Chapter 6 Olivia
I lift my feet onto the window ledge, sitting back, examining cloud formations and the constantly shifting shadows they cast over the city.
The book I’m reading from the hospital library is a fun, chick-lit read — the kind I like — but today it sits unopened on my lap.
It doesn’t suit my dark mood. I should probably take this time to read War and Peace or something else serious, depicting troubled times.
It’s too hard to read about beautiful people falling in love right now — their beach houses, their jobs, their cars, their fancy dinners.
These people aren’t even real, yet I’m desperately jealous of them. They feel more real than I am.
I’m a non-person. An anomaly. A glitch in the Matrix.
I’ve been spending most of my time sitting at the window these past days.
I refuse to lie in bed — I may be stuck in hospital indefinitely, but I’m not sick.
Marcus found me a much better-fitting pair of jeans and a faded Whitesnake T-shirt yesterday, along with a battered pair of ballet flats.
They are tight, but at least better than the flip-flops I wore to my psych eval.
I’ve created a little routine of sorts — showering before breakfast, spending the morning journaling my thoughts with a notepad and the plastic Bic pen Marcus provided, followed by a walk in the hospital grounds after lunch, and an attempt at reading before dinner.
That has been thrown off by this morning’s news.
It was delivered by Marcus after a call from Detective Banks, saying my DNA results had come in, and there was no trace of me in the system.
Of course, this is no surprise to me. Why would my DNA be in their database?
In this world, I died when I was twelve.
But at least the police know I’m not some registered criminal trying to pull a scam, I suppose. Although I could still be a criminal, just one not in their system.
My only hope is that Mom and Dad agree to a DNA test to compare mine against. Although, I’m terrified of that too.
What if it comes back and we don’t match?
What if I’m not who I think I am, after all?
What if I really am an unidentifiable amnesiac with multiple personality disorder?
My gaze is fixated on the distant converted warehouse office building Jake works in — at least in my world.
But I don’t see it. I only see me, as if from above, sitting day after day in an institution like this one, only with more bars.
Fading away in a state-run psychiatric hospital filled with other impoverished, mentally disturbed people.
Or living on the street, eating at soup kitchens, and begging for change.
Yep, things are not looking great for me right now.
I turn back to my novel. I’ve got to distract myself, even if it’s with these sickeningly fabulous characters and their lobster dinners.
I’ve barely made it a few sentences when some heavy footsteps alert me to Marcus’s presence. It’s not his usual time. I turn and smile in a way that I hope passes as cheerful.
Marcus pushes aside the curtain by my bed. It’s hard to read his expression. “You have visitors.”
My smile drops and my jaw slackens as I take in the people stepping tentatively into my space.
Mom and Dad, followed closely by Detective Banks and Officer Phelps.
I emit something between a cry and a yelp, my face crumbling as Mom’s eyes widen, her mouth opening in shock.
“Mom,” I manage, my voice breaking. “Dad. You came.” I stand, trying to greet them, but my legs are unsteady and I have to lean on the bed.
Mom doesn’t look the same as when I last saw her, less than a week ago.
She’s let her hair go fully gray, as if she didn’t have me around to encourage her when she wanted to dye it, and it’s shorter and finer than before.
She looks older, thinner, seemingly even more petite.
Dad, on the other hand, tall and usually lean, has put on weight.
They don’t make a move to hug me. Dad’s brow is deeply furrowed, while Mom looks like . . . well, like she’s just seen her dead daughter rise from the grave. She’s ashen-faced, staring at me.
Marcus pulls two plastic chairs forward, and turns my leather chair to face them.
He guides me back down into my seat, his hand supporting my arm.
Detective Banks does the same for Mom, who has been frozen in place.
The detective steps to the side, standing with his young colleague, as Marcus stands beside me.
Our official chaperones to this bizarre meeting.
Detective Banks turns to me. “Mr. and Mrs. Grainger decided they wanted to come meet you, to see you for themselves. I hope that’s okay with you.”
I nod, my tongue too solid in my mouth.
Mom is leaning toward me, her eyes reddening, the lashes damp. Dad sits beside her, his face stern, jaw set hard.
He speaks first, in a flat monotone that sounds so different from his usual warm, engaging voice.
“Okay, then. You say you are our daughter, Olivia. But you also know we lost her when she was twelve. So, who are you? And why are you pretending to be Livvie?”
I shake my head, a tear escaping down my cheek.
“I don’t know how to explain it.” My voice is thick.
“I know I am your daughter. I’m Liv Grainger.
I’m twenty-eight, and I live with Jake Johnson, who is my fiancé, and we have dinner with you at your house in Landfall every Sunday.
I’m very close with you, with Charlotte, too.
In my . . . version of events, I didn’t die at twelve.
I lived. And we’re happy. We love each other—” That last bit does it, and I have to stop, my eyes filling with tears.
Marcus hands me a tissue from the side of the bed.
Mom is sitting even further forward, her hands on her lap almost reaching my knee.
She speaks at last. “You look just like our Livvie,” she mutters, almost to herself.
“Just like she’d be now, if she’d grown up to be a woman.
And a lot like Charlotte, only taller. We always knew Livvie would have been tall. Just like you, Burt.”
“I am her, Mom. I am. I’m not lying.”
I lean forward, taking her hands in mine. Her fingers are cold. I search her face for some glimmer of recognition.
“Look at me. Don’t you know me? I don’t just look like her, I am her.
You know it.” I lift one finger to my left eyebrow.
“See this scar here? Remember? That’s from when I was ten and Jake was chasing me round the Johnsons’ glass coffee table.
I slipped and hit my face. There was so much blood.
Jake’s dad had to take me to the ER. You were so mad at him, remember? For not stopping us running around.”
Mom’s face crumples, tears welling up. “I remember . . . I remember.”
“And these moles on my arms,” I continue, encouraged, “when I was — oh, about eight, we connected them with a pen and this one was like the Big Dipper? But we didn’t realize the pen was a permanent marker so I had arm constellations for weeks.”
Mom is nodding, crying hard now.
“How could I know all this, if I’m not really her?” I continue, squeezing her hand. “I can tell you a thousand things from my childhood that you’ll remember. Why would I even lie about this? I know how impossible it sounds.”
“To scam us out of our money, that’s why,” Dad interjects, his voice cold.
“A good con artist does their research, and preys on people who are wealthy — and vulnerable, like someone grieving. And yes, we’re still grieving our daughter, even after sixteen years.
Our daughter is dead. I held her lifeless body in my arms.” His voice breaks slightly but he carries on, his expression resolute.
“We buried her.” He takes Mom’s other hand.
“You’re either delusional or a liar — there’s no other option. ”
I let out a breath. “I get it. I know that’s what makes sense.
But I’m telling you, there’s another option.
One we can’t understand. One that seems totally impossible, yet true.
There has to be. Me being alive in this — this, well, other timeline where you lost me as a child, that’s the third option.
You always said, didn’t you, there are things .
. . what’s that quote? Something like, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth . . . than can be dreamt of—’ something. Right?”
“‘Dreamt of in your philosophy.’ Hamlet to Horatio,” Dad huffs.
“Burt.” Mom’s voice is small. “Just look at her. Look. It’s her. It couldn’t be anyone else.”
Dad crosses his arms, turning away.
Mom’s grip on my hand tightens. “Detective Banks said you’ve had a DNA swab taken. You want us to have one too, is that right? To prove you’re our daughter?”
I glance up at Detective Banks, who is staring at me. He blinks and looks away, as if waking from a dream, then nods.
“Will you do it?” I ask Mum. I don’t even look at Dad.
She musters a smile through her tears. “Yes. We’ve got to find out for sure if this miracle is true. If our Lord has truly answered my prayers and given us back our daughter.”
My brow creases. Neither of my parents is religious, although both grew up with churchgoing families. But then, the Tilly Grainger in my version of life didn’t tragically lose her twelve-year-old daughter.
For the first time, I wonder what else might be different. What did my apparent death at twelve change, in this world?
I push the thought away. First things first. “The police already have my results, so all their lab needs are your swabs for comparison. But,” I shake my head, “I’m scared, Mom. What if I’m some crazy person who doesn’t know who she really is? I’m scared of what we’ll discover.”
Mom squeezes my hand at this, especially my use of the word ‘Mom’.
Dad turns back to me, his eyes cold, hard. “All the more reason to get this test done. We have to figure out who you really are.”
Mom wants to do this test to prove I’m her daughter, miraculously resurrected. Dad wants to do it to prove I’m not. To prove I’m a psychotic con artist.
Either way, I guess we’ll find out.