Olive

By Barbara Braendlein

Olive is good at seeing things. At five years old, her world is cozy and small, full of her Mommy and Daddy, her grandma, and a lot of doctors. Her body does not ever do what she wants it to. Her legs don’t walk, her hands shake, and when she talks, no one understands her words.

Until one person does.

The more Oli

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atmosphere Press
• Release date: Jun 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781648261886

Book preview

O L I V E

Barbara

braendlein

atmosphere press

Copyright © 2020 Barbara Braendlein

Published by Atmosphere Press

Cover design by Beste Miray Doğan

No part of this book may be reproduced

except in brief quotations and in reviews

without permission from the publisher.

Olive

2020, Barbara Braendlein

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

atmospherepress.com

To Ava and Holly, the real Olive

and her red-headed Winnie.

To Archie and Etta, who made them who they are today.

And to my Beloved, for filling my life with stories.

1

Pink, purple, shiny iridescent green, sky blue…

The pile of beads sitting on the carpet in front of Olive glittered in the sunlight and she was distracted momentarily from her determination to string them. It was after her nap, but otherwise she had no real sense of time. Time was ordered in her thoughts around events – breakfast time, medicine, Daddy coming home, movie and snack. Mommy had said it was too hot to play outside, and Olive was delighted by the bag of beads she had found in a back-room closet. Her fingers shook and quivered as she tried to grip the long piece of kitchen string Mommy had given her to make something beautiful with, but such movement was not unusual.

As long as Olive could remember, her body shook. The sensation of quivering was constant and it frequently stood between her and what she wanted to do. It knocked her over when she tried her hardest to stand. It caused food to go flying off her pink plastic spoon. And it made the necklace she wanted to make out of beads almost impossible… Almost. But although she only managed to string one or two beads, she loved how they felt under her fingers. She would spread them out on the brown carpet as if they were seeds being planted in a field, then scoop them up together in a pile and wiggle her fingers in the mass of smooth and shiny orbs. The light of the summer sun made the beads glow. Though there were few things Olive enjoyed more, she knew what it felt like to get so hot that her body stopped moving and her thoughts felt fuzzy and she didn’t like it, so she didn’t fuss when Mommy said no to playing outside. There was no end of things to explore inside their little house.

Olive looked up from her beads to check where Mommy was. The house smelled good, like bread baking, and there were baskets and bowls full of shiny red tomatoes covering the kitchen table. Mommy had turned on her radio that sat next to the kitchen window and the sound of grownups talking filled the room. Olive didn’t understand what they were talking about, but that didn’t matter. It was a nice humming sound and it meant that Mommy was making something. Mommy liked listening to the talking hum and would often laugh out loud while she listened. Olive loved the sound of Mommy’s laugh.

Olive was good at seeing things – things like the crinkles around Mommy’s eyes when she laughed, the color of Mommy’s lipstick from day to day, or what shirt Daddy wore to work. She spent most of her life watching and listening from where she sat while her hands were busy. But she often wished she could get her words to sound like Mommy’s, that she could tell Daddy that she liked his blue shirts the best or that she thought nothing in the world smelled as good as Mommy’s hair right after she washed it. Her words didn’t sound like Mommy and Daddy’s words. Her legs never did quite what she wanted and getting around was hard. If she felt really determined to get somewhere else, she would reach her small feet forward and dig her heels into the floor, pulling her seated body forward into a scoot. It was tiring, but it worked for her and she knew no other way. This afternoon, Mommy had set her up next to their biggest window on soft carpet with her beads to play while she worked in the kitchen. Olive never thought it really looked like work. Mommy would dig her hands into big bowls full of food and play with spoons and sometimes she would talk to Grandma on the phone while she made things.

Olive loved helping in the kitchen. Mommy would sit her on the counter with her feet in the big white sink and Olive would fill cups with water, pour them into other cups, and stir them with spoons, just like Mommy. Sometimes Mommy would put on her big green wrap and tuck Olive securely inside and they would do housework together like that, Olive’s face peeking out and her hands and feet always in motion while Mommy would spray a rag and clean off the huge old piano that sat in the kitchen and the bookshelves that were scattered all over the house. Other times they would sweep the hard floors, the color of which Olive could never quite figure out. Olive liked the movement of sweeping, back and forth, back and forth. Riding on Mommy’s tummy felt fast and bouncy and tall. Mommy would talk to her all day long and when she rode in the wrap, the sound of Mommy’s voice would vibrate against her small body, like sitting right next to the radio, and she liked how it felt.

She also liked when she was riding and Mommy would take her in front of the mirror and show her what she looked like. Mommy would point out her eyes, which were big and blue with very long lashes that tickled her face when she blinked. Her eyes always had dark purple rings under them. She would comb Olive’s hair, which looked soft and fuzzy and brown. Mommy would say it was curly, just like Daddy’s, and Olive liked that. She liked to be compared to Daddy and she imagined herself to be as tall and strong as him, tall as a Christmas tree. Mommy would point to her button nose and her mouth, which was very red and often very drooly, and Olive would smile and babble in the language that was all her own. She always knew exactly what she was saying, but knew that Mommy and Daddy had trouble understanding. During those visits to the mirror, Olive would watch Mommy’s mouth while she talked and try to copy the shapes and sounds. Nothing ever came out quite the same.

Mommy pulled open her oven door and the heat fogged up her glasses. Most days, Mommy didn’t wear glasses, but some mornings she would say her eyes were a little tired and she would put on her dark round glasses. Mommy laughed as she tried to step out of the heat and set two steaming loaves of brown bread on the table to cool. Olive abandoned her beads and began her scoot over to the kitchen, where Mommy had opened the fridge and pulled out a stick of butter, setting it on the counter.

When Olive made it over to kitchen floor, her scooting sped up, uninhibited by the carpet, and she babbled to Mommy, who smiled and opened up one of the best drawers in the kitchen and started pulling out spoons, cookie cutters, plastic bottles of sprinkles and little silver tips with different shapes that Mommy used when she made cakes. Mommy knew. She knew what was fun, she knew what shapes and textures Olive liked and which ones bothered her, made her skin crawl with queasiness. She didn’t understand all of the words Olive tried to say, but she, like Olive, spent a lot of time watching and seeing. Mommy understood.

What do you think, my Olive? Should we try and make something for Daddy with all these tomatoes? Mommy asked down to Olive while she rinsed a bowl of tomatoes in the sink. Olive continued to make the heart cookie cutter tap on the hard kitchen floor while Mommy moved quickly around the kitchen, opening cupboards and clattering bowls, cutting and chopping things, and talking. These were sounds Olive loved. The sound of water running into a pot, the sound of carrots being chopped up, the sound of the flour tin being opened and closed again, were all sounds of adventure. They meant Mommy was happy and that she