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