Chapter 8 Olivia
It’s been three days since I last saw Mom, and four since she and Dad first came to visit me.
When the two of them returned to the hospital the next day to have their cheeks swabbed for the DNA test, Mom came to spend an hour with me while Dad remained stubbornly in the cafeteria. And we just talked and talked.
After all the memories Mom and I shared, many of my biggest childhood moments up until I was twelve, I’m pretty sure I’ve convinced her that I’m me, even without the DNA results. And if I can convince Mom, it’s only a matter of time until she can convince Dad.
But there’s also Charlotte. Mom said she was not buying my story — ‘not for a single second.’ Charlotte’s probably going to be even tougher to persuade than Dad. I don’t blame her. She’d barely remember me. She was six when I was twelve. She would’ve grown up as an only child, pretty much.
I also told Mom a lot about what happened to me since — after I didn’t die, in my version of reality.
Growing up in our huge old house as a teenager, going to Rocky Point High, and then to design school in Wilmington because I didn’t want to be far from home.
All about my interior design business, how I helped her decorate the house at Landfall where she and Dad had retired to, after selling the big house.
And about me and Jake, how we went from childhood friends to sweethearts, prom king and queen, and eventually live-in partners, and, finally, an engaged couple.
She believed me.
She even called me Livvie.
The name came out, and she started at the sound of it. But I knew, then, that she believed me.
I’ll have to let her work on Dad. I’ll have to work on Charlotte. Assuming the DNA test comes back as a match, that is. If not, I’m on my own again. And, I guess, totally delusional.
As for Jake — I’ve no idea what I’ll say to him.
If I’ll even get to see him.
I set my journal and pen on the shady bench that has become a favored spot, away from the bustle of the hospital corridors. Something tugs at me, breaking my concentration. The sound of my name, being carried off in the breeze.
“Olivia.”
I turn, searching for it.
Detective Adam Banks is striding toward me.
“I found you,” he says with a somewhat breathless smile, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners.
“I was looking everywhere. Gary is, too. Searching for you deep in the bowels of the hospital. I’ll probably never see him again.
” He laughs, taking out his phone. “Let me text him.”
I wait, eyebrows raised, until the detective slips his phone into his pocket. “What’s up that you needed to send out a search party?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Grainger came to visit. They’re waiting in the Lighthouse Café. The lab sent me the result of the DNA swab comparison.”
“Really? That was faster than I thought.” My pulse quickens. “Well?”
He gestures for me to follow him. “I want to tell you all together.”
We hurry toward the hospital entrance, stepping aside as a stressed-looking group of first responders rush past us with two gurneys.
“The Lighthouse Café, huh?” I reply as we resume our quick pace down the corridor, hoping my casual tone will disguise the nerves that have my stomach churning.
“What a luxury. I haven’t eaten anything but tiny trays of hospital food for nine days.
I have to warn you, I have no money. I hope someone else is paying. ”
Detective Banks chuckles, squeezing past a gaggle of student doctors. “I’m sure one of us can stand you a coffee and a pastry.”
A pastry. Even with my guts flipping, that sounds amazing.
We enter the glass-lined café space, where Mom and Dad are waiting at a table, speaking in low, anxious tones. I’ve seen them huddle like that a thousand times — usually trying to hide some kind of disagreement in a public space.
They don’t greet me as I sit, although Mom half-smiles, her lips slightly open. I can tell she wants to say “Hi, Livvie” or “Hi, honey,” but she won’t — not in front of Dad. Not until we know which way these results have gone.
I pull in my chair and say “Hi” almost under my breath, then take a sip of water from the glass waiting for me.
“Hi,” Mom replies, after an awkward pause.
Dad looks only at Detective Banks. “You wanted us together for this, detective. Let’s get to it.”
Detective Banks has barely pulled in his own chair. He opens his mouth to speak when a server comes up to us.
“What can I get you fine folks?”
Detective Banks smiles at me. “Order what you like. It’s on me.”
I give him a grateful look. “A latte and a cinnamon roll, if you have them.”
Detective Banks grins, keeping his eyes on me. “Make it two.”
“English Breakfast tea,” Mom says.
Dad shakes his head — nothing. Too stubborn to even enjoy his usual Americano in my presence.
“Let’s have it,” he presses as the server departs. “What are the results?”
Detective Banks places his hands on the table, a show of authority.
He looks at each of us in turn. “The DNA strands were compared in the lab and, while there’s never a 100% guarantee, this is as close as you’d get.
A 99.9% chance that Olivia really is . .
. Olivia. She is definitely your daughter. ”
He pulls out a printed piece of paper, a test tube logo on the letterhead, and hands it to Dad.
I blow out a steady stream of air I hadn’t realized I was holding in. I reach across the table for Mom’s hand, and she grasps mine, her eyes shining.
“I knew it. I knew you were my Livvie, the moment I laid eyes on you. Praise Jesus. It’s a miracle.”
I pull my gaze from her tear-brimmed eyes toward Dad, who is staring at the printed results. A crease deepens between his bushy eyebrows. “It’s just not possible. It can’t be.”
“It is, Dad. It is.”
I stretch my other arm toward him, but the table is too long. He’d have to reach out to touch my hand, and he doesn’t. My arm rests foolishly between the table’s vase and the salt and pepper shakers.
We sit for a moment, in silence, Detective Banks making a study of my outstretched arm. I pull it in as our drinks and pastries arrive, glad of the interruption.
Detective Banks stirs an unreasonable quantity of sugar into his latte.
“It’s up to you all where you want to go from here.
Obviously, there’s no precedent for any of this, so it’s hard for us to offer guidance.
But right now, Olivia is too healthy to be taking up a bed here, and she doesn’t have any insurance to pay the hospital bill.
” He taps his spoon against the side of his mug.
“She also doesn’t have any money, any bank accounts, or source of income.
So, she will need your help. And since we’ve established she is, in fact, your daughter .
. .” He trails off, sipping his coffee. He’s obviously hoping Mom or Dad will make a suggestion.
“She’ll come stay with us,” Mom replies firmly, as if there’s no question. “Of course, she’ll come home with us. And we’ll take care of the hospital bill.”
“Tilly.” Dad’s voice is a warning.
“Burt, she’s our daughter. We have to look after her. You heard Detective Banks. She has nothing, not even any way of earning money, of paying for food or shelter. And she can’t stay here forever. It’d only be until she’s on her feet. She could stay in the pool house, if you’re not comfortable—”
“We’ll discuss this at home. We’re leaving now.” Dad’s jaw has hardened again.
Mom knows better than to push him, at least in front of us. She’ll have to be my advocate now.
Advocate. That word always reminds me of Jake, a legal advocate for women and children fleeing war-torn countries, desperately seeking a new life in America. My hero. If only he could fight for me, here, in this world.
But I can’t push the Jake issue. Not yet. I need to get my parents fully on board with my inexplicable resurrection before I try to pick up other relationships.
One step at a time.
Mom takes a hasty sip of her tea as Dad rises, evidently done with this conversation. She gives me an apologetic half-smile. “We’ll speak to you very soon,” she reassures me, before following him out.
I nod slowly, the latte and cinnamon roll still untouched before me. I can’t quite believe the DNA results myself. And I know it’s true.
I unfurl some of the sticky pastry and pull off a section, which oozes with cream cheese frosting. I savor it, slowly. It’s the first delicious thing I’ve eaten in over a week. I’m facing my mother’s empty chair, but I can feel Detective Banks’ eyes on me.
“So, it’s true, then,” I murmur.
“Looks that way. I can’t explain it any better than you can. But the test doesn’t lie. At least we know you’re not a scammer trying to steal a dead girl’s identity.”
I laugh, unexpectedly, through a mouthful of frosting. I swallow, chasing it down with my coffee. “Well, thank goodness for small blessings.” I wipe the stickiness from my lips with a napkin, turning to face the detective beside me. “Mom seems much more religious than . . . before.”
He pushes his lips out with a frown. “I spoke to my senior sergeant about the case. He’s been on the force over 25 years and he remembers the Liv Grainger death clearly — how devastated the family was.
He said that, after the funeral, he started seeing your mom at his church all the time, always desperately praying.
As if that was going to bring you back. She was always alone, though. Never with your dad.”
He takes a massive bite of his own sticky roll, so big it barely fits in his mouth, making me smile.
“And here you are now, eating cinnamon rolls with a dead girl,” I say, quirking an eyebrow at him.
“It must seem totally bizarre to you. I’m very grateful you’re being so understanding.
” I pause. “But I’m surprised you’re putting so much time into this, not off somewhere chasing down bad guys.
I can’t figure out why you’ve been so incredibly helpful, to be honest.”
He sucks cream cheese off his finger, his brown eyes on mine. “Can’t you?”
“We all doing okay here?” the server asks, with impeccable timing.
Detective Banks nods, the moment broken. “Just the check, thanks.”
I finish my treats as he pays up. “You’ll talk to my folks to see what they decide?”
He nods. “I will, but I suspect your mom will be back here in the next day or so to take you home. I’m pretty sure she’s a woman who gets her own way, right?”
I laugh. “Usually. Dad gives a lot to have an easy life, as long as he gets his golf and his poker nights.”
“Right. Well, ask Marcus to call me if you don’t hear from your parents in the next forty-eight hours.
Otherwise, I think we’re probably done here.
It’s inexplicable, sure, but no crime has been committed.
And, like you say, I’ve got bad guys to chase.
There’s no need for me to continue with your case.
” A small line appears above his nose at this last statement.
I rise, wiping my hands on a paper napkin, the stickiness not budging. “I guess. Well, if I don’t see you again, thanks for everything. Especially for the cinnamon roll.”
Detective Banks laughs and takes out his phone, no doubt to locate the still-missing Officer Phelps. “You’re welcome. It was good to meet you. Liv. I hope I’ll see you around.”