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it was or how much of her own stuff she had around her.
And now, looking up at the foggy sky, she tried to feel sad that she couldn’t see any stars. She wanted to want something that reminded her of Violet. She wished she could feel something, anything, standing in the darkness, alone.
But all she felt was cold.
Olivia shivered, crawled back inside the window, and drew the curtains tightly shut.
3
H er eyes still blurry with sleep, Olivia fumbled her way to the kitchen early Friday morning, feeling automatically for the pot of coffee her father always brewed before going out for the paper—i.e., to sneak an illicit donut and cigarette. Usually, Olivia wished he would give these indulgences a rest, but secretly she loved that her dad was consistently less undercover than he thought, always returning with telltale crumbs on his collar, or the subtle musk of stale smoke in his hair.
Olivia tipped the solid metal urn over the lip of her favorite Red Sox mug, watching with muted frustration as the last lukewarm drops of grainy liquid sputtered out. Olivia had only recently inherited her parents’ caffeine addiction, and whether it was out of conscious resolve or absentminded oversight, Mac had yet to adjust his morning measurements accordingly.
Too foggy-brained to fathom brewing another pot, Olivia filled the teakettle with water instead. Violet had detested Olivia’s growing coffee habit, insisting that green tea was a healthieralternative. Olivia thought green tea tasted like gunmetal, but had saved the economy-size box Violet had ordered online from some healthy-living website, just in case.
Olivia leaned against the sink, waiting for the water to boil and staring vacantly at the sloping kitchen table in the center of the room. The house had been partially furnished when the Larsens moved in, with a few worn, antique pieces covered with drop cloths and wedged awkwardly under stairwells. Mac claimed he would refurbish them all, explaining how easy it would be to polish here, reupholster there. But Bridget had insisted that Mac haul just about everything to the Salvation Army, in order to make room for the new dining set and leather sofa she’d picked out from a Crate and Barrel catalogue on the plane.
The kitchen table, with one floppy leaf and a huge, branch-like crack twisting across its middle, was the one piece Mac had managed to hold on to, most likely due to the fact that the only time Bridget spent anywhere near the kitchen was early in the morning, before she was awake enough to complain.
The kettle squealed and Olivia poured herself a cup of tea before shuffling upstairs to get ready for school. From the back room on the second floor, envisioned as a full-service gym but now doubling as a storage space/living area, Olivia heard the hushed dialogue of the television and the slow, methodic thumping of her mother on the treadmill.
A track star in high school and college, with yearbooks and scrapbooks to prove it, Bridget spent an hour every day, no matter the day, no matter the hour, chugging on the treadmill and watching the trashy daytime soaps she had TiVo’d the afternoon before.
“Olivia, is that you?” Bridget’s sturdy voice called out, midstride.
Olivia stalled on the landing, bringing the mug close to her nose and inhaling a wet cloud of herbal steam. She closed her eyes for a moment and leaned back against the wobbly banister before turning and making her way back down the hall.
Bridget’s routinely frosted dark blond hair was pulled up in a tight, high ponytail, her prominent cheekbones dotted with little patches of red—the only sign that she was working at all. Her slender arms pumped almost imperceptibly at her sides, her gaze fixed on the small TV nestled precariously in the middle of an empty bookshelf.
“Morning,” Olivia said quietly, resting the angle of her hip on the doorjamb and tilting her head toward the set, wondering which disgruntled housewife or conniving stepfather
And now, looking up at the foggy sky, she tried to feel sad that she couldn’t see any stars. She wanted to want something that reminded her of Violet. She wished she could feel something, anything, standing in the darkness, alone.
But all she felt was cold.
Olivia shivered, crawled back inside the window, and drew the curtains tightly shut.
3
H er eyes still blurry with sleep, Olivia fumbled her way to the kitchen early Friday morning, feeling automatically for the pot of coffee her father always brewed before going out for the paper—i.e., to sneak an illicit donut and cigarette. Usually, Olivia wished he would give these indulgences a rest, but secretly she loved that her dad was consistently less undercover than he thought, always returning with telltale crumbs on his collar, or the subtle musk of stale smoke in his hair.
Olivia tipped the solid metal urn over the lip of her favorite Red Sox mug, watching with muted frustration as the last lukewarm drops of grainy liquid sputtered out. Olivia had only recently inherited her parents’ caffeine addiction, and whether it was out of conscious resolve or absentminded oversight, Mac had yet to adjust his morning measurements accordingly.
Too foggy-brained to fathom brewing another pot, Olivia filled the teakettle with water instead. Violet had detested Olivia’s growing coffee habit, insisting that green tea was a healthieralternative. Olivia thought green tea tasted like gunmetal, but had saved the economy-size box Violet had ordered online from some healthy-living website, just in case.
Olivia leaned against the sink, waiting for the water to boil and staring vacantly at the sloping kitchen table in the center of the room. The house had been partially furnished when the Larsens moved in, with a few worn, antique pieces covered with drop cloths and wedged awkwardly under stairwells. Mac claimed he would refurbish them all, explaining how easy it would be to polish here, reupholster there. But Bridget had insisted that Mac haul just about everything to the Salvation Army, in order to make room for the new dining set and leather sofa she’d picked out from a Crate and Barrel catalogue on the plane.
The kitchen table, with one floppy leaf and a huge, branch-like crack twisting across its middle, was the one piece Mac had managed to hold on to, most likely due to the fact that the only time Bridget spent anywhere near the kitchen was early in the morning, before she was awake enough to complain.
The kettle squealed and Olivia poured herself a cup of tea before shuffling upstairs to get ready for school. From the back room on the second floor, envisioned as a full-service gym but now doubling as a storage space/living area, Olivia heard the hushed dialogue of the television and the slow, methodic thumping of her mother on the treadmill.
A track star in high school and college, with yearbooks and scrapbooks to prove it, Bridget spent an hour every day, no matter the day, no matter the hour, chugging on the treadmill and watching the trashy daytime soaps she had TiVo’d the afternoon before.
“Olivia, is that you?” Bridget’s sturdy voice called out, midstride.
Olivia stalled on the landing, bringing the mug close to her nose and inhaling a wet cloud of herbal steam. She closed her eyes for a moment and leaned back against the wobbly banister before turning and making her way back down the hall.
Bridget’s routinely frosted dark blond hair was pulled up in a tight, high ponytail, her prominent cheekbones dotted with little patches of red—the only sign that she was working at all. Her slender arms pumped almost imperceptibly at her sides, her gaze fixed on the small TV nestled precariously in the middle of an empty bookshelf.
“Morning,” Olivia said quietly, resting the angle of her hip on the doorjamb and tilting her head toward the set, wondering which disgruntled housewife or conniving stepfather
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