “I mean, what are the odds?”
“There are only something like two hundred transplants a year in the Northwest,” Hannah says, reciting what she learned from Zoe. “And only a handful of those are livers, since the parameters to qualify as a match are so hard to meet. I think the odds are pretty good, but I don’t know for sure yet.”
“Did you tell them that Emily was a donor?” Hannah shakes her head, and Sophie sighs before going on. “Why not?”
“I don’t know. I just . . .” Hannah trails off, then takes a quick sip of wine. “I told them she died, I just didn’t say when or how.” Sophie gives her a pointed look, and Hannah groans. “I was blindsided, Soph. I was in the middle of cutting Maddie’s hair. What was I going to say? ‘Oh, by the way, I think you might have my daughter’s liver inside you?’ ”
“Why not?” Sophie repeats the question, and before Hannah can answer, the men they were eyeing from across the room are standing next to them.
“Hi,” the blond one says to Sophie, holding out his hand. “I’m Robert, and I’m pretty sure it’s a crime that women as beautiful as the two of you are sitting alone.”
Hannah tries not to roll her eyes as the man with black hair slides onto the stool next to her. “Hello,” she says, primly. “Are you lost?”
He smiles. “If I am, you’re certainly a lovely roadside attraction.”
Hannah cocks her head. “Did you just compare me to an enormous ball of twine?” Up close, she sees that he is quite handsome, with dark eyes to match his hair, tan complexion, and a slow, easy smile. He looks like the kind of man who doesn’t have a hard time getting women to fall in love with him—and once they have, he probably loses interest.
He laughs, then holds out his hand. “I’m Seth.”
Hannah tells him her name, then briefly places her hand in his, noting his soft skin and manicured nails. Metrosexual, she thinks. He’s never done an ounce of hard labor in his life. He stares at her face, as though attempting to figure something out.
“What?” she asks, taking another sip of wine. “Do I have a piece of spinach in my teeth?”
He smiles again, but squints a little, too. “I’m just trying to figure out how high this wall of yours is, and whether or not I have the strength to climb it.”
There’s no malice to his tone, but still, Hannah bristles. “Does that line get you laid a lot?”
He sits back and lets out a quick, low whistle. “Ouch.”
“God, sorry,” she says, immediately feeling guilty for being rude. She knows she’s being a bitch, but she can’t help it. How can she even consider dating, when Emily is dead? Dating someone would imply she is moving on, letting go of the life she had with her daughter. Emily was the foundation upon which Hannah structured her entire life. All her decisions, her goals, her day-to-day choices were based on how Emily would be affected. Her daughter was the center of her world, and now, Hannah has no way to gauge what to do next, no scale to weigh what might be right or wrong for her. All she has is her gut instincts, and right now, they’re telling her she’s not ready to be here.
She looks in the mirror behind the bar, noting that Sophie is leaning in toward Robert, whispering something in his ear. She’s fairly certain her friend won’t be going home alone tonight.
Suddenly, Hannah’s empty stomach seizes and she feels as though she might vomit. The wine has made her queasy. She grabs Sophie’s arm. “I think it’s time for me to go,” she says.
Sophie stops midsentence and turns toward her. “But we just got here, chérie. And Robert’s asked us to join them for dinner. You should eat.”
“Yeah,” Robert says, placing a light hand on Sophie’s lower back. “Don’t leave poor Seth all alone.”
“Poor Seth will be just fine,” Seth says, quietly.
Hannah sets her glass on the bar, causing the wine to slosh and spill onto her hand. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t feel well,” she says, swallowing down the bitter swell of acid that rises in her throat. She shouldn’t have come. She should have stayed home, where she was safe. She will climb into bed, take a Xanax, and drift off to sleep . . . into the only kind of true relief she can find.
Sophie frowns, and her brow furrows. “Do you want me to drive you home?”
“No,” Hannah says with a quick shake of her head. “Don’t worry. I’ll grab a cab.” She stands, picks up her purse from the bar, and gives Sophie a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for trying,” she whispers into her friend’s ear. “I’m just not ready for all of this.” Pulling back, Hannah smiles at Robert and Seth. “Be nice to Sophie,” she says. “Have a good night.”
Pushing her way through the small crowd of people gathered at the bar, she tries to keep her breaths even and measured so she doesn’t cry. At the elevator, she pushes the down button over and over, as though the motion could hurry the machinery, and then, she hears her name being called.
“Hannah, wait,” Seth says, half-jogging toward her. She keeps her eyes on the numbers as they light up over the elevator door. Seth stands next to her, not too close, his hands linked loosely behind his back. The elevator dings, and the door opens. It’s empty, so the two of them step inside and Seth presses the button for the lobby. “I really am sorry for the wall comment,” he says. “It’s kind of an occupational hazard. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
This piques Hannah’s interest, and she eyes him briefly. “What do you do?”
“I’m a psychologist. Reading people is part of my job, and sometimes I do it at the wrong time with the wrong person.” They are quiet a moment, the only sound the buzz of the cables guiding the elevator to the ground, but then he speaks again. “What about you?”
“Bricklayer,” Hannah says wryly. “Professional wall builder.”
“Ha,” he says with a chuckle, and because he laughs at himself, Hannah decides she needs to apologize again.
“I’m sorry for being rude, too,” she says. “I’m having a bad night.” A bad year, actually, she thinks but doesn’t say.
“It happens,” Seth says gently. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Thank you,” she says and then realizes she hadn’t yet answered his question about what she does for a living. “And Sophie and I own Ciseaux Salon, one downtown and one here on the Eastside. We’re stylists.”
“Ah,” he says. “No wonder you’re both so beautiful.” He glances at her with warm brown eyes, and suddenly, Hannah feels exposed, as though he can see right through her. “Whatever it is you’re dealing with,” he says, “I hope it gets better, soon.”
“You’re doing it again,” Hannah says, though not unkindly. It wasn’t that he made these observations that bothered her—it was the fact that he was right about them. She thought she was a better actress than that. She thought she did such a good job of hiding her pain. Was she really so transparent? Maybe he was just really good at his job.
“I’m telling you,” Seth says as the door opens and they step out into the lobby, “it’s like having psychological Tourette’s.”
She laughs a little at his words, and once they’re on the street, Seth hails her a cab. She shakes his hand and looks him straight in the eye. She notices when he smiles, the lines around his eyes crinkle into small fans.
“Good night, Hannah,” he says. “Take care.”
She nods. “You, too.” She climbs into the back of the cab, and he closes the door behind her. She tries not to, but after she gives the driver her address and he pulls away from the curb, she looks back at Seth standing on the sidewalk. She wonders what it would be like to let a man like that into her world, and if Emily would have liked him. Before she knows it, she is crying, loud, gulping sobs that shake her core.
The cabbie glances at her in the rearview mirror. “Everything okay?” he asks, gruffly.
Hannah sucks in a quick breath and nods. “Just take me home,” she says, knowing that without Emily, no matter how hard she tries, things will never be okay again.
