I was six the first time I saw marks on my mother’s skin. I hadn’t been diagnosed with my liver disorder yet, so I was like any little girl—I went to school and played with other kids at the park. I still spent a lot of time with my mom, though, because my dad was at the office more than he was home.
“He has to work hard to take care of us,” Mom told me when I asked why Dad wasn’t going to come to my dance recital like he’d promised he would. I was going to be a purple flower and I wanted my daddy to see it. I was going to do the splits.
“But I want him to come,” I replied with a stomp of my foot. I wanted a daddy who spent time with me, who built forts in the living room and gave me airplane rides in our front yard, spinning me in circles until I was too dizzy to walk. What I had was a daddy who’d rather be at work, buying money, which is what he once told me was his job. “Buying and selling money, peanut,” he said, giving me a quick tweak on my nose. “People give me money to make them more money. Everyone wants more money . . . don’t you?”
He looked at me expectantly, so I nodded solemnly, knowing he wanted me to agree with him, and I, as always, wanting to make him happy. Part of me believed that if I was just good enough—if on the nights he came home before I went to bed, I remembered to fold my napkin in my lap at the dinner table and not slurp from my glass of milk—he would stop being gone so much. If I picked up my room and didn’t leave Legos on the floor for him to accidentally step on with his bare feet in the middle of the night, he would be like the fathers I saw drop their daughters off at school, giving them kisses on the head and quick hugs by the front doors for everyone to see.
“I know you do, baby,” my mother said, tucking my blanket up around my neck. “I’ll talk with him, okay?”
Later that night, I woke to the sound of my parents fighting in their bedroom, my father’s angry voice and my mother’s quiet cries as familiar to me as my own. Pushing back my covers, I tiptoed out of my room and down the hall to theirs, standing as still as possible so they wouldn’t know I was awake. I pressed my palms and one ear flat against the door and listened.
“Are you saying I’m a bad father?” I heard my dad say, the words sounding more like an animal’s growl than a man speaking. “Are you saying I don’t provide the both of you an amazing life? A beautiful house? Everything and anything you might need? Is that what you’re saying to me, Liv?”
“She needs you, James,” my mother responded. “She needs her father to be with her. She doesn’t need more things or more money. She’s only six. She loves you so much and you just walk away from her over and over again.” There was a brief moment of silence and I strained to hear if they were whispering. But then my mother continued. “Please. Come to the recital. Be the father you never had.”
My father’s feet pounded across the floor—I felt the vibration from where I stood. “I am not my father!” he shouted. There was a loud crash, and my mother gave a short, high-pitched scream before the noise was cut off and everything went silent, except for my father grunting. My heart pounded against the inside of my chest and my eyes filled with tears. I was desperate to open the door, but too terrified of what I might see. My mother cried out again, a strangled noise, a word I couldn’t fully understand. It could have been “help.”
“Shut . . . up,” Dad spat the words more than he spoke them, with a distinct pause in between. I could picture his face, the way I’d seen it a hundred times before when they fought—puffed up and red, green eyes pressed into angry slits, the corners of his mouth pushed down into sharp points. “I’ve had enough of this shit. I am a good father. I take care of my family. I give you both everything you could possibly need, and still, it’s not good enough for you. I saved you, Olivia. I turned you into the woman you are and this is the thanks I get?” I heard him take a couple of heaving breaths . . . I heard my mother struggling to speak, her words sputtering and blocked. What is he doing to her? I put one hand on the doorknob, trying to work up the courage to fling the door open and get him to stop yelling at her, but I couldn’t do it. My chin began to tremble and I thought about calling 911, but what would I say? My parents are fighting? Was that a real emergency, like a fire or a robber? I didn’t know.
But then my mother’s voice finally broke through, heavy sobs cutting her words into fragmented pieces. “Please,” she begged. “No . . . more . . . I’m sorry.” She took a couple of breaths, a ragged, hiccuping sound, then spoke again. “You’re a good father, James. The best.”
“Damn right I am,” my father said, but his voice was shaky, too, and I wondered if he was crying. “Don’t make me be like this, Olivia. You know I hate to be like this.”
“I know,” Mom whispered in a hoarse voice. “I’m sorry. Let’s just go to bed, okay? Let’s just sleep.”
I waited for my father’s response, but when one didn’t come, I was suddenly afraid he’d open the door and find me there, so I dashed down the hallway as silently as I could. I had just crawled back in bed when I heard their door open, and the distinct sound of my father’s footsteps padding down the thickly carpeted hallway. I closed my eyes and tried to steady my breathing enough that I’d appear asleep, in case he came into my room. He did that sometimes, when he got home late from the office. He’d pull a chair up next to my bed and watch me. Sometimes he’d run his hand over my face, or kiss my forehead, and sometimes, on my favorite nights, he even whispered that he loved me. But this time, when he came into my room, he climbed right into bed with me, cuddling me close, his thick, strong arms wrapped tight around me.
“Are you awake, Maddie?” he whispered. “Daddy needs to talk with you.” He gave me a tiny shake, and I fluttered my eyelids open, pretending to just be waking up.
“Daddy?” I said, sleepily.
He kissed the top of my head and pulled me closer. “You love me . . . right, honey? You know I’d never do anything to hurt you.” His voice was high and strange, not the strong, confident tone he usually used. He sounded like a child.
“I know,” I said quietly, wondering if his not doing anything to hurt me made it somehow okay with him that he hurt Mom. Why else would she cry like that, if he wasn’t hurting her? My stomach twisted, imagining what he might have done to steal her words.
“I try so hard,” he said, pressing his mouth up against my ear. His breath was hot, and it smelled like stale coffee. “I don’t want to be like him. I don’t, I don’t.” I assumed he was talking about his father, and then he confirmed it. “My father was a horrible man, Maddie. He used to whip me with the metal end of a leather belt. He beat me . . . he kicked me until I bled. He broke my arm once, and when I tried to run away, he locked me in a closet for two days.” He sighed, a shuddery, broken sound, like he was trying not to cry. “I would never, ever do that to you. You know that, right?”
I nodded, scared to tell him the truth, which was that I didn’t know anything when it came to him—that no matter how much I wanted to be with him more, part of me was terrified of his anger, of the odd, bright light that appeared in his eyes whenever he was about to yell. I was too afraid to say that he might not do anything like that to me, but I wasn’t so sure he hadn’t done something like it to my mother. “I love you, Daddy,” I said quietly, knowing this was what he needed to hear, hoping this reassurance was enough to make him leave my room.
He did, eventually, and in the morning, when I joined my mother at the breakfast table, he had already left for work. I hugged her like I normally did, and she cringed just the slightest bit as she squeezed me back, and I worried I might have hurt her. “Are you okay, Mama?” I asked, and she nodded. I pulled back to look at her, and she dropped her chin.
“What would you like for breakfast, sweet pea?” she asked with a false, light note. “Can I make you some rice flour pancakes? We have blueberries, I think, too.” She turned her head toward the stove and that’s when I saw them—the black and blue fingerprints on the sides of her neck . . . the red and swollen swath of skin across the front. She’d tried to cover them with pale, powdery makeup, but it didn’t work. It reminded me of the time I accidentally spilled grape juice smack-dab in the middle of my white-carpeted bedroom floor and tried to hide it by moving a bright blue area rug over the mess—it was the first place my mother looked when she walked through the door.
“What happened, Mama?” I asked, tears stinging my eyes. At the time, I wasn’t exactly sure what he had done to her, but I knew it was bad. I knew those bruises hadn’t appeared out of nowhere.
“Nothing, baby,” she said. Her hand flew to her throat. “I’m just clumsy.” She gave me a wide, shaky smile. “Now, what can I get you to eat?”
I remember that night now, as I sit in my closet again, talking with Dirk on the phone about our parents. For the last week, I’ve waited until I was sure mine were asleep to call him, not wanting my dad to freak out on me. He totally embarrassed me when Hannah came over for dinner, and I’m a little bit worried that he might call Noah’s father and find out that it isn’t Noah whom I’ve been talking with every night. I hang out with him a bit at school, but only because our lockers are close together and we sit next to each other in computer science. Noah is nice, even a little bit cute in a nerdy sort of a way, but he hasn’t even asked me for my number.
“Mine met when they were sixteen,” Dirk tells me. “My dad moved from San Diego to Seattle because my grandpa got a job at Boeing, and ended up buying a house right next door to my mom’s family. They got married two weeks after they graduated from high school and have been together ever since.”
“Sounds like a movie,” I say, wishing my parents had such a sweet love story.
“Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?” Dirk says. “They have their share of arguments, but they still sort of act like teenagers.” He pauses. “What about your parents?”
I think about this a moment, unsure how to describe my parents’ relationship. I used to think it was sort of romantic that my dad flew across the country every weekend for almost a year just to see my mom and then brought her to live in his beautiful house. But I realized how sad it was that in order to marry Dad, Mom had to leave behind everything and everyone else in her life, including her own mother. She lost contact with all her friends there and for the most part, was too busy taking care of me after I got sick to make new ones. That is part of why I like Hannah so much—she seems to genuinely like my mom. And maybe more important, she doesn’t seem intimidated by Dad.
“If you met them, you’d think they’re in love,” I tell Dirk. “My mom is really beautiful and my dad is totally handsome and successful. They look great together, you know? In public, they’re always smiling and laughing and holding hands. But that’s not how it is at home.”
“Your dad’s always had a temper?” Dirk asks, hesitantly. It’s the first time he has brought the subject up since our initial conversation.
“For as long as I can remember,” I say, my voice almost a whisper. “He just . . .” I trail off, trying to figure out how to describe my father’s unpredictable behavior. There are moments with him that feel normal, when we talk and laugh about things the way a regular father and daughter do, and then, something will change. A tone in my voice might set him off, or more likely, a tone in my mother’s voice. “He’s moody,” I conclude. “And we never really know which mood we’re going to get.”
“Well, that sucks,” Dirk says. “I’m sorry you have to deal with it.” He waits a beat. “But I suppose the good news is you can move out pretty soon, right? Get some distance from him? My relationship with my parents got way better when I got my own place. I really like hanging out with them now. Because when I’ve had enough I can leave.”
He’s so nice, I think, once again feeling horribly guilty for lying to Dirk about my age . . . my looks . . . about everything. I keep telling him I’m not ready to meet him in person yet because I recently had my heart broken and I’m a little afraid of it happening again. He told me not to worry about it—that he is okay with just getting to know each other until I am ready, becoming friends, which only made me feel worse. I’m not sure how I got to this place—pretending to be someone I’m not. In the hospital, when I first created “Sierra’s” Facebook profile, I was just messing around—playing virtual dress-up with someone else’s life. It was an escape, something to think about other than the fact I was probably going to die. But I’m better now, and actually have a chance for a life of my own. The longer I wait to tell Dirk the truth, the harder it’s going to be.
“You still there?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, then take a deep breath, trying to find the right words. This is it. It doesn’t matter that, because of Dirk, Hailey and her friends have decided I’m worthy of hanging out with them. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been sitting with them at their table in the lunchroom, or that they invited me to come hang out with them at the mall this week. What I am doing is wrong, and I need to set things straight. “I have to tell you something,” I say, haltingly.
“You’re finally going to take me up on dinner?” he asks, his voice so hopeful, so sweet, I feel sick to my stomach.
“No . . .” I swallow hard, once, to soothe the dry ache in my throat. “I’m still not quite ready for that.”
“Okay, then. You actually are a weird old man living in his mother’s basement, eating Cheetos?”
I laugh. How can I hurt his feelings with the truth? And really, what harm is it doing, just talking on the phone? We’re friends, that’s all. As long as I keep refusing to meet him in person, I can make him believe I look like that picture of “Sierra”—and pretend I have a chance with him. It’s not like I’m delusional. I know it won’t ever actually happen. I’ll eventually have to stop answering his calls—I’ll have to block his email and instant messaging ID and tell Hailey that he and I broke up. But for now—just for now—I want to allow myself this one good thing.
“No, definitely not.” I take another deep breath, and suddenly decide on a different truth I can tell him, something a little closer to who I actually am. “I just wanted to say . . . to tell you . . . well . . .” I clear my throat. “I used to be really sick. Like in-the-hospital-all-the-time sick.”
“Really? What was wrong? Are you okay?” There is real concern in his voice again, and I can’t help it—I flush with pleasure, thinking he already cares about me that much. And then I remember once again, he doesn’t care about me . . . he cares about the hot girl in the picture.
“I’m okay now. I had a pretty bad liver disease, though, and needed a transplant. Which I got a year ago last July.”
“Holy shit, Maddie,” he says. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good. I had a couple of small infections after the surgery that I had to go back to the hospital for, but they treated me with a couple rounds of IV antibiotics and then I was fine. Now, I just have to take a bunch of pills every day to make sure my body doesn’t reject the new liver. The survival rate is pretty high compared to like a heart or something, so, so far, so good.”
“Wow. Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I dunno. I guess I was scared to. It’s kind of weird to talk about.” I feel a strange sense of relief, telling him about the transplant, like maybe because of it, he might someday forgive me for lying to him about what I look like.
“Weird, like how?” Dirk asks, and because he sounds so sincerely interested, I tell him the truth.
“I’m walking around with a piece of a stranger inside me. It’s just weird.”
“Well, can you meet them? The donor’s family, I mean? Then they wouldn’t be strangers.”
My throat clenches and my eyes fill, thinking of the girl who died last year, thinking about her parents who have to be wondering about the life their daughter saved, and I feel guilty for an entirely different reason than lying to Dirk. “No,” I tell him. “My dad won’t let us. He’s worried about our privacy or something.” I don’t mention that my mom told me that he’s also worried they might ask us for money because I haven’t told Dirk that my dad is rich. If I did, that might lead to questions about what he does for a living and then I’d have to make up more lies.
“Shouldn’t that be your decision?” he asks. “You’re the one who had the surgery. If you want to write them and say thank you, you should.”
He’s right, I think. I’ll only use my first name, so it’s not like they’ll know who the rest of my family is. I’ll write the letter and send it to that nice coordinator at the transplant center who gave me her contact information in case I ever had any questions. My parents will never have to know. I’ve been overanalyzing what I should say, how I should present myself to this family, when all I really need to do is tell them how much I appreciate the gift they gave me and how sorry I am that their daughter died.
I wipe away the few tears that have escaped down my cheeks, staring up at all the new clothes my mom and I bought last weekend. I realize that it’s moments like that that I’m grateful to have—strolling through the mall with my mother, or sitting here, right now, talking with a boy on the phone. Tiny, happy moments that make up an entire life—a life that, until a year ago, I never thought I’d actually get to live.
“You’re right,” I say. “You’re totally right.” We hang up a few minutes later, with him promising to text me in the morning. And even though it’s past midnight when I slip out of my closet and into bed, I turn on my bedside lamp and open up my laptop, determined to write the letter I’ve waited far too long to send.
