Lives Intertwined

Lives Intertwined

Lives Intertwined

A NOVEL

Anna Picari

Text copyright © 2024 by Anna Picari

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, publicity requests, or other inquiries, write to Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at byannapicari@gmail.com.

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Cover design by Lynn Andreozzi

Edited by Nicole Frail/Nicole Frail Edits, LLC.

Paperback also available. PrintISBN:979-8-218-51452-5

For Claudine, Gina, Melissa, and Rita.

Your encouragement means the world to me.

I could not have done it without you. xo

Prologue

Kim

Matthew and I met when I was in graduate school finishing up my Master of Social Work at Temple University. I was walking through the courtyard near the Philly-famous Bell Tower on a glorious September day. The sky was light blue, and for a minute, I somehow managed to forget that I was in the middle of an enormous city. Just as I made a plan to head to Fairmount Park to enjoy one of the walking paths, I stumbled. I floundered a bit, nearly tripping on a ladder upon which a man stood working on the sound system for an upcoming speaking engagement. I looked up at the same time he looked down.

I was waiting for a justified chiding—Hey, lady! Watch where you’re going!—but instead he descended the ladder, tilted his head, and looked at me the way a dog looks at his owner when it’s trying to decipher their human’s curious words. He was a slightly above average–looking guy with a more than decent height, but he examined me with the most beautiful green eyes.

I don’t know where I found the guts, but I asked him if he wanted to get a cup of coffee.

You have to tell me your name first was his reply.

Kim, I said, meeting his gaze.

What’s yours? He smiled. And it was magic.

Matthew.

We made plans for later that afternoon and met at a local Starbucks. I learned that he was a newbie electrical engineer, an only child like me, and that he was from Newtown, Pennsylvania, a suburb of Philadelphia. He loved the Phillies and the Eagles as much as I did. He shared that his mom called him Mattie. I thought that nickname was cute but didn’t want to promote any oedipal feelings so I’d be sure to stick with Matthew or Matt. I decided this as though I already knew we would see one another again. He was one of the most engaged human beings I’d ever spoken to.

By the time the baristas were closing up that night, I knew Matt was someone I wanted in my life. If not for a serious relationship, then absolutely as a friend. But I quickly decided that I shouldn’t try to place him in the friend category. I admit to having had many one-nighters—sue me for using sex as stress relief—as well as three longish relationships, which ranged from four months to a year and a half. But I felt a real spark of connection with this handsome ladder-climber.

Apparently, he felt the same way. He asked if he could make me dinner the next night, and I almost laughed. This was a first for me. No one had ever made me dinner. It’s an intimate gesture, right? Needless to say, I was very attracted to Matthew. He was self-assured and easy on the eye. So I said yes. He texted me his address, and I was relieved when he confirmed he didn’t live with his parents.

I arrived at his apartment, which was in the heart of South Philly, promptly at seven, and Matthew opened the door holding a long spatula. He looked adorable in a vintage Doors T-shirt and jeans. I mean, he looked amazing in those pants. My mind raced to envision him out of them, but I quickly regrouped, scolding myself. Matthew offered me something to drink, and I asked if he had wine. He poured us both a glass.

I hope you like hamburgers, he said as he handed me my glass. Oh, I’m vegan.

Matt’s face turned beet red, but he exhaled loudly when I laughed and rushed to tell him that I actually loved burgers.

I remember three things from that night: 1) I was with a good man, a solid man; 2) the man could grill a burger; and 3) when I looked into his eyes right before our first kiss, I felt seen and understood. For example, when we chatted about our parents, Matthew immediately chimed in about the importance of family, which was a good thing because, being an only child, I was very tight with my mom and dad.

After that night, we were inseparable. I moved in with Matt five months later. A year later, we were engaged.

Our wedding was held at the Sacred Heart of Jesus Catholic Church. Although I no longer considered myself Catholic, this was important to Matthew’s family and to my parents, who consider themselves very Catholic. The wedding was intimate, around fifty people. We only wanted people who we knew would be in our lives for the long haul. My closest friend, Kana, served as my matron of honor and Matt’s best friend, Greg, served as best man.

After our honeymoon in Italy, we settled into the house we purchased: a fixer-upper. While painting or laying tiles, we would chat about how many children we wanted and what they would look like. One late afternoon after a full Saturday of painting, we lay down on the floor in our living room, looking at the freshly painted ceiling, our bodies parallel but our hands touching. I said, So, Orsetti. This is our home.

This is our home, Matt repeated as he squeezed my hand. And there is no one I’d rather home with than you.

I rolled onto my side and admired my handsome husband, picturing family dinners and growing old together. Little did I know the universe had vastly different plans for us.

Part I

January–March

Julia

Entry 1

Hello, Mr. J. I am sorry that I didn’t write out your whole last name.I should prob know how to spell it since you have been my advisor/ English teacher since September, but it has too many weird letters and vowels that don’t seem to belong. I don’t know why we have to do this now. Why didn’t we have to do this at the beginning of the year? I hope that this journal thing is going to make me better at writing plus I want to get an A in this class so I guess I have to do this. I just wish that you would assign topics or something. I don’t know what to write. So I’ll start with the basics. My name is Julia Suzanne Orsetti. My dad’s mom’s name is Suzanne so Mom made it my middle name. But I don’t really see her anymore. Mom says it’s because she misses my dad too much. Oh yeah. My dad died on the day I was born. Also, I have a brother named Deven. You had him in 6th grade and he told me that you are cool so I think you’re cool too. I am exactly 5 feet tall and 104 lbs. with dark hair and green eyes. I live with my brother, Mom who you probably know, and our dog OP. He is brown and fluffy and is happy all the time. I wish that he would sleep with me but he is always with Mom. Anyway, my life is BORING. Like I don’t know what else I am going to write. I hope the boringness doesn’t lower my grade because that is probs all that you are going to get! This is all for now.

Kim

Getting to work on this freezing-cold January day was going to be worse than usual because now I have to change my shoes and clean up dog poop.

Mornings are hectic on a regular day, but they are exponentially worse on days that involve Deven and Julia fighting about their shared bathroom. Deven spends too much time in the bathroom doing I don’t want to know what, and Julia is at the age where she has to do and redo her hair.

Because of the trauma-based therapy I had after Matthew’s death, I can usually keep myself in a constant Zen-like state. I practice transcendental meditation, and it takes a lot to get me rattled, but the kids are really going at it now, and all the yelling this morning is about to send me over the edge.

I kick off my shoes and run upstairs in my stockinged feet. What the hell is happening here?

She keeps banging on the door, Deven bellows and pokes his head out of the bathroom.

He has been there for a half hour, Julia counters, kicking the door hard in her UGG slippers, momentarily opening the door wider.

This stops here, I say through gritted teeth. Julia, use my bathroom. Dev, finish up. You both have about five minutes and then I am leaving without you!

I turn and head back downstairs to finish cleaning up and search for another pair of shoes to wear. While rummaging through my closet, I see the running shoes Matthew was wearing when he died, and it knocks the wind out of me.

I manage to stand and take a deep breath before dropping again to the floor, picking up the pair of shoes, and hugging them, feeling Matthew in my grasp. I give myself a minute, kiss the top of both shoes, and put them back exactly where they were. With the help of my parents and Kana, I had managed to collect and donate much of Matthew’s stuff. But I kept the sneakers for a reason that I could never discern in therapy or on my own.

As the sound of arguing rings out in the distance, I ponder my children. The complex workings of genetics stuns and somewhat confuses me. I guess I always imagined that any daughter I would have would resemble me. But no. Julia has Matthew’s dark hair and beautiful green eyes. When I look into them, I am both comforted and heartbroken. But her personality—that’s all me. Sensitive, nurturing, a little bit of a know-it-all but kind to everyone. Deven resembles me with a lighter skin tone, sandy blonde hair, and light brown eyes, but his height and his personality are all Matthew. He is charismatic and remembers everyone’s name. He doesn’t get stressed easily and is well liked by his peers and teachers.

One of the downfalls of working at my kids’ school and doing what I do is that Deven and Julia are held to a higher standard than other students. I am a Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW) at Freedom Charter School in Philadelphia (Go Warriors!). The school is a K–12 that encapsulates the best and brightest in North Philly. My principal, Dr. Amanda Perry (Mandy), reminds me often that my role is fluid. Sometimes, I’m a therapist to a student, and a few minutes later, I may be walking a new teacher off a metaphorical ledge. Often, I’m giving parenting advice to those who claim We’ve tried everything. And once, I even cave-crawled under a stall in the girls’ bathroom whena first grader refused to come out. She was crying, her face red and blotchy,andclutchingabig,pinkeraserinherhand.Ihadgummy bears in my pocket, so I opened the package and we snacked and chatted in the stall while I played detective, discovering that one of her classmates had told her that he didn’t like her freckles and that she should erase them. So she’d locked herself in. I’d managed to calm her down and walk her to the clinic.

So, it stands to reason, that if my kids were hot messes, what faith would the faculty and parents have in my ability to help their children? Deven and Julia are not perfect, but they are presentable in public and generally good people. Not that the episode from this morning testifies to that fact.

As we walk through the front door of the school, Deven lingering behind, Mandy pops out and asks me to join her in her office. I sit in one of the overstuffed chairs and Mandy takes her spot behind her desk. I like Mandy a lot, both as an administrator and as a friend. SoI recognize her concerned face as she asks me if I have seen Oliver McDaniel recently. Oliver, Deven’s closest and longest friend, having met when they were much younger, is also a junior.

No, I haven’t met with him recently. Is something up?

He’s failing chemistry, algebra II, and Spanish. If he doesn’t pull these grades up to a C by the end of the quarter, he’ll be suspended from the basketball team. I don’t know if something is going on at home or at school.

I know Oliver well enough to know he lives for basketball. It gives him focus and an outlet for all of his teenage angst. He is a polite boy but holds his emotions close.

I’ll grab him today before his lunch. I’ll shoot you an email after we come up with a plan, I say. I send myself a voice reminder and head to my office.

My office is toward the back of the school, close to the cafeteria and the gym for three reasons: all the drama happens in PE and in the cafeteria, it is located between the upper and lower schools, and it was the only space available when Mandy decided that the school needed a social worker. My space resembles a living room with a sectional couchandacoffeetableinthemiddle.Thestudentsplopdownon the sofa and toss their backpacks on the floor, just like they would at home. And just like at home, a mini fridge is in the corner of the room, stocked with water bottles, soda, yogurts, string cheese, and other assorted goodies that kids like.

My workspace is relegated to a small corner so that the sitting area is warmer and more welcoming. I grab my laptop out of my work bag, check my emails and respond to any dire ones, and then review my meetings and student observations for the day. I see an opening in the late morning and send an e-appointment slip to Oliver.

Deven

Mom may win the award for being the biggest pain in the ass. I know she means well, but she always wants to talk. She wants to talk about freaking everything. Her current topic of choice is sex. She asked me if I was sexually active. I just said, Mom! and she backed off that particular question, but then came new rapid-fire questions.

Yes. I know how to use a condom.

No. There is no one I am interested in.

Yes. I know that you will love me if I am gay. That last one cracks me up. If she knew what I was watching on PornHub, she would realize that she never, and I mean, never has to worry about me being gay.

I wish my dad was here. I lied to my mom. There’s a girl that I know that I can’t look at without getting a boner. Her name is Zory, and she is a fucking goddess. I hear that her mom is Nigerian and her dad is a white guy. Z is more than super-hot. She cares. She is in charge of the club that takes care of the community. You know, the club that collects food at Thanksgiving and presents at Christmas time. I’m not sure how she feels about me, but I sit close to her in two classes, pre-calc and Spanish. Alphabetically her last name, O’Dell, comes right before mine, Orsetti. The seating-chart gods have shined upon me. My plan is to ask her to hang out by the end of the school year. My best friend, Oliver, thinks I have a good shot. And he would tell me the truth.

Oliver moved to our street and then transferred to Freedom from some catholic school. I don’t know. Our Lady of Pathetic Losers or some shit like that. Anyway, he somehow butted into our basketball game at PE his first day, and that was it. Oliver is quiet. I mean, he talks a lot when it’s just the two of us, but basically, he is a shy guy. He likes to be in the background and keeps his head down at school. His personality changes a lot when he is on the basketball court, though. It’s crazy to watch. He’s a machine. It looks like he takes everything that he hasn’t said during the day and brings it to the court. Fire, for sure.

Oliver is my brother from another mother. I love his parents, especially his dad. I am so jealous that he has a cool dad. I don’t remember my dad. My grandfather, who we call Pops, tries to be like a dad, but he is old, like in his sixties or seventies. I don’t even know. Old people all look alike. Oliver’s dad wants me to call him by his first name, Shawn, but I call him Dr. McDaniel or Dr. McD. I don’t know what kind of doctor he is, but I think he does surgeries, so he is probably important. His parents are divorced, but they live in the same house, which isweird. I don’t know why. They just do. Oliver’s mom (I don’t really call her anything) sleeps in the big bedroom and is never home or is asleep. Shawn sleeps in the pimped-out basement. Shawn’s crib, as Oliver calls it, is really sweet. It has a seventy-inch television with every gaming system you can think of and a small kitchen filled with everything you don’t want your kids eating—or drinking, for that matter. When Shawn isn’t home, Oliver and I hang there. Sometimes we get into Dr. McD’s stash of Yuengling cans and play Fortnite or Super Smash Bros. I think that Dr. McD knows we take his beer but doesn’t care. I think he likes that Oliver and I are friends because Oliver doesn’t seem to like to hang with anyone else.

Kim

As I contemplate my day, I find myself staring down at my shoes and recalling how I’d frantically changed them at the last minute after stepping on a pile of dog poop before leaving for work this morning. I remember uttering under my breath Fuck, Optimus Prime! and then I immediately feel like crap.

Just to clarify, Optimus Prime is not some weird, trendy profanity. It’s the name of my thirteen-year-old Mini Goldendoodle who we usually call OP, which is pronounced like Opie. My old friend had cowered and put his tail between his legs, and I’d bent down immediately to comfort him. I credit OP (and a ton of therapy) with helping me through my grief. The dog was a sadness-ridden impulse buy, but I’d needed a distraction for both me and Deven, who had been four atthe time. Deven had the honor of naming him after his favorite Transformer.

My ringing phone breaks me out of my perseverating. I grab the receiver and answer, This is Kim.

Deven

In the middle of Spanish, Oliver got a notification that he had an appointment with Mom during our lunch period. I know this because he sits next to me at a workstation. I ask (not en Español), What’s up with that? with a slight nod to the notification on his iPad.

I dunno, Oliver says with a small shrug as he pretends to do his Spanish work.

I’m barely paying any attention to Oliver because Zory is right next to him. I glance over at Zory’s iPad and say, Gran trabajo. Eres bueno en esto.

Tell that to my grades, Zory says with a little smirk, which totally brings every cell in my body to full attention, which leaves my brain nothing to say.

Uh, that can’t be true, I manage to stammer. And then the bell rings, signaling the end of the period.

While walking out with Oliver, I ask, Weight training before practice?

Oliver says, Yeah, and looks weird, like he has something he wants to say.

See you in the gym, I say over my shoulder as I head to my next class.

Kim

My morning was wild. I had to break up a verbal fight between two fourth-grade girls and then meet with them to remind them of our school kindness code and the universe’s need for girls to be supportive of other girls. This was followed by back-to-back meetings with parents and a pile of reports that needed to be read, recognized, and filed. So, I’m startled when I see Oliver in my doorway at 11:40, but I quickly recover and invite him in.

Hey, Ms. O, Oliver says politely.

I offer him a seat and ask him how he’s been.

He weakly shrugs and stammers, Fine, I guess.

I make a quick assessment of his demeanor and come to the realization that Oliver is not fine. He looks depressed. He appears smaller somehow. It’s as though he’s a ghost of himself, just passing through life. Is something going on? And please remember that what we talk about is private unless it’s something that cannot be kept just between us.Inthatcase,youandIwilldiscusswhatwetalkaboutwithyour parents.

Oliver, who is staring at his hands in his lap, looks up briefly and utters, I know.

I have known Oliver since he was around seven years old. Oliver’s parents purchased a fixer-upper down the street from our house on NorthOriannaStreetintheNorthernLibertiessectionofPhiladelphia. Northern Liberties was founded by everyone’s favorite Quaker, William Penn, and the neighborhood has gone through many changes throughout the years.

I break from my momentary reminiscing and look at this sweet teenager before me. I still see the hyperactive little boy he once was. Oliver was a gift for Deven. They rode bikes together and eventually found the basketball courts at Nelson playground. They would play for hours. They still do. He holds a very special place in my heart because he is an unofficial part of our little family.

What’s going on, Ol? I ask gently.

We sit in silence for what feels like an eternity, and then I watch a single tear slide down his left cheek. I grab the tissue box from the coffee table and bring it to him, using it as an excuse to sit closer. I know his parents, Shawn and Aubrey, but not well. I believe that they are divorced now, and I only see one or the other infrequently.

Looking at Oliver, I have a sudden urge to wrap him in a tight hug but restrain my nurturing impulse to do so. Instead, I put my hand on his arm and say, If you don’t want to tell me what’s going on, at least tell me what you need. What can I do to help?

For the first time, Oliver looks at me. It’s all good.

Well, I say gently, can I support you in trying to improve your grades?

"I guess