The Night Olivia Fell. Christina McDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ right and she did everything in the proper order. She’d finished college with a degree in psychology, then got a job, then a husband, a kid, and so on. Now she was a counselor for victims of traumatic cases. Most of her clients were referred from the Seattle Police Department. I was a wrecking ball in comparison: a single mom with a job I’d settled for and no real friends.

      Just then something cold splashed against my arm.

      ‘Hi, Abi!’

      ‘Derek. Hi.’ Mark and Jen’s son used to call me Miss Knight. I remembered when he was a chubby-cheeked second-grader with perpetually grass-stained knees, and now here he was, calling me by my first name. I suddenly felt rather old.

      He grinned sheepishly. ‘Sorry about that.’

      I brushed the liquid from my arm. ‘When did you get old enough to drink?’ I teased.

      ‘I’m nineteen now,’ Derek said, proud in that way teenagers get when they think they’re all grown-up.

      I smiled fondly at him. ‘Have you seen Olivia?’

      His smile faded. ‘No. Why? Is she in some sort of trouble?’

      ‘No!’ I laughed at the thought. Olivia never got in trouble. ‘Nothing like that. We were planning to meet here.’

      ‘Oh. . .’ He ran a hand over his jaw and I noticed how much he looked like his mother. He had the same intense beauty: shaggy, dark curls; a narrow, heart-shaped face. His dark-blue eyes were piercing and intelligent. He was a good-looking kid. Probably already breaking hearts.

      Somebody – a young woman – came up next to him then, touched his shoulder. He glanced at her, then at me, then stepped back. The entire exchange probably only lasted seconds, but it took me all that time to realize that the young woman next to him was Olivia.

      My brain felt like it was spinning in mud. Her long, silky blonde locks were gone, cropped into a pink-streaked pixie cut. Gone also were her usual T-shirt and jeans, replaced with black leggings and a low-cut peasant top that plunged into her cleavage.

      I remember looking at Olivia in the fading evening light and feeling like I didn’t know her anymore. I knew then that something had been shaken loose, something I had no power to put back together. . .

      ‘Whose baby is it?’ I asked Tyler now, my insides tight as a fist.

      He didn’t answer. He looked very far away.

      ‘Tyler. Whose baby is it?’

      He didn’t look at me. Didn’t answer. Instead he said: ‘I wish I could’ve saved her.’

      ‘Saved her from what?’

      His eyes crashed into mine.

      ‘From everything.’

7

       OLIVIA

      april

      After dinner, Mom went upstairs to take a shower. The house still smelled of burned bread even though all the windows were cracked open. It clawed at my throat and seared my nose, making me feel sick.

      As soon as I heard the shower turn on, I ran to the desk in the corner of the living room and shuffled through the neatly organized paperwork and alphabetized, color-coded files. Nothing there. I took the stairs two at a time to Mom’s bedroom. I pushed through electric cords and notebooks in her bedside table drawers. I dropped to my knees and checked under her bed. Just a scattering of dusty, mismatched hand weights, random books that didn’t fit on the bookshelf downstairs, a box with cards and notes I’d given her.

      Obviously I’d been in Mom’s room loads of times, but I wasn’t a weirdo. I’d never searched through her personal things. It felt gross. Disgust slithered up my throat, but then I remembered her lie: . . . those brown eyes.

      There must be some proof somewhere about who my father was. The minutes crawled by. I was running out of time.

      In her closet, I shuffled through clothes and shoes, ran my hand along the top shelf. Suddenly my fingers knocked against something. I stood on my tiptoes and pulled it out. It was an old shoebox, a thick layer of dust across the top. I sat cross-legged on the floor with it on my lap. My heart pounded wildly in my chest. The shower was still going but I knew I didn’t have much time.

      The box was light. I almost thought it was empty. But when I took the lid off and pushed a layer of tissue paper aside, I saw a thick piece of paper. It was my birth certificate. I looked at the spot where my parents’ names were listed, but only my mom’s was there.

      I put it down and lifted out the tissue paper. Underneath was a hospital ID bracelet with my name in pale blue letters.

      And then I saw it: a small square piece of plain white card, the type you might find in a bunch of flowers delivered to your doorstep. On one side it was blank. On the other, in thick capital letters, it said:

       SORRY.

       G

      × × ×

      The next day I stayed after school to help Peter with our chemistry homework. Tyler gave me the silent treatment all day, but I just pretended everything was fine. It was the best way to deal with Tyler. Pretend everything was all right, and pretty soon it would be.

      I didn’t really want to go home after that, so I texted Mom and told her I was still studying, then grabbed the late bus to Madison’s. I wanted to tell her about the card I’d found and the lies my mom had told.

      I pulled the hood of my coat up over my head as the mist thickened into rain. Storming down the quiet suburban road toward Madison’s house, I passed elegant mock Tudors and Pacific Northwest timber homes and dove into the dripping green pines spread out lush and thick above the ZigZag Bridge.

      The ZigZag Bridge wasn’t really a zigzag – it was only called that because the river that ran underneath it twisted back and forth until it reached Puget Sound. When I was a kid, we used to call it the Cinderella Bridge because it looked like something out of a fairy tale. The suspension cables were hung from four silver towers, two at either end, crowned by soaring spires, while the gleaming metal framework was decorated with lacy arches and ornamental railings.

      I hunched my backpack higher on my shoulders and headed over the bridge, my feet echoing loudly against the wooden slats of the pedestrian walkway. Usually I took the shortcut from my house through the woods to Madison’s instead of looping up and around, walking over a mile along the ZigZag Road. Mom had made me promise never to take the shortcut – she thought the woods were full of murderers or something – but the paved road took way too long.

      For her peace of mind, I told her I always went the long way to Madison’s. I didn’t want to lie to her or anything, but I didn’t want her worrying either. Sometimes she could be a bit overprotective. Besides, it wasn’t exactly lying. It just wasn’t the whole truth.

      I leaned on the doorbell at Madison’s house, my breath coming in short bursts until the door flew open.

      Madison’s brother, СКАЧАТЬ