Chapter 5 Olivia
“I’ll be honest. I’ve never seen a case like this.”
I shift uncomfortably in the creaky leather chair in the doctor’s large office.
The gray sweatshirt and sweatpants Marcus had handed me from the hospital’s spare clothing stash are hot and oversized.
“You’ll still look great in them,” he’d reassured me, generously.
He’d given me some shampoo and conditioner so I could wash my hair in the shower room.
It was the only highlight of an otherwise very bleak day — the darkest of my life, despite the bright sunshine outside my big window.
A day spent lying in that hospital bed, staring out over Wilmington and the river, the sun sparkling on the water.
Wondering where Jake might be, among that view.
He works at some private law firm downtown, they’d said.
The doctor performing my psych evaluation, Dr. Stephens, clicks the end of his pen, his barrage of questions apparently over.
“I’ve discussed it with colleagues. None of us has ever seen a case of amnesia combined with a personality disorder that results in a patient believing they are somebody else — somebody who exists in reality, or once existed.
Fascinating.” He examines me like I’m a specimen.
“We think it might be a multiple personality disorder,” he continues, “potentially one you’ve been living with for a long time.
Somehow the trauma of your recent accident has gotten you stuck in a false version of your identity.
One thing I feel sure of is that you believe you are telling me your truth — there’s nothing to indicate otherwise. Hmm.” He clicks his pen again.
“Maybe you were friends with Liv Grainger as a child, and the tragedy of her death stayed with you in ways you never dealt with, so you adopted a version of her as part of your split personality. However, until we know who you really are, we can’t source your medical records to figure that out . . .”
I tune him out. My appointment in the behavioral health building today was something I’d been dreading, but at least I’m out of the ward.
At least I’m talking to somebody new. It’s only been a few days, and already I feel imprisoned by these hospital walls.
Already sick of the food. Already wary of anybody in authority.
But also, already terrified of what may lie beyond these walls.
Already institutionalized.
“—You’re getting your DNA swab and fingerprints today, right?” Dr. Stephens is asking. “Perhaps that will help our identity problem.”
Our identity problem? I nod, a sullen teenager. I know who I am.
The doctor raises his eyebrows. “Well, I’ll write this up, but I’ll need to keep monitoring you for any changes. If you do have multiple personality disorder, we can hope you’ll . . . switch back and give us some clarity.”
I purse my lips. “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stay here and keep having these appointments. Apparently, in this nightmare version of reality, I don’t have any health insurance.”
Dr. Stephens tilts his head, clicking his pen again. “That’s interesting. You didn’t mention that earlier. The idea of this being a ‘nightmare version of reality.’ Is that how you feel about your situation?”
I laugh, humorlessly. “Sure. One minute I’m Liv Grainger, happy, engaged, successful in business, loved by my family and friends, safe, financially secure .
. . The next moment, I’m in a world that doesn’t want me, accused of being an identity thief, and the people I love most say they don’t know me, apart from as a child who is supposedly dead. ”
My throat thickens.
“I have literally nothing in this world. I don’t even know how I’m going to eat, once I’m no longer being handed this hospital food.
I’m wearing a stranger’s clothes. I’m not an official refugee, or in any kind of social group that would entitle me to go to a specific charity for help.
If I have to leave this hospital, I’m a panhandler on a street corner.
” My voice hitches and I stop, trying not to cry.
Again. “Yes, this is absolutely a nightmare version of reality.”
The doctor makes more notes, nodding, his brow furrowed.
He seems both fascinated by me and detached.
The wedding ring on his left hand glints, taunting me.
Tonight, Dr. Stephens will go home to his spouse and talk about what an interesting case he is working on.
My desperate situation makes his life better, gives him something to share with his loved one over a glass of wine. He will sleep soundly tonight.
I may never sleep soundly again.
“Do you think this is a different version of reality than the one in which you are Liv Grainger?” Dr. Stephens asks. Click. Click. “Some kind of parallel universe, or alternate timeline?”
The silver birch tree outside his window ripples in a gentle breeze. I huff, more at the tree’s innocent beauty than at the doctor. “That would be crazy. It’s impossible. And I’m not crazy.”
The doctor puts his notepad and pen down. “Of course. Well, thank you for sharing with me today, Olivia. I’ll file this report and Dr. Connor will let you know when your follow-up will be.” We both rise and I follow him to the door. He pauses as I step through.
“Have a good rest.”
“Thank you, doctor. And thank you for calling me Olivia. You’re the first person to do that.”
He nods, closing the door behind me.
I can’t go back to my bed, not just yet.
Now that I’m finally dressed, I can wander around the grounds.
I step out of the building’s main doors and take a left along the green space that divides it from the main hospital building.
There’s a shady area with benches, where I sit for the sake of sitting, wishing I had a book or my phone or something to take my mind off this terrible reality I’m in.
In this world, I don’t own a single book.
The breeze blows my hair across my face, and I brush it back with my hands, twisting it over my shoulder.
Or a hair tie. Not even a piece of elastic.
I let out a breath, shaking myself out of it. The list of what I don’t have could go on forever, and the woe-is-me, I-have-nothing attitude is getting old fast. I have to figure out how to fix this.
In the meantime, the brown-eyed police detective and his sidekick are coming back this afternoon to take my fingerprints, after which Dr. Connor is going to take a cheek swab for a DNA test that Detective Banks requisitioned.
Maybe the fingerprints or DNA test will help prove my identity.
And as for reading, I’ll bet there’s a hospital library somewhere.
One step at a time.
I get up and wander back into the main building, wandering aimlessly down the corridors on my way back to my room. There’s a gift shop — which I can’t buy anything at — and a café, the smells of which make me hungry. I’d kill for a croissant.
I check the wall clock. 2:43 p.m. Nearly time for the cookie round.
They might not leave them if I’m not in my room, so I scurry along the corridors and up three flights of stairs.
I’m back in bed, and in my hospital-issue gown, before my cellophane packet of chocolate chip cookies arrives.
Craving the comfort of sugar, I devour them in seconds, bereft when the last crumbs are gone.
Detective Banks and Officer Phelps show up at my room a half-hour later, taking their previous seats at my bedside.
“How are you holding up?” Detective Banks asks, a kind smile in his eyes. “You’re looking a little brighter.”
“I washed my hair, thank goodness. That’s probably the difference.” I make an effort to smile back. “And I had my psych eval today. That went fine. Except the doctor has no idea what’s wrong with me. But hopefully all this,” I wave my hands about, “can help us figure it out.”
He nods. “Okay, then. Gary,” he turns to the young officer, who reaches into his bag and takes out an ink pad, a card with ten empty boxes, and a swab kit.
“So, there’s nothing to worry about. Gary’s just going to ink each of your fingers and thumbs.
Then you’ll press them down into the boxes on this card, okay?
And we’ll swab your cheek for DNA. Then our team runs the results to see if you’re already in the database.
In case you’re someone that police have come across before. ”
“I see. That makes sense.”
The detective turns to his younger officer. “Start with this one.”
Officer Phelps guides my hand with his own, gently pressing each of the pads of my fingers and thumbs onto the inky sponge tray, before maneuvering each one to his fingerprint card.
He gives me a wet wipe to help remove some of the ink, then asks me to open wide as he swabs the inside of my cheek with a large cotton bud.
“All done.” Officer Phelps places the swab in a clear tube and seals it.
Detective Banks nods his approval and turns back to me. “The fingerprints will be analyzed in the next twenty-four hours. And the DNA sample will be sent directly to the lab, and they’ll have a pattern for us to check against records in a couple of days.”
I try not to feel despondent. I’ve never been arrested, or even hospitalized. And how else would I be in the system? But I can’t think about that now.
I attempt to smile, but it feels more like a grimace. “What about my parents? Have they agreed to take a DNA test?”
“We asked them if they’d consider it. No decision yet.
” Detective Banks rises from his chair, and his young charge follows.
“We’ll keep you posted, I promise.” He lays his hand on my bare arm, and my skin prickles.
He looks directly into my eyes, hesitating a moment.
“Just hang in there. And try to stay positive. We’ll figure it out. It’s just taking a while, is all.”
I do a better job of smiling this time. “Thanks, Detective. Both of you.” I nod at the other officer. “I appreciate the help.”
“You’re welcome, Liv,” Detective Banks replies. He hurries to catch up with his trainee, who’s already walking away.
Liv.
He called me Liv.
Maybe he believes me.