The Night Olivia Fell

3

ABI

october

‘Do you understand what I’m saying, Mrs Knight?’

I blinked at Dr Griffith, not sure I’d heard him right.

‘Your daughter is pregnant.’ He spoke slowly, as if I were a child unable to grasp his words. ‘Olivia’s suffered irreversible brain damage and she won’t wake up, but Washington State law prohibits us from turning off life support. We have to give the fetus the best chance at surviving. Do you understand?’

I nodded and shook my head at the same time. I did understand, but it made no sense, as if he’d grabbed random words from a dictionary and pasted them into a sentence.

‘Wha –?’

A knock at the door interrupted me, and a pink-scrub-clad nurse with the sad, droopy face and flabby jowls of a Saint Bernard entered.

‘Mrs Knight, your sister –’

Sarah burst past the nurse, elbowing her way into the room. Her blue eyes were laced with red, the translucent skin of her lids as raw and puffy as mine. She grabbed my hand, and I stared at her fingers. Her nails were smooth and perfectly oval, shining red, the color of fresh blood. Even now in the middle of the night, her long, perfectly highlighted hair swung and shone under the anemic hospital lights.

She pulled me in for a hug so hard it hurt my ribs. I stiffened and she dropped her arms, a shadow of hurt crossing her face. It had always been there, this slight distance between us. My fault, admittedly, but I no longer knew how to stop it.

‘Where’s Olivia? Is she okay? What happened? Why was she out in the middle of the night?’

The questions were rapid as a machine gun, asked in Sarah’s most demanding mom voice. The one she’d been practicing since I was ten and she was twenty, when our mother left me on Sarah’s front step with nothing but a backpack of dirty clothes. She’d gone home and killed herself that very day, leaving Sarah to raise me.

I shook my head, tears rising in my throat.

‘She . . . she . . .’

I didn’t know why Olivia was out in the middle of the night.

After my bath, I’d had some wine and then gone to bed with a book. I was asleep while my daughter was out doing . . . what?

The dark fog of anxiety swirled violently around me.

Panic: my old friend.

‘Mrs Knight?’ I heard from somewhere far away.

My vision blurred and a high-pitched whining droned in my ears. I couldn’t hold it away anymore. I crashed to the ground.

‘Abi!’ People rushed around me, hands lifted me up, pushed me into a chair.

I was sweating heavily. The air was like molasses, weighted like water.

Somebody pressed a paper bag into my hands, and I heard Sarah’s soothing voice speaking to me from a great distance.

‘Breathe. There you go. In, then out. In, then out.’

I used to have panic attacks all the time as a kid. But I’d learned to control my emotions, stamping them out like the flames of a fire. Sarah always said I should talk about my feelings, get them out there, but I knew it was better to push them away, pretend everything was okay. It was better not to feel anything.

Somehow, without me even wanting to, my breathing evened, my heart rate slowed. And then my hearing came back. Dr Griffith and Sarah were talking.

‘What happened?’ Sarah asked.

Sarah was good at being composed in tough situations. She never seemed desperate or panicky. I felt a stab of anger that she could manage this. I couldn’t even ask the right questions.

‘A retired paramedic found Olivia on the banks of the ZigZag River, next to the bridge. We don’t know if she fell from the bridge or – well, the police will investigate,’ Dr Griffith replied. He was crouched in front of me, holding one of my hands tightly in his. His skin felt dry and cool against my sweaty palm.

Sarah shifted in her seat next to me, her hand holding the paper bag to my mouth. ‘People come out of comas all the time –’ she began.

‘Olivia isn’t in a coma,’ he interrupted gently. ‘Comas are usu ally from a localized injury. Olivia’s suffered a massive bleed, which has damaged almost every part of her brain. I’m so sorry, I know this is hard to understand and even harder to accept, but Olivia isn’t going to wake up.’

Grief hurtled toward me, crashing into me and beating inside my chest like a giant, furious animal.

‘And she’s pregnant?’ I whispered.

‘Yes,’ Dr Griffith replied.

I looked at Sarah. Her jaw worked, as if she were chewing leather.

‘How far along?’ I asked.

‘We’ll do an ultrasound to find out for sure, but the HCG hormone indicates about thirteen or fourteen weeks.’

I thought back to what we were doing three months ago. It would’ve been July. Olivia was out of school. She was studying for her driver’s test, taking practice SAT tests, swimming, hanging out with her friends.

We hadn’t done anything special. Money was always tight, and I was saving for the tuition I knew I’d have to pay when Olivia went to college. I couldn’t put my finger on when something might’ve changed, when she would’ve gotten pregnant. She must not have known. She would’ve told me if she’d known.

‘Surely the baby’s been exposed to radiation, chemicals . . . ?’ Sarah trailed off.

Dr Griffith winced. ‘Yes. Possibly. Probably. We do a standard pregnancy test when female patients are admitted, but it was delayed by the surgery.’

A dusty vent blew stale air into the room, the noise an obnoxious whine. Sarah and Dr Griffith had lapsed into silence.

‘I want to see her. Right now.’ My voice was hollow and flat.

‘Of course,’ Dr Griffith said immediately.

Sarah helped me to my feet, and we followed the doctor down the corridor, toward the ICU.

Despite the harsh reality of the stark white hallway, a part of me still clung to the faint hope that Olivia wasn’t here – that this was all some horrible mistake, some silly clerical error. Not my daughter.

Dr Griffith walked briskly to the end of the hallway and turned left, then waved a security badge at a locked door. Inside the ICU Jen Stokes, Olivia’s best friend’s mother, hovered over a bed that was surrounded by beeping, clunking machines. A stethoscope dangled from her neck.

‘Dr Stokes,’ Dr Griffith greeted her.

‘Jen?’ I stared at my neighbor. Just a few hours ago, I’d been at a barbecue at her house, and now we were standing in the ICU. She was wearing faded jeans and an old Seahawks jersey under a lab coat. Her eyes were red, her dark curls a messy halo around a pale face. Her hands were clasped into tight fists and pressed into her belly.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

‘I called her,’ Sarah explained; then I remembered that Jen was the senior doctor in the emergency room here.

‘Abi, I’m so sorry.’ Her mouth worked as if she wanted to say more, but nothing else came. She broke eye contact and looked down.

I followed her gaze, but it took me a moment to realize that the person she was staring at was Olivia. My daughter was as white as the sheet she lay on. Her body was too still, as if all her dynamic energy had been trapped beneath the sheet draped over her.

A tangle of IV bags and pumps surrounded the hospital bed. So many tubes and lines I couldn’t count them: down her throat, breathing for her, up her nose, keeping her stomach empty, flowering from her chest, recording her heartbeat. The ventilator next to the bed made rhythmic blip, shhhh noises.

Her head was swathed in white bandages, stark against her face. She had a deep cut above her right eyebrow, a sickening black and purple bruise blooming across her left temple, and a spray of scratches across her nose and cheekbones.

I stared at my daughter, and the agony I felt wasn’t just emotional but physical. A sharp pain wrenched in my chest so it seemed my heart must’ve stopped, but I could feel it, I could hear it; it betrayed me by continuing to beat when it should have frozen in my chest. The pain and impotence were white lightning searing through me.

My gaze drifted to Olivia’s abdomen, still flat and smooth, no hint of the baby tucked within.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I registered Jen leaving the room. The emotions piled up, threatening to crack me open, splintering me into a billion little pieces. I reached for Olivia’s hand, wanting – no, needing – to be connected to her.

Her wrist lay limply in my hand, but something was missing. The silver charm bracelet Olivia always wore was gone.

In its place was a string of black and purple bruises.

4

OLIVIA

april

‘That girl. Jesus. That was creepy,’ Tyler said the Monday after our field trip to the University of Washington. We were eating lunch at our usual table in the cafeteria, the one next to the neatly stacked towers of orange chairs used for pep assemblies.

‘I know, right!’ Peter said. His carrot-red head bobbed in agreement. ‘What was that about? Do you have a sister we don’t know about, Liv?’

I shook my head emphatically. ‘No way.’

Next to me, Tyler shoved a handful of fries into his mouth. ‘She was totally your doppelgänger,’ he said. ‘My dad says everybody has one somewhere.’

‘I guess.’ I set my peanut butter and jelly sandwich down, my appetite suddenly gone. I didn’t want to talk about this. Why wouldn’t they just shut up?

‘She had the same butt chin, too,’ Peter added. ‘She looked just like you.’

Tyler frowned at Peter. I ground my teeth together, waiting for Tyler to make some snappy clapback. Tyler always called my chin dimple a butt chin. Not in a mean way, just in a Tyler way. But I knew he wouldn’t like anybody else saying it.

But Tyler went back to his fries. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

Madison laughed and bit into a carrot stick. ‘Having a chin dimple doesn’t mean you’re related to somebody, you idiot.’

‘She’s not my sister, all right?’ I snapped. ‘I’ve never even met her before.’

Everybody went quiet. My heart pulsed in my neck and I looked down. I felt them all exchanging looks. I was the peacemaker. I never lashed out or got involved in arguments.

I picked at the edge of my sandwich until it was as bare as a stone. I hated the dry feel of crust in my mouth. When I was a kid my mom would cut the crusts off my sandwich, snip away the square edges, and cut a little bite-size hole in the middle so it looked like an O. I suddenly wished she were here to reassure me.

Madison abruptly changed the subject. ‘Sooooo, my brother’s coming home next week.’

My head snapped up and blood rushed to my cheeks. I let my hair swing in front of my face to hide it, chewing hard on a strand of hair.

Tyler snorted and dropped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer to him. ‘Can he score us some pot?’

‘Tyler!’ I shushed him.

‘Shut up, fuck-face.’ Madison’s dark eyes flashed. ‘It was only one time. He was just stupid enough to get caught.’

‘Wait. I thought he was in New York. Isn’t that where your parents sent him after he got caught dealing?’ Peter’s freckled face creased with confusion.

Madison scowled. ‘Once! And it was only pot.’

She was mortified that everybody knew Derek had been sent to a private East Coast school to ‘reform’ him. We all drank sometimes and a few of our friends smoked pot, but only stoners and losers actually dealt it.

Peter’s eyes darted between Madison and Tyler, sensing the tension.

‘Olivia,’ he said, changing the subject quickly. ‘You don’t have swimming practice tomorrow, right? Could you help me with some chemistry shit later? I’m on that homework grind, trying to catch up again.’

‘Sure.’ I darted a look at Tyler. His brows folded down. I could tell he wasn’t happy with me studying alone with Peter.

He could be a little possessive sometimes. It wasn’t like I’d ever cheated on him or anything. He was just like that: all macho on the outside but sort of insecure on the inside. I knew it was just because he loved me, though.

‘Thanks, dude.’ Peter grinned at me.

I scraped myself out of the hard metal chair. ‘I’m going outside for some fresh air. Wanna come, Mad?’

Madison unfolded her slender frame and stood, brushing off her black leggings and black sleeveless sweater. She tossed a hard glare at Tyler and Peter and huffed toward the door.

We stepped into the cool belly of April and headed for the quad, huddling on a bench near the fountain. We were the only students around, the air still too crisp to sit outside.

Clouds raced overhead as if they were on a conveyor belt; one minute it was sunny, the next threatening rain. Squinting at Madison, I tried to judge her mood.

I fiddled with the bracelet on my left wrist, pulling the cool metal through my fingers, back and forth.

‘Sorry about Derek,’ I offered.

‘’S okay. Sorry about that girl.’ She picked a hangnail. ‘I’m sure she isn’t, like, your sister or anything.’

I appreciated her saying it. No matter how moody Madison could be, I knew I could always count on her. It’s probably why we were still best friends all these years later.

We’d met in kindergarten and became friends when it turned out we both hated playing dress-up. I didn’t want anyone knowing my mom made me wear long underwear under my clothes all winter. Madison just wanted to play outside.

‘Do you think you’ll, you know, look her up?’ Madison asked.

I shrugged. I didn’t want to admit I’d talked to her in the bathroom at the University of Washington.

Up close she didn’t look quite as much like me as I’d thought. Even though her eyes were the exact same shade of green as mine, hers were slightly wider spaced. The dimple in her chin wasn’t as pronounced as mine, her cheekbones not as sharp, her nose a little smaller. Still, she made me uncomfortable.

She’d dried her hands, then leaned casually against the sink.

‘I’m Kendall Montgomery,’ she said. She flipped her long blonde hair over one shoulder in that way bitchy rich girls did.

‘I’m Olivia,’ I replied.

There was an awkward pause. ‘My dad’s dead,’ I blurted, afraid she was going to say something about how alike we looked. ‘Just in case you thought we might be related. And there’s no way we have the same mom.’

‘That’s too bad.’ She smirked. ‘My parents are assholes. It’d be awesome if I could replace them.’

I laughed, a rush of surprised air bursting out of me. At least I was always glad my mom was my mom. Her entire life was dedicated to me. Sometimes a bit too much.

‘Where do you live?’ she asked.

‘Portage Point. It’s this tiny town just south of –’

‘I know Portage Point. That’s where my mom’s from.’

There was a heavy silence as we both realized what she’d said.

‘Your mom?’ My palms suddenly felt hot and damp.

‘Well, not from. . .’ She hesitated. ‘That’s where she lived when she was in high school, I guess.’

I didn’t know what to say.

‘Anyway,’ Kendall said, heading for the door, ‘it was nice meeting you, Olivia.’

‘Yeah, you too. See you around.’

She’d waved, a little flick of her fingers, and left.

On the bench, I turned to Madison and shook my head. ‘Naww. I don’t think I’ll look her up. What would be the point? I already know she isn’t related to me.’

‘You don’t know know that,’ Madison countered.

I stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, what if you have a long-lost dad out there and a whole other family? What if your mom had, like, some illicit affair or something?’

The idea was so ridiculous I laughed out loud. I couldn’t imagine my mom having some passionate affair. She was like a study in self control – she frowned but never yelled; she smiled but never laughed too loud; her makeup was always lightly done, her clothes neatly ironed.

Mom was as steady as a statue. There was none of that flighty, hyper-gossipy vibe that some of my friends’ moms had. She was the type of mom who was always there for me, ready with a tissue if I needed to cry or sitting in the stands cheering me on at swim meets.

‘Yeah, right!’ I snorted. ‘She wouldn’t know how to flirt, let alone have an affair. Plus, she’d be all worried she’d get an STD or something.’

Madison laughed too. ‘Okay, maybe that girl’s your dad’s daughter.’

‘My dad’s dead, Mad.’

‘I know, but maybe he had another family before he died? Or he was cheating on your mom? Or’– she widened her eyes dramatically –’maybe he isn’t dead.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘You really need to lay off the soap operas.’

‘Get woke, Olivia. You’re so naïve. Sometimes people lie, and you don’t even know why,’ Madison replied.

I flinched as the insult hit me. ‘I really don’t think my mom would lie to me about my dad.’

‘How do you know? Sometimes the truth hurts.’

‘So do lies,’ I said under my breath.

× × ×

That night, Mom came home with an armful of groceries and announced she was going to cook. I cringed. Martha Stewart she was not. Usually her cooking experiments ended in disaster.

Once she tried to bake these Cornish game hens with this gross, gloopy sauce, but she turned the oven on broil instead of bake. Within a half hour the whole house was filled with a smoke so thick you could almost chew it.

I wished we could just order pizza.

‘So, what’re we making?’ I put my game face on and started unpacking ingredients from the paper bags. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings or anything.

‘Spaghetti bolognese.’ She reached for the other bag and pulled out fresh basil, a bulb of garlic, an onion, one carrot.

I smiled. Mom hated carrots, but I loved them. She always got one and cooked it up to put on the side for me.

‘Okay, I’ve got a good one,’ she said, peeling the skin from an onion. ‘Knock knock.’

‘Who’s there?’

‘Puma.’

‘Puma who?’

‘Hurry up or I’ll puma pants.’

‘Eww, yuck, Mom!’ I laughed. ‘That’s totally gross!’

She chuckled. ‘Thought you’d enjoy that.’

‘So. What’s the occasion?’ I waved at the ingredients.

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She shrugged and laughed. ‘I’m off work early, and you’re going to be a senior in high school pretty soon, and I’m just so proud of my girl.’ She pulled me in for a hug and kissed me on the forehead.

My mom was a toucher. She patted my shoulders, stroked my hair, kissed my cheek, hugged me. She held my hand when we crossed the road until I was ten and started getting teased about it. Once I asked her why she always touched me and she said, ‘I guess it makes me feel more connected to you.’

Sometimes it felt weird hugging my mom, like I was too old for hugs, but it was nice, too.

‘How was your day?’ she asked as I minced garlic.

‘Good. I got an A on my history test, and we finished the layout for the yearbook.’

She’d stopped chopping onion and looked at me intently. She had this way about her where she really listened, even to the most trivial things.

Soon the scent of garlic and onion sizzling in butter mingled with the rich smell of hamburger. The diced carrot was boiling in a small pot on the stove. Mom popped the french stick in the oven to warm, and we piled our plates high with pasta and took them to the dining room table.

‘Mom.’ I dumped my carrots over my sauce and stirred them in, trying to seem casual. ‘Can I ask you some stuff about my dad?’

A noodle slid off the edge of Mom’s fork and landed with a soft plop on her plate. She stabbed at it and cleared her voice.

‘Sure, sweetie. What do you want to know?’

‘Well . . .’ My mind whirled.

Usually she didn’t want to talk. Not that I asked often. She’d always get this funny frozen half-smile on her face, like she was in pain. But since seeing that girl Kendall, I don’t know, I guess it got me thinking more about him.

‘How far along with me were you when he died?’

Mom took another bite of her pasta and screwed up her face into her thinky look – lips twisted to one side, eyebrows down, eyes up.

‘Only a few weeks. I never got the chance to tell him.’

‘Was he hot?’ I smiled slyly. ‘You know, when you first met him, did you get all fluttery inside?’

‘Very!’ She fanned her face with her hand and laughed. ‘He made my knees weak. All that blond hair and those brown eyes. I could just fall into them.’

I paused, my brain jamming on that one word. ‘Brown?’

‘Yeah.’

I stared at her hard. She’d told me before that his eyes were green, just like mine. I remembered the day, the very moment, she said it. I’d held that nugget of information in my heart since I was thirteen, proof that I was connected to the father I never met in some tangible way.

I waited for her to retract it, to assure me she wasn’t lying. But she didn’t.

I stared at her, scrambling to untangle the threads overloading my brain.

‘Did he have, like, another family?’ I asked finally.

Late-afternoon sunlight flooded in through the open curtains and beamed across the dining room table. The light fell on Mom’s face, landing in lines carved so deep she suddenly looked twenty years older.

Mom burst out laughing. ‘No, of course not! What on earth gave you that idea?’

I watched her carefully, looking for any cracks.

‘Well, like, maybe I have brothers or sisters out there I don’t know about.’

For a moment the prospect of her reply opened under me like a gaping hole. What she said now, I knew, could change everything.

Suddenly she jumped up, eyes wide. ‘Oh my goodness! The bread!’

She threw the oven open and a cloud of black, acrid smoke billowed out. I slipped the oven mitts on and grabbed the charred french stick, tossing it in the garbage while Mom threw open the sliding glass door and started fanning the air with a kitchen towel. Chilly spring air blew through the house, dissipating the smoke. But the bitter smell of something burning remained.

Mom pushed at a lock of blonde hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. ‘I’m sorry, sweetie. I guess we won’t be having bread with our pasta.’