On Tuesday, almost a week after we first arrived in California, I decide to venture out by myself while Dean visits his father. Since the Wests have several cars, Dean returned our rental a few days ago. After he gives me the keys to his father’s car, I head downtown.
Los Gatos is a vibrant place filled with cafés, boutiques, restaurants, and shops. It reminds me a little of Avalon Street, except without the lake breeze. People are eating early lunches and having coffee at outdoor seating areas. Brightly colored awnings line the sidewalks.
It’s cool enough to wear a light jacket, and I spend some time poking around a few gift shops, art galleries, and furniture stores. I stop for a decaf cappuccino at a coffee-and-chocolate shop, then buy a bag of chocolate-covered almonds for Dean and a box of assorted chocolates for his mother.
Might as well try to keep things sweet.
I browse a few more shops, entering a women’s clothing store that looks as if it has stylish but casual clothes.
“May I help you, ma’am?” A saleswoman with helmet hair approaches me.
“Just looking, thanks.”
I glance over the racks of business suits and silk blouses, the blazers, and pencil-slim skirts. It would be silly to buy anything in my regular size since I’ve already gained weight. Not to mention I have no reason to wear career clothes.
I pull a somewhat voluminous shirt from a rack, then realize I’ve made my way to the maternity section at the back of the store.
“I have a chart, if you need help with sizing.” The saleswoman pauses beside me again, her gaze flickering to my midriff.
“Oh, I probably won’t need maternity clothes for a few weeks yet.”
“We have a number of styles that will work throughout your pregnancy.” She takes several pairs of pants from the rack and shows me the different adjustable waistbands and front panels. “And for blouses, use whatever size you are now to determine your maternity clothes size. Let me get the chart, and we can do some measurements.”
Next thing I know, she’s wrapping a measuring tape around my hips and bust, then consulting her chart. I decide to roll with it—I like the elegance and simplicity of the clothes, and I don’t mind buying a few things to keep on hand. By the time we’re done, I have two pairs of pants, two pairs of jeans, three blouses, and a heather-gray skirt.
I pay for the purchases and loop the bag over my arm before heading outside again. As I pass a restaurant, the smell of pizza fills the air. My stomach growls. I pause to study the menu taped in the restaurant window when two women walk out. Paige and Joanna West emerge, Paige holding the door open as Joanna fishes around in her purse.
“Oh. Hello, Olivia.” She slips her sunglasses on. “We didn’t know you were planning to come downtown.”
“Dean was going to the hospital, and I thought he’d want a chance to visit his father alone.” I feel exactly the way I did all those times I’d enter a classroom as the “new girl”—nervously wanting to please, and yet not knowing how my overtures would be received.
“You bought some things at Eclipse?” Paige glances at the name on my bag. “Let’s have a look.”
Well, hell. That’s all I need. The tags on the clothes say Maternity, the jeans have elastic stretch panels in the front, the skirt has an expandable waistline…
I make a show of looking at my watch. “Actually, I need to head back. I think Dean should be home soon, and we were going to… um, do something.”
Neither woman’s expression changes. I give them a wave and hurry in the opposite direction, aware that they’re probably going to talk about me now. Not that they haven’t before.
When I return to the West house, I go upstairs to unpack my things. I wonder if Joanna and Paige are having coffee or doing some shopping.
I can’t remember if I was ever that way with my mother. Mostly I remember being angry with her for dragging me from place to place or just not talking to her at all.
“You don’t even know how good you have it, Liv,” she told me once when we were on the road to yet another town.
I was in the passenger seat of our old Chevrolet, tucked close to the door to avoid a scratchy ridge of foam that had burst through the vinyl seat. I shoved my hand into a bag of potato chips. I’d eaten half the bag already and was feeling sick, but I kept eating because it gave me something to do with my hands and made it more difficult to talk.
My mother glanced at me from the driver’s seat. It was over ninety degrees out, and we’d rolled all the windows down. Hot air rushed into the car. Her wheat-blond hair whipped around her head and neck. She was wearing a yellow tank top and capri pants, her bare feet tan and dusty.
“Most girls your age would love such freedom.” She pulled her sunglasses off her head and slipped them over her eyes. “How many of them have seen as much as you have, done as much? None, I’ll tell you that. They’re too busy painting their nails.”
I spread out a hand and looked at my nails. Ragged and bitten to the quick.