“In a week? We’ve known this was coming for years.”
“I’ll think of something. I’m not going to lose you. I love you, Jen.”
“I love you, too.”
“Listen, I’m going to leave the phone on. If she falls asleep, call me, okay? I just miss you.”
“Okay. I should go.”
“I’ll think of something. I promise.”
They clicked off. Livia confirmed the unit had recorded the conversation, then removed the earpiece and sat for a moment, stunned despite what she had already suspected.
I’ll think of something, he had said.
Well, maybe he wouldn’t have to. In fact, she might just think of something for him.
18—THEN
Livia moved in with the Lones. She disliked them intensely—Mrs. Lone especially. She sensed Mrs. Lone, with her pinched face and expensive-looking necklaces, resented Livia’s presence in her house. Or that she just resented Livia.
Livia had never seen such grandeur, except on the village television. The house had two floors—four, if you included the basement and the attic—with common areas downstairs and bedrooms above. The property was enormous, surrounded by sloping grounds and perfectly manicured green grass. It had columns, with the flag for America waving from one of them alongside a massive front porch. Inside was really inside—no breeze from without, no humidity, no sounds. Livia couldn’t even tell if it was raining except by looking through the windows. Some of the floors were made of smooth stone; others were wood, covered with soft rugs. There were paintings on the walls. There were machines to make the air inside dry and cool—too cool for Livia, who needed extra blankets to be comfortable at night. There was no shared village spigot or privy; instead, the house had five separate rooms for toilet and cleaning. No one took dirty clothes to the river here, or hung them on a rope in the sun—instead, they used cleaning and drying machines. There was a giant refrigerator for keeping food cold, and even for making ice. The ice was the one thing about the house Livia liked. She was fascinated by how cold it was, and hard, and how she could make it melt by swirling it in her mouth. But she learned not to take it if Mrs. Lone was in the kitchen, because Mrs. Lone would watch her as though expecting her to steal something.
But despite the house’s size and luxury, Livia didn’t like it. It wasn’t just that everything about it was so unfamiliar. There was something . . . not real about the place, something uncomfortable. Life in the village had been so communal, with all the people living and working and even sleeping side by side. But the Lones seemed not to spend much time together. Maybe it had been different when their children—four sons, Livia understood—had lived in the house. But the sons were grown now, and gone, and the Lones seemed to live separate lives. Mr. Lone left for work early in the morning, before Mrs. Lone rose. Mrs. Lone dressed in nice clothes and was out for much of the day—for what Livia didn’t know, since the Lones had a maid and a gardener and even a cook, so it wasn’t as though there were any chores to do. For the most part, Livia ate her dinners alone in the cavernous kitchen. Sometimes when Mr. Lone came home from work he and Mrs. Lone would eat together, but Livia rarely heard them talking. Other times, Mrs. Lone spent evenings at something she called her “bridge club.”
On her very first morning in the strange house, Livia was greeted by Nanu, who explained that Mr. Lone had hired her to teach Livia English. Livia had to learn quickly, Nanu told her, because there were only two months left in the summer, and then Livia would have to go to the junior high school in Llewellyn, where as a thirteen-year-old she would be enrolled in eighth grade. Livia was terrified of going to school in this strange place, but recognized she had to do what Mr. Lone told her. If he decided he didn’t want to keep her in his house, she didn’t know where else she would go.
Besides, learning English wasn’t a bad thing. Not being able to communicate, not being able to make anyone understand her, had been a horrible experience, and the feeling of it lingered. Livia didn’t want to be dependent on translators, or anyone else. She wouldn’t be helpless. She was in America now, and as daunting a prospect as that presented, it was also good. Because being in America, and speaking English, was how she would find Nason.
Mr. Lone had explained through Nanu that “Labee” was a strange name for Americans, and that he and Mrs. Lone wanted instead to call her Livia, an American name—the same way people called Nanu Nancy. Would that be all right?