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CHRISTINA McDONALD worked as a freelance journalist for several newspapers in Ireland and Seattle, including The Sunday Times, Dublin, The Connacht Tribune, Galway, The Galway Independent, The Seattle Post Intelligencer, and Colures Magazine. She later moved to London and started a digital copywriting company where she worked as a consultant and writer for brands such as British Telecom (BT), Travelex, Wood Mackenzie, Pearson Publishing, TUI Travel, Expedia and USAToday.com. She now lives in London with her husband, two sons and their Golden Retriever. The Night Olivia Fell is her debut novel.
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Christina McDonald 2019
Christina McDonald asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © February 2019 ISBN: 9780008307677
For Richard, always and forever
Also for every single parent out there doing the most difficult jobalone; but especially for my mom, the strongest and most inspiringsingle mother I know. Thank you.
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
PROLOGUE
1. ABI
2. OLIVIA
3. ABI
4. OLIVIA
5. ABI
6. ABI
7. OLIVIA
8. ABI
9. ABI
10. ABI
11. OLIVIA
12. ABI
13. ABI
14. OLIVIA
15. ABI
16. OLIVIA
17. ABI
18. ABI
19. OLIVIA
20. ABI
21. OLIVIA
22. ABI
23. ABI
24. OLIVIA
25. OLIVIA
26. ABI
27. OLIVIA
28. ABI
29. OLIVIA
30. OLIVIA
31. ABI
32. ABI
33. OLIVIA
34. ABI
35. ABI
36. OLIVIA
37. ABI
38. OLIVIA
39. OLIVIA
40. ABI
41. OLIVIA
42. ABI
43. ABI
44. ABI
45. ABI
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
READERS GROUP GUIDE
Introduction
Topics and Questions for Discussion
A Conversation with Christina McDonald
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
‘You want the truth? I’m –’ My admission was cut off by a streak of blazing hot pain as something exploded against the side of my head. My brain barely registered the blow, my vision a dusky blur of red, pain searing into my skull and down my jaw. I felt my body spin with the force of it.
I reeled backward until my legs whacked against the low cement wall and I tumbled over, my body hurtling sideways across the ledge. A dark fog pressed against my outer vision, and before I knew it I was falling, plunging into empty space.
I hit the river on my back, my eyes fastened on the bridge’s soaring spires illuminated by a flickering streetlamp.
Then the shadowy water tipped me under.
1
ABI
october
I woke abruptly, dreams tumbling from me in cottony wisps. I couldn’t remember falling asleep, but the lamp on my bedside table had been switched off, the only light a full, glowing moon outside my window.
The phone was ringing.
‘Olivia?’ I murmured, hoping she’d get it so I wouldn’t have to. My daughter was one of those people who could wake up and fall asleep as if flipping a switch.
I rolled over and peered at my alarm clock. The red lights blinked 4:48 a.m. Nobody called at this time of night with good news.
I bolted upright and grabbed the phone, the feather duvet sliding from my body, leaving my bed-warmed arms cold and exposed.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, is this Abigail Knight?’ The voice – a man’s – was low and tight, coiled like a viper about to strike.
‘Yes.’
‘This is Portage Point Hospital. It’s about your daughter, Olivia. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’
× × ×
I ran down the hall to Olivia’s room, cold wings of fear fluttering in my stomach.
Her door was shut and I threw it open thinking, irrationally, that she’d sit up in bed blinking her eyes at me sleepily. I imagined, hoped, that she’d be angry at me for invading her teenage space. She’d throw a pillow at me, and I’d laugh weakly, clutching my chest with one hand as my heart rate returned to normal.
‘I had a terrible dream,’ I’d say.
‘I’m fine, Mom,’ she’d reply, looking at me with all the scorn a seventeen-year-old could muster. ‘You worry too much.’
But her room was silent and empty, her bed a jumble of blankets. Dirty clothes spilled from the laundry basket in her half-open closet. Sheaves of paper were scattered in a disorganized jumble on her dresser.
I lurched out of the room, down the stairs, and into my car.
Last night, at the Stokeses’ barbecue, she’d been fine.
But, no. I shook my head, really remembering. No, she wasn’t fine. She hadn’t been fine for a while.
Maybe it was just the typical moodiness of a teenager, but this felt different. Olivia was usually sunny and sweet. She was an easy teenager. The girl who never partied, got straight As, helped all her friends with their homework.
Lately she seemed distracted and temperamental, irritable whenever I asked what was wrong. And then there were the questions about her father.
She wants the truth.
The thought came fast, an ugly surprise. I set my teeth against it. I’d worried for so long that all the lies I kept hidden on the dark side of my heart would one day be washed into the open. These lies, my past, kept me always on guard.
× × ×
October drizzle coated the car, and a handful of brown leaves covered the windshield. The acidic feeling in my stomach clawed its way up toward my throat as I wrenched the car door open and threw myself inside. For once my old beater car started without any hesitation, as if it too knew we had to hurry.
I tore out of the driveway, my tires spinning in the gravel. I flicked the wipers on, but a single dead leaf was caught, wiping a jagged, wet arc across the windshield, back and forth, back and forth.
I thought of the last time I’d gone to the hospital with Olivia – she’d broken her arm falling out of the ancient willow tree in the backyard when she was ten. My guilt had been overwhelming. I’d failed at the most important job I would ever have: keeping her safe.
I gripped the leather steering wheel hard, securing myself to the present while the past threatened to overtake me. My car squealed as I whipped around a corner too sharply. I was being reckless, I needed to slow down, but Olivia . . .
I couldn’t even finish the thought. My daughter was my center of gravity, the only thing tying me to this earth. Without her, I’d surely float into space, a kite with its string severed by glass.
I pressed my foot hard against the accelerator as my knees began to shake. The decaying leaf was still stuck to the wiper but it had been ripped in half now, leaving the shape of a broken heart behind.
I braked sharply as I rounded the last corner and skidded into the hospital parking lot. It was nearly empty, one ambulance parked at the front, a handful of cars scattered across the lot. Streetlamps glinted against the wet pavement. I slammed on my brakes in a spot near the entrance just as the last half of the leaf in my windscreen was mercilessly ripped away.
× × ×
I staggered into the hospital, cracking my elbow hard on the sliding door. Pain seethed toward my fingertips but didn’t slow me down. I needed to find Olivia.
Please, please be okay.
A doctor appeared suddenly from a set of swinging doors. His steps were brisk, the swift, resolute walk of a man who knew what he was doing. Behind wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes were bloodshot when they landed on me.
‘Abigail Knight?’ I could just make out the clipped voice I’d heard on the phone. He had thinning white hair and a close-shaven face. Around his neck hung a stethoscope. His white coat had a rust-colored smear across the front.
He stepped closer and held one hand out to me. His eyebrows, thick as caterpillars, were pinched together.
‘Where’s Olivia?’ I gasped, feeling like I would hyperventilate. People were staring, but I didn’t care. ‘Where’s my daughter?’
I tried to sidestep him, but he moved his body to block me.
‘I’m Dr Griffith.’ He took a step closer. I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. ‘Will you come with me?’
‘Why?’ My voice sounded too high, the words crushed on my tongue. ‘Where’s Olivia?’
‘I’m going to take you to her, but first we need to talk. Perhaps somewhere a bit more private.’ The doctor’s tone conveyed the gravity of what he had to say. The weight of it kept the frantic questions in my throat from vomiting out.
I looked around at the busy waiting room. A handful of people openly stared at us, while the rest fiddled with cell phones or pretended to read newspapers.
I nodded, a small jerk of my chin.
Dr Griffith led me through the swinging doors and down a brightly lit corridor to a private meeting room. The room smelled of floral potpourri and was decorated in pale pastels. The floor was shiny, the color of cinnamon, the walls a washed-out cream.
‘Please. Sit.’ Dr Griffith motioned toward a cushioned taupe chair. I sat stiffly on the edge.
He crossed to a water cooler in the corner of the room. A hulking tower of plastic cups, white, like vertebrae, leaned on a low black table next to it. He swiped one and filled it with water. The cooler gurgled and belched as air drifted to the top.
He thrust the cup toward me, but I just stared at it. I couldn’t seem to get my hand to take it. Eventually he set it on the table.
Dr Griffith dragged a plastic chair from the wall and placed it across from me. The scraping of its feet against the floor set my teeth on edge. He sat, planted both feet on the ground, pressed his elbows against his knees, and steepled his fingers, as if in prayer.
‘There’s been an accident –’ he said, repeating his earlier words.
‘Is Olivia okay?’ I interrupted.
But the way he was looking at me. With pity. I knew.
An intense desire to run hit me. My shins still burned from my run yesterday morning, my thigh muscles ached, but I felt the pang hit my body hard.
I jumped up, looking around wildly. The doctor stood, eyeing me as if I were a wild animal. But the urge to know kept me rooted to my spot.
‘Tell me. . .’ I rasped.
‘Your daughter . . .’ Dr Griffith touched my forearm. His hand was heavy, cool against my clammy skin.
He said something about an accident.
Somebody finding Olivia at the bottom of an embankment near the ZigZag Bridge.
Something about a grand mal seizure, corneal reflexes, and a Glasgow score of four.
He said something about a head wound, about fixed and dilated pupils and a CAT scan.
That they’d taken her in for surgery as soon as she’d arrived.
I couldn’t make sense of any of it.
I collapsed on the chair, bending forward until my head was between my knees, as if preparing for a crash landing. I could hear my heart throbbing in my chest, the blood roaring in my ears, the harsh hiss of my breath as it rushed in and out of me in sharp, hollow gasps. My elbow throbbed painfully where I’d banged it.
‘No . . . no . . .’ I pleaded over and over, clenching and unclenching my sweat-soaked hands.
The doctor sat next to me, his voice breaking through the heavy, viscous bubble surrounding me.
‘–sustained severe head trauma. I’m really sorry, Mrs Knight, but your daughter has suffered permanent and irreversible brain damage.’
My mind reeled, trying to assimilate these facts into something that made sense. Shards of his words assaulted me through a roar of panic.
‘Is there someone we can call . . . ?’
Who was there? My mom was dead. I never knew my dad. There was no husband, no boyfriend. I was too busy being a mother to date, too busy to have friends. There was only . . .
‘My sister.’ My voice sounded very far away, as if it came from down the hall rather than my own mouth.
I wrote Sarah’s number on a scrap of paper. He took it and opened the door, handed it to somebody, then sat back down across from me.
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Knight, we did everything we could to save her, but Olivia won’t wake up. Right now she’s attached to life support that’s keeping her body alive.’ He licked his lips, on the verge of saying something else. ‘But she . . .’
‘She’s an organ donor,’ I whispered numbly.
It was what they wanted, wasn’t it? The day she got her driver’s license Olivia had signed up to save another’s life. ‘You know,’ she’d said, shrugging with the confidence the young have that they’re impervious to death. ‘If it ever came to that.’ My kind, gentle girl.
‘No, that’s not – What I mean to say is, we can’t legally turn Olivia’s life support off in her condition.’
I didn’t understand. It was as if he had suddenly started speaking Urdu. A throb began pulsing under my eyes.
He cleared his throat, his eyes scurrying momentarily away from mine. ‘We can’t turn life support off from a pregnant woman. Not in Washington State.’
‘Wh –?’ I breathed. My body went limp, boneless, my head spinning.
‘Olivia was – is – Olivia’s pregnant.’
2
OLIVIA
april, 6 months earlier
The yellow school bus swayed slowly past the glimmering sea that fringed Portage Point and headed toward Seattle: our day-trip destination.
‘Ughh, the bus is so bo-o-oring.’ My best friend, Madison, flopped back in her seat next to me. She took a compact from her purse and started sweeping powder across her already-matte nose.
We were heading to the University of Washington for the start of our two-day college tour. I didn’t know why she was complaining. Being away from school was like a vacation.
Madison tossed her long dark hair and peeked over her shoulder. I knew she was looking at Peter and barely resisted rolling my eyes. Madison could be totally ADD when it came to guys.
I slid the cool metal of my charm bracelet through my fingers. ‘At least we’re out of school,’ I said.
‘Too bad we can’t do something fun.’ She applied a shiny layer of cotton-candy-pink gloss to her lips and smacked them loudly. ‘Filling out college applications is totally lame.’
I bit my cheeks so I wouldn’t say anything. Madison’s parents were rich. She didn’t really feel the same pressure I did about college.
My mom, on the other hand, scrimped and saved every penny so I could go to college after I graduated next year. Four years of tuition was totally going to break her. I kept offering to get a part-time job, but she’d just say my job was to study hard and do well in school.
I stared past Madison out the bus window and chewed a lock of hair. Sunlight slid through the window, interrupted every so often by the shade of passing trees.
‘Did you see Zitty Zara’s new zit this morning?’ Madison stage-whispered. ‘I think there’s a science experiment happening on her forehead.’
‘Don’t be mean!’ I smacked her softly, trying not to laugh. Zara did have gross skin, but I felt bad for her.
‘Don’t they have Accutane now?’ Madison continued. ‘Why doesn’t she take it?’
She’d dropped all pretense of whispering, so I shot her a warning look. Zara was only a few rows in front of us. I didn’t want her hearing.
But Madison ignored me. She could be mean. Like, hurtfully mean. Once in fourth grade we got in a fight, and Madison got all the girls in our class to stop talking to me. Girls who’d been my friends just ‘forgot’ to save me a seat on the bus or invite me to their sleepovers. I’d never forgotten that feeling of not belonging, like wearing someone else’s shoes and feeling the pain all over. Since then I’d made sure never, ever to get on Madison’s bad side.
‘What’s in a zit anyway?’ she asked.
I snickered. ‘It’s pus, you idiot.’
‘Eww. God, even the word is gross. Puh, puh, puh-sss.’ She leaned hard on the p sound. I laughed out loud. ‘Puh-ss,’ she enunciated. ‘It’s like an ejection from your mouth. A voiding of puh-ss from a puh-stule.’
‘Oh God! Gross!’ I gasped, breathless from concealing my laughter.
A few rows ahead, Zara turned around. We both ducked below the seat in front of us, laughing hysterically.
My phone beeped, and I pulled it from my backpack. It was my mom.
Knock knock
Who’s there? I texted back.
Mom: Olive
Me: Olive who?
Mom: Olive ya Olivia!
I laughed and sent her a row of x’s and o’s just as Tyler’s head popped up over the back of our seat.
‘Hey, babe.’ His amber-flecked hazel eyes crinkled in a smile.
My boyfriend was your typical high school athlete. He was captain of the football team, had lettered in every sport he did, and was working toward a football scholarship to UW. He was way popular, and he knew it. Like, in a confident way, not in a dickhead way.
He leaned down and licked my earlobe, trying to be seductive. I giggled and lurched away from him. He frowned, looking slightly put out.
‘God, you guys! Get a room!’ Madison huffed loudly.
Heat spread up my neck and into my cheeks. Madison could be such a bitch sometimes. Mom told me I should stand up to her. Tyler said I always saw the best in people.
The truth was, neither of them was right. I was just scared of not being liked.
Just then Tyler’s friend Peter leaned over the seat next to Tyler. ‘Jesus, you’re the color of a tomato, Liv!’ he hooted.
He reached out to touch my flaming cheek, but Tyler smacked his hand away, eyes blazing. ‘Don’t touch her, man.’
My cheeks burned even hotter, but Peter just laughed.
‘You’re such a lunatic.’ Madison rolled her eyes flirtatiously.
Tyler’s eyes tightened and his jaw clenched. ‘Shut up, Madison. You’re just salty ’cause you can’t get a boyfriend.’
I forced a loud laugh. ‘At least my face isn’t as red as your hair, Peter,’ I joked, trying to defuse the situation.
‘Whatever, asshole.’ Madison twisted in her seat so she could scowl out the bus’s window. She popped the earbuds to her iPhone in her ears and turned the volume up until I could hear the tinny beat of pop music.
‘Ignore her.’ Tyler tugged me from my seat and sat in my place, pulling me onto his lap and nuzzling my cheek. Tyler and Madison had never really gotten along. She thought he was way too needy.
With his wavy blond hair and hazel eyes, Tyler was the hottest guy in school. I’d worked hard for my seat at the popular table, but that seat had only been firmly cemented when Tyler and I started dating. And it felt nice being his girlfriend. But it was still mortifying when he tried to make out with me in front of everybody.
‘I’ve been thinking about yesterday,’ Tyler whispered in my ear.
I blushed again, blood pulsing in my ears. I looked around, hoping nobody could hear him.
Yesterday we’d had a heavy make-out session in my room before my mom got home from work. He got a little too excited, and I’d felt so pressured I burst into tears. He could be like that sometimes: too insistent and intense. But weren’t all boys?
He leaned away from me and cracked his neck. I shuddered, grossed out by the sound of his bones popping.
‘I’m sorry about . . . you know,’ he said. ‘It’s just, I love you. I think we’ve been together long enough to show it that way.’
‘Soon, okay? I’m just not ready yet.’
‘I was thinking. . .’ He leaned closer and kissed my cheek wetly. ‘Maybe one of these weekends we could make it extra special? Go somewhere, just us? You could tell your mom you’re spending the night at Madison’s.’
I wanted to laugh at how ridiculous he sounded. What would we do, rent a hotel room for the night? Besides, I didn’t want to have sex yet. I wasn’t going to be one of those stupid knocked-up teenagers – like my mom was.
But I didn’t say that. Instead I smiled and said: ‘Sure, yeah, maybe.’ I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, and if it would make him happy, I’d let him think we could go away for a night.
The bus lurched to a stop, and I realized we’d arrived at the University of Washington.
‘We’re here!’ somebody shouted from the front of the bus.
Madison pulled her earbuds out and pointed out the window. ‘There’s everybody else!’
I followed her gaze. A group of about forty teenagers was gathered at the end of the parking lot. Half of them were wearing casual clothes, but the other half were dressed in matching uniforms: the girls in green tartan skirts with green blazers and knee-high stockings, the boys in gray pants and green ties.
‘Preppy dicks!’ Peter shouted. A slice of sunlight shone on his red hair and lit the smattering of freckles across his face. He was watching Madison, waiting for a reaction. For his sake, I hoped he stayed away from her. She would eat him alive, and Peter was actually a pretty nice guy. Tyler called her a thot behind her back. If she weren’t my best friend, I’d probably agree. She’d go out with a different guy every weekend, then dump him the next day.
‘Fuckheads!’ Tyler’s friend Dan shouted.
Bold and bullish, Dan was a fat little tryhard, but his overconfidence and arrogance meant nobody stood up to him. Tyler thought Dan was hilarious. I thought he was a jerk.
‘Watch your mouth, guys!’ Mr Parks, our PE teacher who was running this little field trip, yelled from the front of the bus. ‘Come on, off the bus.’