Page 352 of The Lies We Play
Not gone.
Quieter.
Liv sees a neurologist two mornings a month and a therapist three afternoons a week. Somewhere between the two of them, Bella has agreed to ask less of Liv’s nervous system. Not nothing. Less.
I watch her wrist while she cooks.
The tremor is there.
The tremor is smaller.
This is how healing announces itself in our house, with a hand that can hold a wooden spoon a little longer than it used to.
Creed says, from the floor, “Dad sent the architectural drawings.”
“For the camp?” Liv asks.
“For the centre.”
I look up from the folder. “Centre.”
Creed sniffs, which sounds tragic and disgusting. “He has stopped calling it a camp.”
“That’s significant,” Liv says.
“He is also using the word ‘campus.’”
“That’s also significant.”
Liv turns from the stove with the wooden spoon in her hand. “Are we letting him use campus?”
“We’re letting him use whatever he wants,” Creed says. “It’s his land. It’s his project. We’re letting him.”
“It’s our project,” I say.
“It’s his project we’re funding,” Creed corrects. “There’s a distinction. I’ve spent a lot of money pretending there isn’t a distinction. My therapist says the distinction matters.”
Liv smiles into the pot.
I do too, though I try not to make a habit of smiling at therapy language. It only encourages everyone.
“How’s the building?” she asks.
“The main building is on schedule,” Creed says. “The new cabins are behind. There’s a permit issue with the third dormitory because Oregon has decided dormitory is a regulated word.”
“Use lodge,” I say.
Creed lifts his phone from his chest, squints at it, then drops it back. “I’ll text him and have him use the lodge instead of cabins.”
Liv turns down the heat.
She comes to the table, but she doesn’t sit across from me. She sits in the chair next to mine, shoulder against shoulder, and her hand finds my thigh under the table with the quiet certainty she has earned back inch by inch.
She says, “By the way, I finally sold the painting.”
I turn my head. “Which one?”
“The Borghese.”
