8
I watch Olivia sleep. We went through the usual ritual of reading her current favorite book. I find it incredible that just a few short years ago I cradled her in my arms and fed her from my own breasts. Now she is learning to read and just growing up so fast.
She is so beautiful. She has her father’s hair and eyes.
Her complexion is not so fair as mine. Every day I am amazed at what a happy child she is.
Somehow I have managed to be a far better mother than I ever would have dreamed.
Far better than my mother, for sure. Olivia has never known anything less than patience and kindness.
Phillip treats her like a princess, and she never has to worry about anything.
The very best and most prestigious schools as well as whatever she needs along the way will be at her disposal.
I never expected to have a child. Some part of me thought I couldn’t after all that happened.
If I’m honest, I didn’t want a child. I wasn’t sure I could properly care for one.
Somehow it all worked out. Really, I credit my success to Eleanor.
She showed me how to do so many things. I owed her so much. I will do right by her memory.
I close Olivia’s door, careful to leave it open a crack just as she likes. Her little owl night-light provides a soft golden glow. The night-light and her beloved stuffed bear go everywhere with us.
There are so many things I want for her beyond money and education. Love and happiness are far more important. I am determined to keep those values instilled in her.
But first we must survive what’s coming.
Since Olivia was born, deep in my gut, dread of this moment has simmered.
Before that I gave the concern little thought.
If it happened, it happened. But everything is different now.
The continued passage of day after day without incident has provided a false sense of security I should never have allowed.
I should have been more alert to potential trouble.
More keenly perceptive of those around me.
In my defense, the accident and losing Eleanor have distracted me the past three months.
But I’m clear now. I know what I must do.
As I move toward my room, I glance at the door to Acacia’s room.
She appeared to enjoy Rick’s visit. Certainly more than I did.
The number of questions she asked surprised me.
She was almost giddy with enthusiasm listening to his tales of fighting crime.
Granted, he was laying on the charm pretty thick.
Older men can be appealing for many reasons.
In my room, I close the door and lean against it. I am so tired, and yet I feel restless and somehow jittery. With good reason, I consider. This has been a day, two days, in fact.
Acacia brought my things to my room after dinner. Rick insisted on helping her carry in our luggage. More of that gentlemanly charm. The empty bags stand next to the closet now since Acacia has put everything away.
I drift to the dresser and pull a nightgown from the top drawer.
Once I’ve changed and brushed my teeth, I stare at my reflection and reluctantly force myself to remove the makeup.
I’m not a fan but I’ve found it’s necessary to present the expected facade.
Particularly during something like Talia Brant’s visit.
Other people have certain expectations, and I recognize the need to meet those in order to maintain the proper perception.
Perception is everything.
I barely reach the bed before I collapse. I am so very tired. I haven’t regained my stamina as quickly as I had hoped. The physical therapy helps, but I haven’t been able to find my way back to my usual runs and long walks since the accident. Soon, I hope.
A shudder quakes through me with another shot of adrenaline. What is with this agitated feeling?
I think of my cell phone downstairs and the possibility that it needs a charge.
That, too, will just have to wait until morning.
Stairs continue to be a bit difficult, but I’m getting there.
Who knew multiple pelvis fractures could cause so much trouble with walking and standing and even lying down.
It all takes time, I remind myself as I snuggle into the pillows without drawing the covers back. I tell myself to reach out and turn off the lamp, but my body just won’t cooperate. Something poking from one corner of the drawer in the bedside table snags my attention.
Paper.
I pull the drawer open and see that, indeed, a piece of crinkled white paper was caught when the drawer last closed. I reach for it, open it. I smile at the big red heart Olivia has drawn with a crayon. The words love you, mommy are scrawled beneath it.
I press the page against my chest and struggle to hold back the tears that immediately fill my eyes. I want to get through this for my child. To protect her from the evil that I know all too well.
I place the sweet note on the table and swipe at the tears. As I start to close the drawer, something else catches my eye. Gold. It glitters a little in the light from the lamp.
I reach for what looks like a chain . . .
a necklace of some sort. As I lift it from the drawer, I stare at the gold heart dangling from it.
It’s tarnished, almost rusty like the chain.
Fragments of memory bombard me as ice rushes through my veins and the words that have haunted me for twenty years echo in my head.
Friends forever.