Viv: The Story of a Stray

By Brittany Knott

Viv Lewisa brokenhearted woman with a prickly dispositionmoves to New York City to run from grief and put distance between herself and her religious mother. Viv does her best to get swept up in a sea of people and go through life without confronting her own feelings. Through a motley crew and a food truck, however, Viv is slowly called out of hiding into a light that reveals her familys pain as well as their future hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Dec 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781512766844

Brittany Knott

Brittany spends her days with a baby strapped to her taking in New York City and eating too many bagels. She was born and raised in the South and now lives in Brooklyn with her husband and daughter.

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Copyright © 2016 Brittany Knott.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE®, Copyright © 1960,1962,1963,1968,1971,1972,1973,1975,1977,1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

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ISBN: 978-1-5127-6683-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-6685-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-6684-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016919783

WestBow Press rev. date: 12/20/2016

Contents

Part One: The Motions

Part Two: These Unhappy Things

Part Three: Nothing Left

Part Four: The Rescuing

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

For anyone who has wandered

PART ONE

The Motions

ARIZONA, 2002

Viv

I’m practically done with high school. It’s a relief, really. I’ve spent a lot of lunch hours hoping that Lola wasn’t absent so I wouldn’t have to sit alone. A lot of late nights studying so that I would be the best. My mom really wants me to be the best in the class.

The day of my graduation is here. I even have a new pale yellow dress to wear under my gown. My mom thought it was silly to buy a new dress when no one would see it but Dad and I wore her down, like we do. We are a team like that.

Viv! Viv! Wake up! I hear my mom shouting through my door.

I’m up! Chill!

I wrap myself in my white fluffy robe and walk out into the sunny kitchen. I smell pancakes. I love pancakes. My dad is standing in front of the stove in his old man flannel pajama pants and grayish-blonde hair sticking up every which way.

He turns around when I come into the room. His face lights up, as if he hadn’t just seen me the night before. Vivvy! The conquering graduate! And so much more, I might add. He sets the spatula down and wraps me up in a hug. I may be seventeen, but I still need those hugs.

I smell burning. My mom walks into the kitchen, ignoring us. She always ignores us, it seems.

My dad is a quarter German and grew up in the next suburb over, and as all-American as you might expect; my mom moved to the U.S. from China right after they got married.

She moves sharply, efficiently, not joyfully and leisurely like my dad. They are definitely the odd couple. She bumps him away from the stove and takes over the pancakes.

There is a light knock at the door and then the sound of it being pushed open. Hellooo-oooo, my favorite people!?

It is Babs, my Dad’s mom. So, obviously, my grandmother. She is full of energy and wears things like Hawaiian prints, which are totally inappropriate for her age. At least that’s what the old gossips in town say. I think it’s kind of courageous.

Babs strides into the kitchen and right up to me, as if I were the only human alive in the world. She places both of her hands on my cheeks and pulls my head down so she can kiss my forehead.

Ah, Viv. All grown up. Ready to take the world by storm. I’m so proud of you.

Her praise makes me blush. Thank you, Babs.

Her eyes brighten for a second, as if she just remembered something wonderful. I brought you something!

You really didn’t have to do that.

She pulls out a long, bronze box from the Trader Joe’s tote bag that’s hanging off her right shoulder. For Viv was written across the top in her beautiful cursive.

I open it slowly, kind of nervous about what it might be. It’s always weird to open a gift in front of the giver, because there is the risk of not liking it.

But I love it. Babs! It’s gorgeous!

It was a long antique chain with a locket on the end. The locket opens up and on one side is an old wedding picture. The other side is empty.

That’s me and your grandfather. Babs pulls the locket up close to her weak eyes. Wasn’t he a looker?

You weren’t so bad yourself! I say, admiring her black and white picture.

Still gorgeous! My dad bellows in his loud, jolly voice. How is it that I get to be in a room with the three most beautiful women in the world? He tries to pull us all in for a hug, but Mom pulls away to scrape the dirty pan in the sink, like it was the most important job in the world at that moment. So the three of us—me, dad and Babs hug without her.

We all pile into my mom’s hideous mini-van to go to the graduation. It’s a good thing I’m not popular to begin with, because the van is ugly enough to humiliate a much cooler person than me. I sit in the back seat and look down at my white sandals. I had asked mom if I could take some yellow roses from the garden and pin them to my robe. They were almost the exact color of my dress. Fine, she sighed, just don’t take all the good blooms. As if it were a complete waste to use her precious roses for her only child’s graduation day, for Pete’s sake.

I am valedictorian so I have to give a speech. I had secretly wanted to be salutatorian, because public speaking is a huge fear of mine. I look over my neatly written and organized notes.

How about it, Sparky? My dad looks over at my mom in the passenger seat. Our little girl is top of the class!

Of course she is. My mom says.

But, Viv, we would love you even if you were the kid in the corner wearing a dunce hat. He laughs. My mom just stares out her window at the strip malls zooming by.

I’m not so sure she would love me if I were bottom of the barrel. Or if she even loves me as a valedictorian.

When I walk up to give my speech, I feel like I am going to throw up. But it goes OK. It definitely won’t end up on the internet with a million views or anything, but I don’t cry or stutter too much. I thank my teachers, I thank God and I give a special thanks at the end to my dad, and then my eyes do get a little misty. I briefly thank my mom for forcing me to work like a dog, but the words sound hollow, even to me. I guess it’s because of her that I can play the piano, so there’s that.

New York, 2015

Viv sat on a little neat wooden bench and waited. She kept staring at a cigarette butt smoldering on the sidewalk. Should she step on it and put it out so that it didn’t keep burning for no reason? She almost felt bad for it.

He sat beside her on the bench outside of the coffee shop on West 15th St. As he handed her an iced coffee, she somehow remembered that today was Bab’s eighty-fourth birthday. Should she call? Anyone who calls you on your birthday when you’re eighty-four-years-old must really love you to keep it up year after year after year. She didn’t like making those socially-expected calls, especially when distance and time made small talk extra strained. What would they talk about? That article Viv came across in Buzzfeed about being thirty and alone? Why couldn’t she be a normal person and a normal granddaughter and just call her?

She took a sip of her iced coffee. It was too sweet, but it felt right. At least the day was warm. Her grandmother would appreciate that, although in Arizona it seemed to always be warm. She closed her eyes and let the sun touch her eyelids.

The coffee OK? he asked. He was nice and made an honest living building sets for plays and movies. One bit of his mustache was longer than the rest.

She smiled, almost involuntarily. She had worn her apricot cream blush for him. Now she couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Yes. Thank you. She said lamely. He seemed satisfied.

She stopped thinking about her grandmother and started worrying about what to say to her date. They were walking along the High Line now. It was Viv’s favorite New York park. Central Park was overrated and too big and she could never find a bathroom when she needed one. The High Line used to be a railroad track, so it was very linear, hard to get lost in, and had public bathrooms. Viv noticed the man walking in front of them had on polka dot pants. New York was never lacking in distractions, which she greatly appreciated. Thanks for that, NYC.

Ted must have noticed what a dud she was being. Apart from her cream blush and man-winning smile, she was offering nothing to this guy. She felt a little guilty, so she began to ask him questions about his job. After about twenty minutes the conversation dwindled and Viv knew this date was going nowhere. After she saw Ted check his watch a few times, she told him she needed to get home to let her dog out. (She had no dog.) Viv started walking in the opposite direction, careful not to look back.

She tossed her coffee, even though it really was delicious.

Viv decided to walk home. She did that a lot when it was warm. Sometimes she imagined she was a stray cat, roaming the streets, eyes nervously darting from side to side. Skittish and testy.

Viv was four years a resident of Manhattan, but still she was uneasy here. Was everyone, she wondered? She looked up to study the faces of the people passing her on the crosswalk and she couldn’t decipher any uneasiness. Maybe it was just her.

She felt alone. Ugh. Now that was a cliché. All alone in a sea of people and whatnot.

Sometimes she hated herself.

She kept walking, ignoring the sting on her heels as blisters formed. Instead, she focused on the slanted streets filled with trees and cafes in the West Village. As she walked east, she took in the way her surroundings got a bit dirtier and less uniform.

When she finally got to her apartment on Ludlow Street she unlocked the door to her apartment and announced herself, very unlike a stray cat. Hey. It’s me.

A frizzy brown head popped into view. It belonged to Viv’s roommate, Catherine. She worked in PR and generally drove Viv crazy. She was always sarcastic and constantly trying to get Viv to go to yoga with her. Oh. Hi. How was your day-date?

Why do you have to call it a day-date? Viv asked, annoyed at her and annoyed at being annoyed.

Because that’s what it was.

Viv rolled her eyes. It was whatever.

Oh, Viv, you are so charming! Catherine, or Cat, said sarcastically. How could it just be ‘whatever’?

Don’t be snarky.

Right. That’s your thing.

It was funny to Viv how people perceived her. She didn’t really give people much to go on. Expression was not her strong suite.

She looked in the mirror once she got to her room and tried to make a sweet face. Then, figuring she needed the practice, she tried surprised, then scared….

What in the world are you doing? her other roommate, Jane, asked as she stood in Viv’s doorway. Jane was from the Midwest, played the ukulele, and was the nicer of the two roommates. Is the new plan to be an actress?

If only there were a plan. Then Viv slammed the door shut.

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Viv was five years old the first time she remembered her dad telling her, You are special, Viv. God loves you and has a purpose for your life. Any kid would probably love to hear the words, especially from their parents. She graciously accepted the idea in her youth, but now she was beginning to buckle under the weight of it. Now she resented the same words that as a child made her bloom. Her childhood was idyllic, and she was ashamed of that. If only she had a story; some sort of tragedy in her past. Something to mark her.

Instead, everything had been perfect and she should—she felt—be a perfect product of her perfect past.

Viv sighed as her subway came and she stepped onto the half-full car. Viv gripped the metal pole and watched people trying to be productive. One woman was wrapping a stone in colorful tissue paper—what a strange gift for someone. Viv half-smiled, imagining some poor kid unwrapping a rock for their birthday.

She starting thinking back to her tenth birthday and begging her parents for a Barbie dream house. She had seen a commercial for it during Saturday morning cartoons, and she had to have it. Not only did her parents make her mute the commercials after that, they also made no promises of getting her the house for her birthday. Just because you are our only child, does not mean that you get whatever you ask for. Viv could almost hear her mom’s thick Mandarin accent in her head.

When the time came for Viv to open her birthday presents, she had been so excited to see a Barbie house-sized gift. She had gotten what she wanted! After she quickly tore off the wrapping paper, she stared in horror. Instead of a Mattel brand, pink shiny house, before her was a wooden, hand-made house. Her father beamed, I made it for you!

Viv had cried. I hate it! It’s not what I wanted!

Only years later did she realize all the time and effort her dad had put into that little house. It had collected dust in her room, but eventually she noticed the hand-cut shingles, the cut-outs on the door. It was beautiful. She regretted more than anything how she had acted on that birthday. She should have told her dad how much she appreciated the work he put into it, and how it was better than any store-bought house. But she didn’t. And now she never could.

Viv shook her head, as if to shake the memory out of her head. If only.

She tried to focus on her surroundings, instead of dredging up the past. She noticed a man’s shoes. They were scuffed and brown, but still neat and dressy. His socks were the color of cantaloupe and he was carrying a brown leather bag. Working her way up, she saw that he had on a striped tie and a striped shirt, and the stripes were going in different ways. He was clutching a copy-editing book. And then he said her name.

Viv?

She jumped, bumping the woman behind her. She glared at Viv. Sorry, Viv mumbled. Then she focused on the Striped Man. Who was he?

Do I know you? she asked sincerely. He seemed familiar.

He smiled. I can’t believe it’s you! It’s me, Sam! Our moms were friends! Your grandmother Babs used to babysit me? Man, what a small world!

Her mouth dropped open. Sam. Wow! Her mind scrambled, How long have you, uh, lived here?

Just about two months. Still figuring everything out. I have about a million subway navigating apps. He laughed. What about you?

Um. Four years. I’ve been here four years.

No kidding! You’re a city girl now! Man, I guess the last time I saw you was right before you moved here then. It was, uh, well, at your Dad’s funeral. I’m really sorry, Viv. He was a pretty great man.

The subway pulled screeching to a stop. Why was he talking so loud? She was about three stops early, but she said hastily, This is me and ran out of the subway car as soon as the doors opened.

She knew it wasn’t polite of her. She should have said, Thank you for going to his funeral. He was a great man. Then she should have beamed at him, saying how great it was to have someone from her home town in the city.

But it wasn’t great. She was almost frustrated that he was here. Even though she didn’t know him well, she figured he would expect them to be friends and for her to be the same person she used to be. She felt crowded just being on the same island as him.

Hopefully, with as many people as there were in Manhattan, she would never see him again.

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Viv was distracted all day at work. How could Sam be here? And not only that, how could she have run into him? Instead of feeling fuzzy small world sentiments, she almost felt as if her mother had dispatched a spy.

The phone rang, and she answered immediately just to stop the shrill sound.

McCoon Inc, Mr. Briarson’s office.

Walking to lunch near 35th and 7th Ave, Viv saw a girl around eight years old posing with her arms up while her mom snapped a picture. There weren’t many cities, Viv supposed, that warranted such a pose: one that says I’m here! This is a big deal! on any given street.

Viv nonchalantly glanced at what would be the forever background of this picture. Nothing remarkable, just sandwich shops and souvenir stands, commuters and other tourists looking dazed as they stumbled out of Macy’s, but just enough to say, I’m in New York!

Viv sat in a deli and picked at a chicken salad sandwich. It hadn’t been that way for her. Not with her arms up, posing as if victorious over something. Everyone always assumed that she had moved here to chase a dream or to make her mark on the world, but she had nurtured no grand illusions.

Rather than wanting to stand out in this sea of people, she wanted to drift along unnoticed and anonymous. Perhaps she was the only one in New York City with no ambition. That thought was a little unsettling. But it was much more endurable than being Viv in Arizona. Perfect, smothered, pressured Arizona Viv was gone.

Her