Chapter 4
THREE YEARS LATER
“Shh, it’s okay, sweetie.”
The baby girl in my arms settles as I rock her gently.
She’s only ten days old.
A newborn.
She doesn’t know what this world is like just yet, but sadly, she’s been introduced to the horrors by being dumped on the doorstep of Saint Carmichael’s Orphanage by her mother, who remains unknown.
Cruel, but life isn’t like it is in the movies.
There always seems to be a happy ending for those beloved fictional characters. But in real life, there is more bad than good, and a happily ever after isn’t on the cards for most.
We merely survive as best we can, and if we get a HEA, then we’re one of the lucky ones…like me. I consider myself one of the lucky ones because I got out.
I could have been a statistic, but instead, I chose to be a survivor.
That night changed my life forever.
My fear of cars was gone because once upon a time, a car took everything from me—my parents, my childhood—but that night, it brought me back to life and gave me a lifeline to start again.
I drove and drove until my eyelids grew heavy, and I needed to stop. I pulled into a run-down motel in the middle of nowhere and slept for two days. I was beyond exhausted—mind, body, and soul.
Once I woke, the extent of my injuries had come into full bloom. If I went to the police, there would be no question that I was assaulted. But that wasn’t the question I was concerned about.
I didn’t want to deal with the hours of questioning, the police attempting to pick apart what happened in hopes I would slip up and admit that it was all my fault.
I wasn’t welcome in Hollow Banks.
I was a freak.
An outsider.
An orphan.
No one would believe that what happened wasn’t my fault. I would be blamed, and the boys would merely get a slap on the wrist.
That’s why I never went back.
Once I was well enough, I got back into the car and continued to drive.
I was hoping to find some evidence in the car about who the boys were. But I didn’t find anything of use. Just a Zippo lighter with the initials “L11” engraved in it. I had that and the name Legs, which one of the fuckers let slip.
Other than that, nothing.
I expected time to bring healing and reflection, but it didn’t. I stayed numb.
I traded in the car at some dubious backyard shop before it was reported as stolen.
They were happy to turn a blind eye and not ask questions.
I had no resources to research the license plate and who the owner may be.
So I bought myself another car. Nothing flashy.
Just a car that would blend in with the others like it.
I had no real direction in mind.
I just drove.
I visited small towns briefly and left before staying too long.
I did this for months.
I never got lonely or bored.
I was never homesick for any place.
But I was homesick for a person.
Dandy.
He was my best friend, and it killed me to leave the way I did. But it was better this way. He could remember me as the young, innocent girl. Not the damaged woman who drove off into the night and never looked back.
I like to think that I did him a favor because if I stayed, he’d be the one to pick up the pieces. But I was shattered into a million tiny shards. I don’t think I’d ever be able to be put back together again.
It was better this way.
I was finally happy.
I was free.
I remember things changed for me, however.
It was Christmas Eve, and most places were closed. Most were home with family and friends. I wasn’t upset about being alone. After that night in the woods, not a lot of things upset me. I was numb to things previous. But after, I didn’t feel a thing.
However, I saw a young woman sitting at a bus shelter, a baby in her arms. I don’t know what possessed me, but I pulled over and asked if she needed a lift anywhere. She agreed and got into my car.
We made small talk, but it was evident she was desperate for her next fix. She asked me to drop her off at a convenience store so she could use the ATM. When she handed me her baby, something felt wrong.
But I held that baby for five, ten minutes.
When fifteen minutes had gone by, I entered the store, baby sound asleep in my arms. I asked the clerk where the woman was. He said she’d left via a back door.
But that was impossible.
I had her baby.
I couldn’t call the police for obvious reasons and had nowhere to go.
But I couldn’t abandon the little girl.
I bought a laundry basket and a blanket and drove around with that baby for hours. With the Christmas lights twinkling and the church bells tolling, it felt as if I was like Mary and Joseph, looking for an inn for them and their child.
I had my own baby Jesus.
In the end, I drove to an orphanage run by the church in hopes there was a number I could call.
I wouldn’t drop her on the doorstep, so I decided that, if I got into trouble, well, so be it.
I was all she had in this world, and I wouldn’t allow the beginning of her life to follow the path of a grim tale.
I rang the doorbell, and when I saw a sister appear, I gulped down my fear. I told her what had happened, and I could see the skepticism in her eyes. She believed I was the girl’s mother. I didn’t take offense because anyone would have thought the same thing.
Sister Gayle welcomed us in, and I’ve stayed here ever since.
Was this divine intervention? If I believed in God, it would be hard to ignore. Finding a baby on Christmas Eve, and she, in turn, ends up being your salvation.
But I don’t believe in anything I can’t touch or see.
Ironic, seeing as I work at Saint Carmichael’s Orphanage—a catholic establishment with priests and sisters.
But my lack of faith doesn’t stop me from caring for the children. I understand what it’s like to be an orphan. I can relate to these kids because I am them.
I’m now nineteen years old, and people call me Olivia. Liv for short.
Hallie was too unique, and I just wanted to blend in.
I never left Texas.
I am twelve or so hours away from Hollow Banks, and the town of Flat Planes is where I call home.
To start over, I chose to let go of my past, leaving behind painful memories of Rebecca and her group of mean girls, and my aunt and uncle, who never felt like family.
The orphanage allows me to stay here. I pay board for a simple room and a shared bathroom. But I don’t need much. Staying here allows me to remain hidden because I only leave when I must. The church pays me minimum wage, but it’s more than enough.
All the kids are orphans for various reasons, ranging in age from newborns to ten-year-olds. They dream that they’ll be adopted out, and most are, like baby Kelly, my Christmas miracle, who was adopted by a loving family.
Although this is an orphanage, the term carries a stigma. I see it as a school for kids who didn’t have a conventional start to life. But this is their chance to change that.
I feel connected to them.
Who knew I was good with kids?
Sasha finally settles, so I gently place her into the crib.
Today is Saturday, which means it’s adoption day.
The babies are usually viewed by appointment only because the sisters try to encourage people to consider the older children, who are often overlooked.
At the moment, we have twelve children in our care.
How they came to be here varied.
Some were given up for adoption by teenage moms who couldn’t look after a child, while others, their parents had died of an overdose. This was the most common reason. All in all, these kids may not have had the best start in life, but now, they’re in the right place.
Saint Carmichael’s Orphanage doesn’t have a corrupt priest or cruel sisters. Nor is it a guise for something sinister. It doesn’t exploit people or money. It is an above-board establishment that doesn’t hide any secrets.
It almost has me believing that God and good people do exist.
Almost…
“Morning, Olivia,” says Sister Tay. “I see that you’ve already tended to the babies. Thank you.”
Thankfully, we only have three newborns with us. It breaks my heart when there are more. These innocent children didn’t do anything to deserve this. But life sometimes just doesn’t give a fuck.
“My pleasure. Do you need any help with the older kids?”
The sisters help the older children pick out their clothes and get ready for their big day. It’s bittersweet. I’m overjoyed when they get adopted, but a part of me is sad to say goodbye. I’ve never really had anything to call my own. So these kids are the closest thing to that.
Perhaps I am not totally dead inside.
Thinking back to the night that changed my life and how I often replay the squelching of running that fucker over with nothing but pleasure, I know that I am forever damaged goods.
I should feel some sort of remorse.
But I don’t.
Perhaps that’s why I stay here.
Perhaps being in this holy place, a part of me believes I’ll be absolved of my sins. Perhaps I believe that by doing good, I can erase the bad.
But deep down, I know that isn’t possible for a sinner like me.
I sought help and found it…in my own way.
I found it when I found…her.
Before her, the blackouts I experienced after the night in the woods were plentiful. But with her, they were few.
There is a darkness eating away at me, and the only way I can expel it is by doing immoral things.
Once, the pain etched into my palms by my fingernails was enough of a release. As I got older, Dandy suggested an elastic band around my wrist. But now, I seek out carnal delights to appease my inner demons that crave a bloodstained kiss.
What happened to me out in the woods flicked a switch, and now, it’s permanently stuck. My light was on, but now, now it’s perpetual darkness. I tried to resist the temptations that linger in the gallows, but in the end, it was too strong.
But I didn’t really fight it because I didn’t want to.
So, by day, I work here at the orphanage.
But come dusk, Olivia gives way to Hallie because she never really left.
I do the things I do come nightfall because no one sees a shadow in the dark.
And that’s what I am.