Caleb
The instant I step over the threshold bleeding, Olivia's eyes go wide.
“Oh my gosh, what happened?” She sets the two beers down on the hallway table and grabs my wrist, pulling me toward the kitchen before I can say a word. Her grip around my wrist is hard, but she avoids the gash and moves quickly. "Ethan, stay in the living room, okay?"
"Why?" his voice calls from somewhere in the other room.
"Just do it, please."
She guides me to the kitchen sink and turns on the cold water, easing my hand under the stream.
The gash looks worse than it is. The post-hole digger's edge is sharp at the right angle and split skin but missed anything vital.
It wasn't easy to do to myself but necessary to gain entry to her home.
It stings like hell, though. I'll give myself that.
Apparently, I didn't hold back enough and the cut went deeper than I planned.
"What happened?" she asks, pulling paper towels off the roll.
"The digger slipped when I was tamping the post. Caught the edge of a fence post on the way down when I lost my grip." I wince as the cold water hits the open wound, and blood swirls in the sink as it makes its way down the drain.
"That's deep, Caleb. You might need stitches.
" Olivia is so careful, tenderly prying the edges of the cut up to let the water wash it out.
Meanwhile, I'm trying to scope out her kitchen or whatever I can see around here.
I'm not sure how long she'll let me stay, but I have to meet with the client later and give him some sort of an update.
"Nah," I mumble, "it looks worse than it is. Just needs to be cleaned up and wrapped tight."
She doesn't argue with me, which I appreciate.
She opens the cabinet above the sink and reaches for a first-aid kit on the top shelf.
Standing on her tiptoes, stretching, she has to shove a few things aside to get to it.
I leave my hand under the water to keep rinsing the blood away, but I see a prescription bottle sitting on the counter, not hidden at all.
I narrow my eyes but can't really see what the label says, but it's more evidence to what the client suggested, that Olivia's on something and perhaps is not mentally fit to be a mother.
He said she was "medicated and barely holding it together", though I have to disagree with the second half of that.
"I just can't reach it," she groans, turning toward the table.
I assume she's going to snag a chair to stand on, so I shake the water off my hand and walk over, reaching for the first-aid kit.
It gives me a better view of the pill bottle, which clearly says Sertraline.
But half the country's on that shit. It's not proof that she's unstable.
In my mind, it's proof she's taken steps to make sure she remains stable to be there for her child.
But I'm not paid to pass judgment. I'm just here to collect information for my client.
Olivia flips the kit open while mumbling to herself and forces me to sit down on the chair she dragged over. She pulls out the alcohol and gauze as if she's a pro at this, and I watch her face work through ten expressions of concern as she doctors me.
"Hold still," she says, dabbing the gash dry with a clean towel. She doesn't seem squeamish at all, which is impressive. I admire that about her. Most people see that much blood and get shaky.
"You're pretty calm about this," I say softly, finding myself noticing how clear her green eyes are, and what a rich color it is, too. Most green eyes are tainted with yellows and browns, but Olivia's eyes appear like she's wearing contacts to change them. So pure, and it's entrancing.
"I have an eight-year-old boy. I've seen worse.
" She tears open an antiseptic wipe and presses it to the cut.
It burns, so I clench my jaw but don't flinch.
"Ethan split his chin open on the coffee table two years ago—blood everywhere.
I drove him to the ER with one hand holding a dish towel on his face and the other on the wheel. "
"Tough kid."
"Tough mom," she says under her breath, then wraps the gauze around my palm, taping it off, then steps back to inspect her work. "Wow, that was an ugly cut… You need to keep that dry tonight and make sure you put a fresh bandage on it in the morning."
"Yes, Ma'am." I flex my fingers carefully, but the bandage holds. "Thank you." I look up at her worried face and offer a smile. I didn't mean to cause her so much emotional stress, but apparently, like every mother alive, this woman sees someone injured and rushes in to help.
We stay there with our gazes locked for a second before she turns away to rinse her hands and dry them. Then she returns to the hall and picks up the two beers and hands me one. "You earned this twice over today."
I'm not sure what just passed between us but I feel more relaxed now, like I've been welcomed in and haven’t just pried my way in by force.
I take a pull from the beer and watch her sip hers.
She sets it down on the counter and glances in the direction of the other room as Ethan shouts something, then turns back to me.
"So, the fence," she says. "How bad was it really?"
"The posts on the south end were rotted through near the ground. I pulled one out with my bare hands. Another season and the whole run would've come down."
"I kept meaning to deal with it." Her head drops momentarily, but even when she lifts it, her shoulders are sagging. This is a classic sign of shame. She knows, but there was nothing she could do. "Things pile up when you're the only one handling them."
"I get that."
Olivia sighs and says, "I'm not sure you could totally understand, but I appreciate the lack of judgment.
" She picks up her beer again and sips. She's a kind woman and always so happy.
That scowl of concern has even lifted, replaced by the warmth of her personality that seems to radiate hope at all times.
It almost makes me feel bad for being so grumpy all the time.
"You'd be surprised," I say. "But yeah… When you're operating solo, stuff stacks up and you start triaging. A busted fence doesn't make the cut when the kid needs fed and the bills need paid."
"Mmm," she sighs again. I see the war going on behind that smile.
"By the time my work day is over and I pick Ethan up from school, I barely have the mental acuity to make dinner and keep the laundry caught up.
It's exhausting doing it all alone, but I wouldn't trade it for the world. Ethan is everything to me."
"Sounds like you need more help around here.
" I don't mean that in a bad way. I can't imagine my mother having to raise me alone.
The act of keeping house and raising a child is ten full-time jobs.
Add to that maintenance, lawn work, and car repair, and Olivia might as well be working fifteen full-time jobs.
"Try telling my ex." She catches herself and takes another sip, shaking her head. "Sorry. That's not your problem."
"You're good."
There's a strange, awkward silence between us before Ethan comes tearing around the corner holding a mess of cables and the instruction booklet with wide eyes. "Mom, I can't figure out the HDMI thing. Can you help?"
Olivia sets her beer down and starts to move, but I hold up my good hand. "I can take a look if you want. I'm decent with electronics. Besides, I have to pay my bill somehow." Smiling, I rise from the chair and set the beer down.
She hesitates. I can see her weighing the decision cautiously. She doesn't know me and she doesn't trust me at all. That's a good instinct to have, just misguided on me. But she doesn't have any history with me to know that yet. Then she glances at Ethan's face and something gives.
"Okay. Thank you." It feels somewhat confronting to be edged to the periphery of trust after more than a decade of being fully trusted with everything I was given to do, but it's just another part of civilian life, having to adjust.
Ethan leads me to the living room like I'm being escorted to a VIP section.
The console is laid out on the carpet with the steering wheel controller, pedals, and a tangle of cords that would frustrate anyone.
The TV's an older model but decent. A bookshelf lines the far wall, packed with kids' books and a few novels.
The couch has a throw blanket bunched up at one end and a pillow dented from where someone naps regularly.
Everything in this room says lived in. Nothing says neglected. I don't see anything inherently dangerous or scary. I'm really beginning to think this client's witch hunt is for no reason. I’m not seeing what he wants me to see here.
I kneel down and start sorting cables while Ethan hovers. However he got this mess of cords this bad is beyond me. It takes me a full fifteen minutes to get them untangled and then Ethan starts telling me what to do and getting it wrong.
"Okay, no… This one goes here," I tell him, clicking the HDMI into the back of the TV. "And this one powers the base unit. See how the shapes match?" I show him both cords and he grins.
"Oh," he mumbles. "Dad just plugged everything in fast and didn't show me."
I keep working while he chatters about how many games he played with his dad.
I want to ask him if he played with his mom or if he will, but he doesn't let me get a word in edgewise.
I connect the steering wheel dock and run the pedal cables along the baseboard so they're out of the way.
Ethan hands me a zip tie from the box without being asked.
"You've done this before," he says.
"No, I just know what Dad did…"