A Holland and a Fighter Read online

  “Good god, it’s just as big as me.” He picks it up and puts his arms around it, doing a little waltz with it. “Where are we putting this?”

  “In the far corner of the baby’s room. Don’t you think it’ll look perfect there?”

  “It’ll look great.” He sets it down on the couch, facing the TV, and puts a remote on its leg. I get a giggle out of that. “This child’s going to be even more spoiled than the last two.”

  He begins looking through the neatly-piled mail on the counter. “Yes, August is going to be so spoiled.” I hold my breath, waiting to hear what he thinks about this newly proposed name. Matty and I hurriedly glance at one another before he returns to spooning avocados into a bowl.

  Jon doesn’t even look up as he begins opening an envelope. “No. I don’t like it.”

  “What do you mean? You haven’t even given it a thought.”

  “Will told me about it a few weeks ago when you had that fated moment in the antiques shop.” He scoffs a little, taking me aback. “It wasn’t fate, Liv. It was just a coincidence, and I don’t like the name.”

  “Why?” I press him for a reason.

  “Listen to the name. August. Is it not the saddest name you’ve ever heard?” he asks, looking at me as if I’m stupid for thinking it had any value whatsoever.

  “No, it’s not,” I argue with him.

  “Come on! It’s the saddest month of the entire year!”

  “No! There aren’t sad and happy months, Jon. They’re… divisions of time. There’s no emotion tied to them.”

  “Sorry, but there is. It’s the month when things start to die; when leaves start to fall off trees; when the kids have to go back to school–”

  “But we like that part!” I interrupt his list.

  “That’s not the point. There’s a depressing overtone to the entire month and I don’t want my kid to have that name.”

  “When did this all become about what you want? What you get to name our child?” I ask him angrily.

  Matty takes the clean dishtowel I’d been clinging to for confidence and dries his hands. “I’m going to take the monkey upstairs,” he says softly.

  Jon waits until he hears the bedroom door close before he continues. “Well, it should be our decision. You’ve been pushing names on me all this time!”

  “Pushing?” I say, rolling my eyes. “So, then, what name would you choose?”

  “Jon? Or maybe Jonny?”

  “I don’t like that,” I say in a pleading manner, in no way intending to be mean.

  “What don’t you like about it?”

  “It’s so… pedestrian,” I say, looking down. “Normal.”

  “It’s my name!”

  “I know it’s your name! I like it for you, but I don’t want it for our son. Doesn’t that make sense?”

  “No!”

  “We have a chance to call him something special, and that’s what I want to do,” I tell him. “That’s what I like about Augustus.”

  “I just don’t like it! It’s been assumed from day one that we’re going to name him after me, and, like maybe we don’t have to,” he suggests reluctantly.

  My jaw drops. “I thought you would want that! That you would want your son to carry your name!”

  “I don’t really give a shit about that, Liv. I just want to raise our son well, and god! If you hate my name so much, I’d hate for you to have to call him that. I mean… what about variations on Jonathan? What about Nathan?”

  I stare at him, waiting for him to catch up, but he appears to need a full explanation. “Nate was my mother’s ex-boyfriend! We can’t call him that. It would hurt my dad and bring up bad memories for my mom.”

  “Oh, shit,” he says as he turns away, almost blowing me off. “Then we call him something else, Liv. You know, I don’t want you to be repulsed by our son’s name because I wasn’t born in a glass castle like you were, with a stately name like Olivia Sophia…”

  I stomp up to him in the living room angrily and turn him around to face to me. “Need I remind you that I wasn’t born into that, either, Jon? As far as I know, my mother was poor and had nothing when she had me. She had no friends and a meager, trashy apartment. She was no better off than your mom, so don’t go writing me off as privileged. I was adopted into that and my name came way before the Hollands ever met me.

  “And I didn’t say your name was bad. I just don’t want to go around calling him the same thing everyone has called you all your life. I want it to be something different. You know, August is different. I knew I’d never win you over with Auggie, but it was fun to joke about it,” I tell him, trying to deescalate the situation.

  “It drove me nuts.” He’s not being kind or forgiving.

  “Get a sense of humor,” I say, shaking my head in disgust. “And August Scott sounds really nice.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Okay,” I say, “let me get this straight and see if I remember everything correctly. Augustus is too pompous. Auggie is too silly. Gus is too… what did you compare it to? Oh, right. Too ‘gas station attendant-y.’ And now August is too depressing. Was that right?”

  “No, don’t make this all about me!” he shoots back. “Let me go over all of your objections to my suggestions. Ready?”

  “Sure!” I say, ready take him on.

  “Jonny is too pedestrian. Jon reminds you of me, God forbid.”

  “Stop it,” I jump in.

  “Nope,” he says, continuing. “Nathan reminds you of your mom’s dead ex. Jonathan, what was that one? You know too many of them. Oh, and let’s not forget Junior, which reminds you of your favorite candy.”

  “How can you not think of Mints after saying that!?”

  “I don’t know, because my mind isn’t always on food!” he shouts at me.

  “I’m pregnant, idiot,” I say, hurt, crossing my arms, spent and out of energy. I feel my lip beginning to quiver. He stares at me, obviously not pleased that I’ve started calling him names. I sigh and sit down on the club chair, still facing him. “Fine. We have time to think of something entirely new, I guess.” I’m biting my lip so I don’t start crying. “It’s not good for me to fight about stupid things like this. I just… I just thought all men liked namesakes.”

  “Maybe the men in your family do.” He still stands over me.

  “Well, you’re my family, aren’t you?” The tears fall now. “Excuse me for fucking this up. Whatever.” I begin to make my way to the stairs, hitting him with my shoulder when I walk past him. “You can put the casserole in. The directions are written on the lid.”

  “You trust an idiot with your dinner?” he calls after me. I ignore him, going straight to our room and slamming the door.

  I grab the blood pressure cuff from my nightstand and put it on, angry with myself for letting the fight get so out of hand and equally mad at Jon for not taking things down a notch when he saw it escalating, either.

  157/100.

  Lying back on the bed, I find the first acupressure point in my hand that I’d read was supposed to help lower blood pressure. At the very least, following the instructions I’d found had a calming effect on me, so I put them to practice anytime I have measurements this high. I switch back and forth between hands a few times before moving to the next point in my wrists, all while lying still with my eyes closed and my mind focused on my current task and not on the fight.

  Jon knocks and waits for me to invite him into our room. He sits next to me, looking contrite.

  “Can I do your neck for you?” he asks.

  “Sure.” He helps me into a seated position in front of him and digs his thumbs into the base of my head, putting just enough pressure on the points to feel good. We don’t speak while he repeats the exercise four times in thirty-second intervals.

  When he’s finished, he puts the cuff back on my wrist to do another measurement.

  136/92.

  “Want me to do it some more?” he asks me.

  “No. I’m fine,�
� I tell him.

  “You’re an ass,” he tells me, putting his arms around me and pulling my back into his chest.

  “What, for assuming?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I can hear his smile.

  “I’m sorry I called you an idiot.”

  “No, it was a stupid thing for me to say. And I love Junior Mints, too, so, like… who could blame you? Not me.”

  “Right?” I say softly with a chuckle.

  “We just start at square one, Liv, with his name, okay? At the end of the day, we need to give him a name we can both live with, wouldn’t you agree with that?”

  “I would. Yes.”

  “Then I think the original plan goes. We come up with something all new. It’ll be fun. Let’s ask the girls for some help.”

  “No,” I whine. “I want it to be our decision. Can we… I don’t know. Can we keep this between us? We’ll figure it out together.”

  “If that’s what you want. Maybe we should call him Matthew for putting your uncle through this fight today,” he jokes.

  “Are you kidding? He got a front row seat to family drama. He loved it.”

  “He came downstairs and started to work on popsicles. He just said, ‘you know I’m always on her side, right?’ I’d have punched him if he wasn’t family. And if I was my brother.”

  “Sure, you would have.” I say with doubt. “But he is always on my side. Right or wrong.”

  “You saying you were wrong?” he challenges me.

  “I’m saying we’re not calling the baby anything remotely related to your name. I’m even going to give him my maiden name just to play it safe. I know you’ll love that.”

  He laughs. “You break my heart.”

  “Never,” I say, craning my neck to give him a kiss.

  “I saw you got some Pom today. Want to split a bottle?”

  “That sounds awesome. Maybe with a little ginger ale in mine?”

  He nods and helps me off the bed. At the staircase, he puts my hand on the handrail before we take the steps down. I would have done it myself, but he’s overly cautious. Sometimes, I think he’d rather me take the elevator. I’m sure in my later months of pregnancy, I’ll opt to.

  “Do I have to awkwardly excuse myself?” Matty asks when we get to the kitchen.

  “What for?” Jon goes to the cabinet and gets a couple tumblers.

  “Either because you’re still fighting, or you really want to make up with one another.”

  “We took care of that upstairs, Matty,” I tease him.

  “Super quick,” Jon plays along. “Probably put another baby in there.”

  “That’s how it works,” I agree, patting my stomach.

  “Gross. Both of you. Gross,” he says. “And to think my encouragement is probably what led to all of this.” His arms flail dramatically, and avocado flies off the spoon landing across the room on the floor. Jon snatches the utensil from his hand and grabs a paper towel to clean up his mess.

  “Whatever!” I laugh. “We were destined for each other from childhood. You believed in our love so much that you encouraged it. Not the other way around.”

  “You believe what you want, Little Liv. Your love is the egg. I’m the chicken. The conundrum will always be: which came first?”

  “Tonight, I did,” Jon says, patting my uncle on the back when he cringes at the bad joke.

  “Can we end this now? I was thinking maybe a salad would be good with this–what is this casserole, anyway?”

  We’re both laughing, knowing how uncomfortable Matty is. “It’s cauliflower, bacon and… Brussels sprouts, I think she said?”

  “What?” they both ask.

  “It’s a test kitchen side,” I tell them.

  “Where’s the protein?” Jon asks.

  “Bacon,” I say with a shrug.

  “No,” he laughs. “You even just said a ‘test kitchen side.’ Is there no protein?”

  “I think she’s planning to serve it with rotisserie chicken.”

  “That’s…” Jon looks down at me, smiling. “That’s awesome for Shea and Mrs. Livingston’s Kitchen, but what about us, tonight?”

  “I didn’t really think about that. I bought some chicken breasts. I’m sure they’re not totally frozen yet.”

  “The popsicles are in the freezer,” Matty says. “I’m on chicken detail now. Are we thinking fried? Roasted? Grilled?”

  “Grilled’s good,” Jon says. “I’ve got some seasoning we can throw on it.”

  Matty looks at me. “Bacon was a good enough protein for me,” I say again. “You make it however you like. I’ll eat whatever.”

  “What am I going to do with you?” Jon asks.

  “Just feed me. Give me juice. Put me to bed at night. Rub my neck when it gets stressful. Take me to the hospital when the baby’s done. I’m very low maintenance.”

  “Like hell you are, Ms. Avocado Popsicles. Why can’t you just eat fruit pops like everyone else?”

  “First of all, avocados are fruit, and secondly, you did not marry a woman like everyone else, Mr. Scott. If you wanted that, you’d have married that girl you met in Utah that was so nice to you.”

  “Just-a-friend-Audrey.”

  “That’s right. Ut-Audrey,” I continue with the nickname I’d given her long ago. “Remind me, was she tawdry?” I tease him.

  “For the millionth time, Liv, no.” He grins and rolls his eyes.

  “If she was, would you still have picked me?”

  “There was no choice in the matter, baby,” he says just before his lips press against my forehead. “I knew it from the day I met you. Hell, even Just-a-friend-Audrey knew it. She was a smart one.”

  “Ut-Audrey. You’ve mentioned that,” I tell him, standing on my tiptoes, requesting a full kiss on the lips.

  Chapter 11

  Since they left the door open on this beautiful, summer day, I hear Dad and the girls talking about me in the courtyard at Nate’s Art Room. He’s telling them how their dad and I used to lie down in the grass and draw the limbs of the tree when we were just a little older than they were. I remember those days, when what I felt for Jon was something I didn’t even have a name for yet. I was too young to recognize romantic love. But I respected my friend as an artist, and I thought he was the cutest boy I had ever met. When I was 12, the combination of those two things proved too much of a threat for my father. He feared Jon’s influence on me for years–until the day he finally buckled and accepted that he’d probably be in my life forever.

  Many, many times since then, both of my parents have told him how grateful they are at his persistence in pursuing me. Any misgivings they’d ever had were lapses in judgment about him. They’d admitted it. “There’s no better man for my Contessa,” I’d overheard Dad tell him on our wedding day. The truth is, Dad started seeing the similarities between him and Jon somewhere along the way–things he’d been ignoring when we were teenagers to protect himself from the fact that I had to grow up someday. Jon had big shoes to fill, but he filled them perfectly.

  Mom brings twenty brand new, plastic pans of watercolor paints out from the back room, setting them on the side table.

  “Let me help, Mom.”

  “No, Liv. I’ll just make a few trips,” she says. “It’s not a problem. I’ll get Jacks to divvy up the water at each station.”

  “Okay.” I pick up the small pans and start setting them on the workbenches, two per table. As she makes her deliveries to the side tables, I follow behind her and pass out the supplies to the desks: paper, brushes and bowls for water.

  When I’m finished, I go to the familiar closet and pull out enough smocks for the room: ten adult sizes and ten children sizes.

  “Daddy?” I shout. He comes into the room. “Can you get water for the bowls? There’s a pitcher in the closet. They only need to be about half-full.”

  “Of course.” I take his place in the courtyard, watching the girls perched on a thick branch of the same tree Jon and I used to draw. My phone in han
d, I snap a picture of them and send it to their father, sure that he’ll appreciate the photo in the midst of his workday.

  He texts me back immediately.

  Jon: I’d love to be lying in the cool grass with you today. Can you believe we have daughters climbing that tree that you struggled to draw?

  Me: I never struggled to draw that.

  Jon: I still have the proof somewhere in my old boxes of things.

  Me: I will find it and destroy it. I’m a famous artist now!

  Jon: Love you. You guys have fun today.

  Me: :*

  “Girls, we’re getting ready to start.”

  “Don’t you think I’m too advanced for this?” Edie asks, climbing down the trunk first. She waits for her sister and spots her as she makes her way out of the tree.

  “I think you will inspire the other students and help Granddaddy paint a very nice picture,” I tell her. “And you don’t have to sit there and be silent. When we start, if you think you can help someone else, you’re free to offer assistance.”

  “Can she help me?” Willow asks.

  “Of course, but you’re going to have Memi with you, and she’s a pretty bad-ass watercolorist. She did that picture in your room with your name and the tree, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she says. “I won’t need you, Edie.”

  “I won’t have time to help you, anyway,” my oldest says, her nose stuck high in the air. “And you owe us both a dollar, Mama.”

  “For what?”

  “Bad Ay-Ess-Ess,” she says, matter-of-fact.

  I make a face. “Go get it from Granddaddy. I don’t have any cash on me. But be careful–he’s holding a full pitcher of water.”

  After giving my last demonstration, I look over at the small classroom of students and smile. It’s been a couple of years since my last stint at Nate’s, but it was easy to jump right back in, and my mother was right. It filled that creative void that I’d been feeling ever since I gave up my own painting when I got pregnant. I wish I had been helping her with drawing classes or something all along. I’d probably be in a better frame of mind.

  This week is my first teaching adults, too. The free course invited underprivileged kids to bring a guardian with them, be it their parent, sibling or grandparent. The diverse group is busy concentrating, creating two works of art to be displayed in their home. A few decide to make diptychs to be placed side-by-side, so extra coordination is needed between those pairs. I start to make my rounds, answering questions along the way.