Olivia Carter
I’m sitting in a black sedan sandwiched between Uncle Preston and Aunt Victoria as part of the funeral procession making our way to St. Bartholomew’s Episcopal Parish located on the east side of Park Avenue between 50th and 51st Street in midtown Manhattan where Ava’s funeral is being held.
As we make our way past the long line of Forrester-Paynes standing in a dignified line outside the cathedral, we all nod to each other, acknowledging why we are here, but no one touches anyone. The only person who is struggling to hold it together is Asher Forrester Payne, her cousin, who is openly crying, his face swollen and red, his body shaking, much to the disdain of everyone else, given the looks he keeps getting from those around him. I want to just go up and put my arms around him, but Uncle Preston guides me along, gently past him and into the church.
I startle as I see a giant gilt edged photograph of Ava. She looks absolutely beautiful, ethereal even, her smile lighting up the cathedral like a giant sunbeam. I don’t remember her looking like that and feel guilty at the thought.
As we make our way in lines to the pews lining the cathedral, I hear a voice that pierces my spine like a thousand small razors and cuts right through the core of me. I stumble, causing Preston to stop and Aunt Victoria to run into my back.
“Olivia dear, what’s wrong?” says Aunt Victoria in that gentle voice of hers, her hand on my shoulder as my throat is starting to close over.
I manage to gasp out the name Lucien Borgia and then in slow motion the man in front of me turns around, a leering smile spreading across his face. “Speak of the devil and he doth appear,” he says.
I’m running and running again just like I’ve always done except I don’t how long Ive been running for. I catch a glimpse of myself in a shop window, the rip in my pantyhose and bleeding gash in my knee from where I’ve fallen over in my heels makes me flinch as it catches my eye. I’m wearing a black shift dress and matching jacket. Oh yes … Ava’s funeral.
Something buzzes in my handbag breaking my gaze from the window and when I reach into it and pull out my phone I see that I have 32 missed calls.
My eyes close, letting the pain I’ve felt searing through me since I saw Lucien Borgia again overwhelm me. All I see are his black eyes gleaming at me. It’s way too much for me. I pause before I walk into a bar. I only know one way to deal with this.
Don’t do it, Olivia
, a voice says inside me. It sounds like Gillian.
I sit myself down on a barstool, a solitary tear falling onto the wooden bar as I blink. I put my handbag down on the floor, raising my hand, clicking my fingers trying to get the attention of the bartender.
The continuous buzzing sound of my phone is drowned out by the sad lament of Toni Braxton singing
Unbreak My Heart
at full volume in the bar. As if on cue, she’s singing it to me, adding exquisite agony to my pain.
The burn of the neat whiskey hitting the back of my throat makes me choke and splutter. My bloodshot eyes water as I wince in reactive pain at my attempt to knock back my first since sobriety.
Stop, Olivia
, says Gillian again.
Sitting in a bar somewhere in midtown, alone. Misery doesn’t like company I think to myself. Well, not unless it’s in powder form or alcohol. I smile to myself wryly at just how easy it has been to slip down the path from virtue and sobriety. Somehow this makes me feel sad again.
I reach for my bag to pull out some money for another drink when my phone rattles again. I pick it up and answer it without thinking, the first whiskey already having an over pronounced effect.
“Jesus, Olivia, where are you. Everyone is out looking for you. Thank God, I’ve got hold of you.”
“G-Gabriel?”
“Yes, Olivia, it’s Gabriel. Now tell me where you are please so I can come and get you. It’s going to be okay.”
“I’m in a bar, Gabriel. How did you get my number? I’m sorry,” I say, slurring slightly.
“Shit. Have you been drinking?” he asks angrily.
I don’t answer. His breathing is jagged and heavy on the line.
“Are you still there, Olivia? Please just tell me where you are so I can come and get you. I’m worried about you. We all are.”
The anguish in his voice makes me feel like hanging up.
“I don’t know where I am, Gabe.” I sigh as I signal over to the bartender to repeat my last order and he nods at me in acknowledgement.
“Just pick up some matches and read out the address, Olivia, please,” he pleads.
It makes my chest feel tight and my conscience sting with guilt at my transgression.
“Okey dokey, here we go. Waxy’s Bar at 401 West 43
rd
.” Before I can say anything else the line has already gone dead, so I drop my phone back in my bag.
I play with the tumbler of whiskey in front of me, dipping my finger in and out of the rusty colored liquid rubbing it around my gums, to prepare my palate, avoiding the choking episode that I’d previously endured. I’m finally summoning the courage to pick up the glass tumbler, swilling the liquor around in a small mesmerising whirlpool, lifting it up towards my mouth when another hand appears, stopping it from getting any closer to my mouth.
“What the fuck?”
“Not so fast, missy.”
I swivel around to meet eyes blazing blue with fury.
Those eyes, that hair. Just like Justin Timberlake, as Gillian said.
“Hi, Olivia,” he says, and the harshness in his voice and eyes is gone, replaced by something a lot softer as he looks into my eyes, puts the glass down on the bar and takes out a twenty dollar bill to leave on the bar.
“Let’s get you out of this shit hole, Olivia and back home.”
I’ve never heard him swear before and flinch at the harshness of his words.
He hails a yellow cab and I clamber in before him as he gives the directions to the Turkish driver for The Gansvoort. We sit in awkward silence beside each other, his breathing harsh and labored so I play with my fingers, intertwining them to distract myself from his uneasiness. He puts his hand on my hands to stop me, stroking my hands. I lean into him and he crumbles, putting his big strong arm around me, pulling me close into him, kissing my head and whispering into my hair.
“You really scared me, Olivia. I couldn’t think straight. Please don’t ever do that again.” His voice trails off with emotion.
“But you don’t even know what happened, Gabriel.”
“Oh, we’ll talk all right, Olivia, but not right now in the back of this cab with you smelling like a brewery.”
He’s annoyed again, his mouth in a grim line.
Oh, I forgot about the whiskey so I just nuzzle into his armpit like a naughty puppy.
“I feel a bit sick, Gabriel,” I say as the yellow cab drives in, over and on top of every Manhattan bump at deathly speed.
He looks at me appalled and I try to suppress a smile.
“You think this is funny, Olivia?”
“No.”
“How much did you have to drink?”
“I thought we weren’t talking in the back of this cab,” I say petulantly.
“Pleasure to meet you,” says Gabriel sarcastically.
“Sorry?” I say. His wit is way over my head.
“I guess this is the Olivia I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet. That’s all,” he says triumphantly.
“Whatever.” My stomach is starting to gripe.
I guess this is our first fight and it’s all my fault, I think despondently.
The cab hits a huge bump and my stomach’s contents lurch up into my throat, leaving a pungent burning sensation in my mouth and causing me to grimace.
“Are you okay?” Gabriel’s eyeing me worriedly as he rubs my back. “Rest your head between your legs. We’ll be home soon.” He rubs my arms, attempting to comfort me.
Home. It sounds so lovely, safe and familiar. I can’t remember anyone telling me I was going home before and tears start to prick my eyes.
The cab screeches to a halt and I scramble out as fast as I can before the whiskey, mixed in with the rest of my stomach contents, hits the sidewalk outside The Gansvoort at full speed, leaving an orange colored mark that resembles a spatter painting.
“Breathe,” says Gabriel as I dry heave.
“I think I’m going to pass out, Gabe,” I say, feeling sorry for myself as I feel my skin prickling on the back of my neck and my legs starting to shake.
He scoops me up effortlessly, Carmichael style, and carries me into the lobby where I hide my face in his jacket in shame at the mess I’ve made outside, unable to face Joe the Conciege.
He whispers into my hair as he holds me close in the elevator and puts me down momentarily just outside the front door so he can open it. I wobble unsteadily into the apartment, the stark white hurting my eyes and making me feel remorseful for some reason.
“Sit, you need some water,” says Gabriel as he heads into the kitchen and opens a cupboard door to get a tall, clear glass.
“I saw him, Gabriel.”
“What? You saw who, Olivia?” he asks aggressively, his eyes fiery again.
“Lucien. Lucien Borgia at the funeral. That’s why I ran.” I collapse into a sobbing, gasping heap onto the white sofa.
His arms are around me and he’s holding me tightly. I feel I’ve never been held like this before and it caresses my very core, making me feel safe again.
He’s rocking me back and forth while kissing the nape of my neck as I sit all curled up in a ball in his lap. The rocking motion takes the sharpness of the pain away.
“Hush, Olivia. I’m here. You are safe here. I won’t let anything happen to you. I should have been there. I’m so sorry.”
I must have fallen asleep because I awaken and lift my head from the sofa where it has left an indentation. My head feels fuzzy and he’s stroking my hair and gazing at me. My mouth feels as dry as sandpaper and my throat hurts from the retching.
“How are you doing?”
I wrinkle my nose as I become aware of a throbbing in my temples and the need to scourge myself of the alcohol. I’m still feeling uneasy at having been let off so lightly.
“I don’t understand what you’re doing here, Gabriel.”
“Well, when I left Cedars, I took up an offer of a job here in Manhattan and then when you ran today, your uncle called my dad, who called me.”
“So you suddenly care now?”
“It’s not like that, Olivia.”
“Why don’t you tell me exactly what it is like then?”
“You seem angry and I understand that.”
“Oh screw your stupid therapy mumbo-jumbo. You are not my therapist. Your dad is. Of course I’m fucking angry.”
The tears are welling up behind my eyes and I have no control over them or anything. He walks up to me and holds me, stroking my hair, allowing the anger to dissipate, his eyes not leaving mine once.
He finally lets me go and walks into the kitchen. “You need these inside you to warm you. Eat and drink up.”
The hot tea is so comforting to my aching throat that I sip it greedily.
“Whoa, take it easy.” He smiles that lopsided grin of his.
“How much did you have to drink?” he asks, throwing me off track so that I nearly choke on the toast that I’m chewing.
“I told you already, two or three whiskeys.”
“Did you do any drugs?” I can feel his eyes boring into me.
“No, Gabriel, I did not. I just panicked and went to the first bar that I stopped at and I’m disappointed in myself.”
“It’s been a hard day and you’re exhausted. I’ll tuck you in and wait until you fall asleep.”
“No, please, just stay.”
“Olivia, I …”
“Just stay and hold me.”
I watch as he kicks off his black suede Oxfords and climbs in beside me, his arms wrapping themselves around me.
I close my eyes, but I see Lucien’s black eyes boring into me. But I’m too weary to fight the images, so I submit to the darkness and fall into a deep and disturbing sleep.
Olivia Carter
Light seeps through the heavy curtains, leaving a splice of light on the carpet. I turn over and see tired blue eyes staring right through me.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I say shyly back. Gabriel had stayed the night and was sitting on the floor opposite the bed fully clothed.
“You were out for the count, young lady.”
“Hmm, I felt safe.”
He looks uncomfortable. “I guess we need to talk?”
“I guess.”
“I’ll get us both some tea.” He stands up and makes his way through to the kitchen.
He comes back and gets his wallet out of his jacket pocket, taking out something that looks like a business card. I take it and run my fingers over the embossed writing.
It says:
Gabriel M. Carmichael, M.D. (Thoracic & Cardiac Surgery)
Hospital: Morgan Stanley Children’s Hospital of NewYork Presbyterian, NY
NewYork Presbyterian/Weill Cornell Medical Center, NY
City, State: New York, NY
Phone: 212-746-5014
Board Cert: Thoracic & Cardiac Surgery 2007
“So I thought we should talk about a few things, starting off with what actually happened yesterday. Do you want to walk me through it?”
“Are you for real?” I slam my tea on the bedside table so that it spills out of the edges of the cup.
His eyes register bewilderment at my sudden rage. “Well, you’ve clearly got issues that aren’t resolved and they’re leaving you vulnerable to your old ways. I thought I could help.”
“I’m glad that at least I know that you’re some cardio-whatever here in Manhattan. I guess that I must be lucky, huh?”
“Okay so you’re still angry about the way that I left Cedars? I get that.”
“I’m glad that you get something, Gabriel, because I just don’t. What happens from here?”
“With what?”
“With us?”
“Oh, Olivia. I’m no good for you. I … We … can’t. I’ve abused your trust. It’s not right.”
“So, you don’t deny that you feel something then?”
“I don’t deny anything, but I want to help you sort your life out and support you in becoming the amazing person that I know you can be. Please let me in and let’s see what happens?”
“But it’s so stupid and unfair. All these stupid rules just because you were a doctor when I went to rehab. You’re not my doctor anymore. Besides I’m going to be eighteen soon.”
“Stop scowling. It doesn’t suit you. I don’t disagree with anything you’ve said, but I think that there are other issues that take priority, certainly at the moment.”
“Like what, exactly?”
“Like you running away at Ava’s funeral, like you ending up in a bar, like how you are going to deal with running into Lucien if you’re not going to the police about what happened.”
“I told you already, I’m not going to the police about anything. You don’t understand anything anyway.”
“Aw, come on, don’t be like this. Have you even processed that Ava died of a drug overdose?”
I start throwing off the covers from the bed, as they suddenly seem to be suffocating me, “I don’t need to listen to this.” I jump down from the bed and head towards the bathroom.
“Let’s not fight. I do care, Olivia, and that’s why I’m here. I need you to be okay, to be safe. Can’t you see that?”
I’m standing with my back to Gabriel, but the sincerity and vulnerability in his voice makes me turn around. I do realize that he is risking everything by just being here, so begrudgingly I decide to accept his friendship as being good enough for the time being. I walk into his arms and close my eyes as he holds me for what feels like an eternity before removing myself from his grasp, startling him.
“You’re right, I need to come face to face with Lucien.”
“I’ll come with you. Nothing will harm you, I promise you that.” His eyes harden.
“No, Gabriel. Despite what he did, he did care about me once. He was my only friend when I first came to Manhattan when everyone else used to turn their noses up at me. He won’t hurt me.”
“Are you kidding me? Won’t hurt you? The animal raped you for crissakes.”
“Please just let me sort this out? I need to.”
“Yeah, well I don’t like this one bit, Olivia.”
“Let’s make a deal, you let me do this and you can take me to my first AA meeting?”
“You’re supposed to be going there anyway. It’s hardly much of a deal.”
“Well, I’m going to sort this out whatever you say anyway so it would good to know I have your support.”
“I need to be nearby somewhere when you decide to do this. Do you promise?”
“I promise,” I say, not really having any idea of what I have agreed to do.