“Did someone try to kill you?” my father bellowed. “Are you in protective services? I hope you’re taking this seriously and listening to authorities.”
I sat taller, scrambling for things I could admit while censoring so many others. “It’s all over. I’m safe. The murderer is dead and—”
“He’s not dead. He’s in hospital. He could get out at any moment and come and finish the job.” My mother lamented.
Dad jumped in. “We’ll send you a plane ticket. Come join us in Argentina. Get away from that place until he’s in a cell and some inmate with big arms and lots of tattoos rips him into pieces.”
The mental image of Gil being abused and killed in prison made me rub the sudden ache in my chest.
God, I hadn’t even thought about that.
What if he was killed behind bars?
What if he was found guilty and—
Gil can’t go to jail.
His personality wouldn’t survive. He’d either shut down and give up or he’d join the ranks of merciless criminals and never look back.
Or he’ll die.
I swallowed away my parent-induced panic. “I’m fine here, Dad. I don’t need to fly—”
“Are you traumatised?” Mum asked.
“No, I’m good.”
“You don’t sound good.”
“Well, I don’t know how I’m supposed to sound at two in the morning.”
“Why are you up so early?”
I held back my frustrated laugh. “You called me. Remember?”
“Humph.” Mum huffed. “Well, are you working? You’re not dancing, so where are you working?”
I gritted my teeth. They knew about my accident, but they hadn’t really understood, nor cared what the lack of dancing did to my soul. It was an open wound, and this phone call was not the time to tell them how callous such comments made me feel. “I got an admin job. It’s enough to get by.”
“Do you need more money?” Dad asked.
I balled my hands. I’d never taken money from them. Not once. Not even when I’d been in hospital with my surgery. They’d offered. Fairly regularly in fact. The guilt probably made them offer me at least something. They couldn’t provide love or companionship but they could provide cash.
“No, it’s fine. I can manage.”
“It’s not about managing, Olin; it’s about being honest if you need help,” Dad snipped. “I’ll send you something anyway. In case you’re not up for work with what happened. Shock can be delayed, you know. Don’t want you to end up homeless.”
I slouched into the couch, drained beyond belief. I was grateful for the money. Of course, I was. But I was also devalued and left with a sour taste in my mouth. “You don’t have to do that, Dad.”
“Already done.” He snorted down the line as if he’d fixed world peace. “Anything else we need to know?”
A two-minute conversation and they were ready to go back to their lives. They’d been good parents and checked on their offspring who hadn’t been murdered, they were free again.
I shook my head. “No, everything is fine.”
Fine.
Fine.
That word echoed around empty and meaningless.
“You guys all good?” I added, being the dutiful daughter.
Mum mumbled something in the background while Dad replied, “Brilliant, honey. Time of our lives.”
“I’m glad you’re having such a great adventure.”
“You too, honey,” Mum said as if completely forgetting the circumstances of why they’d called me in the first place. “Love you.”
“Love you guys, too.”
Kisses were blown down the line before they hung up, and I clutched dead air and a cell phone that judged me.
Throwing it away for the second time, I slid sideways onto the couch and closed my eyes.
Chapter Twelve
______________________________
Gil
SEVEN DAYS PASSED excruciatingly slowly.
I might not have been in prison yet, but I was trapped against my will. I wasn’t allowed to leave my room. I couldn’t care for my daughter. I had police watching my every move and listening to every doctor’s visit.
The only spots of happiness in my long, lonely days of healing were when O brought Olive to visit. Without fail, the woman who’d I’d treated so badly and done so many unforgivable things to, arrived at lunchtime with my daughter.
The first day, Olive looked tired and timid. She’d clung to O’s hand as if sleeping in a strange bed in a strange apartment had regressed her to living with Jeffrey. I’d held her close, kissed her glossy hair as she admitted that O had made her pancakes. I’d told her how jealous I was after sharing my gross hospital lunch with her, all while O made an excuse to go to the gift shop to buy me a book so boredom didn’t kill me.
I did my best to stay light-hearted and normal, asking Olive lots of questions to assess her mental health. Overall, she seemed resilient. The same adorable kid I’d been lucky enough to share my life with until a year ago.
She was older.
A little more cynical, a lot more distrusting, and wise beyond her young years, but she wasn’t too messed up from her year-long ordeal.
Thank God.
Despite her seemingly okay exterior, I did my best to pry what’d happened without asking directly, trying to determine if she truly was okay or if a psychiatrist was needed.
Olive was too like me. Too clever at hiding her real emotions behind fake ones.
If I hadn’t killed Jeffrey, I would kill him all over again for what he’d done.
Each day, I was grateful to O for bringing my child and the time alone she gave us, but I hated that, once again, I was adding more stress on her.
I wanted to talk to her.
To tell her she should leave and forget about me.
That I didn’t deserve her help.
And it fucking tore me up that she was still helping me.
After everything I’d done.
I was draining her, breaking her, taking things I wasn’t allowed to take.
It didn’t matter that I loved her.
That now I had Olive safe, my heart no longer felt guilty for wanting her. All I could think about was the closeness we’d once shared, the ease between us, and the intensity of connection.
I’d always loved her.
I would continue to love her.
And that was why she had to get as far away from me as she could because I couldn’t offer her what she deserved. Olive and I were just another accident that O had to heal from and move onto better things.
By the end of the week and seven visits of O and Olive, my body had healed enough that the painkillers had been reduced. My stitched together side no longer stabbed me each time I took a breath, and my desire to escape the hospital became undeniable.
I still hadn’t been able to talk to O alone. Olive was always by my side, listening to every word O and I said to one another. My desire to set O free dwindled with every hour we spent together because how was I supposed to say goodbye to her? How was I supposed to face what I was about to face without her?
But how could I keep her after everything that I’d done?
My heart waged war against itself, wanting to be selfish all while knowing it had to do the right thing.