Safe with Me: A Novel

After Olivia leaves the salon, Hannah feels as though she sleepwalks through the rest of her appointments. She suspected there was something off about James Bell, but her mind reels after learning that he’s an abuser. She can’t get the picture of him hitting Olivia out of her mind, and the image infuriates her. Despite Olivia’s assurance that he’s never raised a hand to Maddie, Hannah worries that it’s only a matter of time before he loses control.

The mail doesn’t come until almost the end of the day. When her final client leaves at six o’clock, and Peter and Veronica are both cleaning up their stations, Hannah rushes out to the mailbox. Rifling through the various advertisements and bills, she finally pulls out an envelope from Life Choices Northwest, immediately recognizing Zoe’s tight scrawl. Blood rushes past her eardrums, and she grips the letter tightly as she makes her way back into the salon. Peter looks up from sweeping and smiles. “Going for a run?”

“Not tonight,” Hannah says. Her throat is dry—it cracks on the words. “It’s been a long day. Do you mind locking up?”

“Of course not,” he says, though he gives her a strange look; it’s rare for her to leave the salon before either of her employees. She waves and then heads upstairs to the safety of her apartment, locking the door behind her.

Once she sits on her couch, though, the letter in hand, she hesitates before opening it. She wonders if it will make a difference in how she feels about Olivia and Maddie, knowing for certain if they share the connection to her that Hannah suspects. If it will, in fact, give her any sense of peace. But curiosity takes over soon enough and she carefully tears the letter open.

It is typed, which Hannah didn’t expect. Most of the other notes she received were handwritten on store-bought thank-you cards—brief but heartfelt expressions of gratitude from the parents of the recipient—not the recipient himself or herself. This one is a little over a page long, double-spaced, and typed in an elegant font. Hannah takes a deep breath, forcing herself to read the entire letter before looking at whom it is from.

Hello,

I know this letter is late—I know I should have sent it a long time ago. I don’t really have an excuse . . . I guess I wasn’t sure there was anything I could say to express just how grateful I am for the gift your daughter gave me. The gift you gave me. I was afraid I’d make you sadder than you already were. I’m really so sorry about your daughter. Every time I sat down to write, all I could think about was how nothing I could say would make it any better that she had to die so I could live. I still feel really guilty, to tell you the truth. It’s not fair how this whole organ donor thing works, but my mom always tells me that life isn’t fair most of the time so I should probably stop expecting it.

Well, anyway. I don’t really know how to explain why I was afraid to write you this letter. It’s hard to feel like I deserve something this amazing. I can only imagine what you’ve gone through. All I know about your daughter is that she was twelve and that she was hit by a car. I wish I knew more. I wish I knew if she liked computers or boys, what her favorite foods were and what TV shows she liked to watch. I lay in bed sometimes at night, imagining getting to know her somehow, thinking that if she was a girl like me when I was twelve, we might have some things in common and it might be easier for you to know that I’m the one who she saved.

The truth is, I’m still learning how to be anything but sick. I’ve been in hospitals almost my whole life and now I’m out in the world, back at school, and even though it’s totally weird and totally great pretty much all at the same time, it’s only because you made the incredibly hard decision to let your daughter save me. Thank you seems too small a thing to say for something so huge, but that’s why I’m writing you today. To say thank you for letting your daughter go so I can stay. I promise to live the best kind of life I can. I won’t waste this gift—I’ll do something big and good for other people whenever I can.

You don’t have to write me back if you don’t want to—if it’s too hard or whatever. I understand. I just needed you to know that I’m grateful. What you did for me . . . what your daughter did for me . . . will never be forgotten.

Sincerely,

Maddie

It’s Maddie, Hannah thinks. I was right—Emily saved her. Hannah’s whole body begins to shake, and she grips the paper in her hand so tightly, she has to set it down for fear of ripping it apart. Maddie—sweet, funny, smart Maddie—wrestling with guilt for being the one who lived, worried that she didn’t deserve it. Olivia had mentioned this before, but it didn’t sink in for Hannah until just now—until she read it in Maddie’s own words.

She goes over the letter a few more times, hearing Maddie’s voice in her head as she does. She wonders how she can possibly tell them who she is now, knowing what she knows about their family, what James might do to Olivia for allowing Hannah into their life. She struggles to think of what words she should use and if she can find a way to say them. She longs for Emily so much in this moment—to curl up on the couch under a blanket with her daughter, to eat popcorn and watch a stupid movie with her, letting any worries quietly slip away. Emily was like a balm to Hannah when life wounded her, and now, Hannah has no way to soothe the prickly ache of her pain.

With a shuddering breath, she carefully refolds the letter into thirds and puts it back in the envelope. After setting it on the table, Hannah rises from the couch and slowly walks over to the built-in bookcase next to the fireplace, standing in front of it a moment before finally reaching for the one photo album she brought with her from the house. Its cover is distressed brown leather, similar to a bomber jacket, with thick, off-white stitching along the edges. Her daughter is in its pages—shots of her as a baby, chubby, drooling, and sweet; as a toddler, hugging the teddy bear who, for no discernible reason, she named Steve. There are pictures of her with Hannah, Emily fast asleep in her mother’s arms, pictures of Emily’s first steps, her first dance lesson, her last birthday party. Hannah recalls the night of that party, when Emily asked her to please stay in her bedroom while she and her friends watched movies and ate pizza in the den.

“But what if you need something?” Hannah said, trying to hide her disappointment that her daughter didn’t want her to be part of the celebration.

“We can get it ourselves,” Emily responded with a sigh. “I’m not six anymore, Mom. I love you, but I just want to hang out with my friends.” It had hurt Hannah, the ease with which Emily pushed her away, and now, she thinks that perhaps it was a mistake to create a life fulfilled only by work and time with her daughter. She wonders if after Devin cheated on her, she latched on too firmly to the promise of a child’s unconditional love. She wonders if there even is such a thing.

Hannah opens the album to the pictures she took that night—a smiling Emily when her friends arrived at the front door, presents and overnight bags in hand; the four of them standing around the fudge brownie ice cream cake Hannah had made, the light from twelve candles bathing their young faces in a warm but slightly ghoulish glow. She runs her fingers over Emily’s face in the pictures, trying to remember how it felt to touch her daughter’s perfect skin, and is shocked to realize she can’t. She closes her eyes and tries to hear Emily’s voice—her lilting giggle and slightly gravelly, melodious tone. “Stevie Nicks, Jr.,” Hannah had jokingly called her, baffled as to why her daughter sounded a little bit like she’d been smoking cigarettes since she was a toddler.

These are the kinds of things Maddie might want to know about Emily, Hannah thinks, and suddenly, she knows she can’t put off telling Olivia the truth a moment longer. She sets the album back on the shelf and reaches into her purse for her cell phone. Olivia picks up on the second ring, her voice strung tight when she answers.

“Are you okay?” Hannah asks, hoping Olivia doesn’t sound so stressed because she somehow discovered that Maddie wrote the letter. Would Zoe notify her parents? Would Zoe even know that James had forbidden them to contact the donor family? Maybe it was too late for Hannah to do the right thing.

“I don’t know,” Olivia says. She isn’t crying, but her tone is definitely strained. “No,” she continues. “I’m not. I’m at the police station.”

“Oh no, what happened?” Hannah’s mind races with ugly explanations for why Olivia might be there. “Did you call them? Are you hurt?”

“It’s Maddie,” Olivia says. “She went to the mall with some friends and got caught shoplifting. She swears it’s a mistake, that she didn’t take anything, but the guard found some earrings on her. I tried to talk them out of it, but the store is going to press charges and I’ll have to tell James.” She takes a heaving breath. “He’s going to lose his mind, Hannah. I’m afraid of what he might do.”

“Do you want me to be there when you tell him?” Hannah offers, thinking James would be less likely to harm his wife and daughter with a witness present, but also knowing that there is nothing she can do to protect Maddie and Olivia once they are alone with him.

“I don’t know,” Olivia says, and that’s when she starts to cry. “I just don’t know how I got to this place . . . It’s so stupid. I’m so stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” Hannah says gently. It makes her sick to know that James has convinced Olivia of this. She wonders if he also has something to do with what Maddie said in her letter—that she doesn’t feel worthy of the transplant. The thought that he’s made his daughter feel that she is somehow defective incenses Hannah. “Are you done with everything there? Can you take Maddie home?” Olivia says yes, and Hannah continues. “Okay, then. I’ll meet you at your house. We’ll figure it out when I get there.”

“You don’t have to come—” Olivia begins, still sniffling, but Hannah cuts her off.

“I know I don’t have to,” she says, her hand resting over the open pages of the photo album. She thinks about Emily, if she had been the one arrested for shoplifting, how Sophie would be right there for her. Olivia doesn’t have anyone else. It has to be me. “I want to.”

Olivia thanks her, and they hang up. Hannah takes a few deep breaths, knowing that the last thing Olivia needs right now is to find out that Hannah has been lying to her, but no matter how hard it might be, no matter the price she might pay, it’s time for Hannah to tell her who she is.