Olivia's Trek (1) (6 page)
Gabriel Carmichael
My mood is as blunted and as dull as the weather here. The days have been morphing into one another with no sense of separation since I’ve been forced to help out my dad with his head cases as a means of medical community service. My father, Dr. Nathan Carmichael’s attempts at distracting me by involving me in his war against addiction have been somewhat amusing, but to be honest, my patience is right down at its reserve level. He’s the one that wears a psychiatrist’s hat, not me. I hate all that touchy-feely bullshit. I like to cut and not talk too much. I hope he doesn’t think I’m going to take over his rehab clinics, because the old man is going to be very disappointed.
I can feel myself scowling as I think of the irony of my old life, working as a surgeon in areas of the world torn apart by conflict, and now I’m sitting here outside some teenage girl’s room babysitting yet another rich junkie kid. One last trek using my outward bound skills with teens having withdrawal before I get back to a real job in Manhattan.
I use the silver fountain pen that Dad gave me when I got into med school to underline and ring around words on the crossword. Boredom, dullness, uncertainty, and indifference, shame these words don’t fit. Leaning harder and harder, the delicate nib bending, as I think of how I have borne witness to acts of crushing brutality: the five-year-old girl with her leg and arm hacked off in Rwanda, the Afghan grandfather with his leg blown off in a landmine, a bullet that ripped into the Sri Lankan soldier’s spinal cord that we had managed with next to no resources and makeshift theaters. Now I sit in a hospital corridor. In fucking Stamford. I take a deep breath to quell the anger and frustration that just sits bubbling below my skin’s surface.
Putting my earplugs in, Nelly Furtado starts singing about how all good things come to an end and I can’t help but think she’s singing especially for me.
I get the uncomfortable feeling that someone’s staring and look up, meeting a pair of sad, green eyes that temporarily stun me. They are the most extraordinary color—like green silk. Why is she staring at me like that? It’s like she can see right through me. Her face is sweet, untouched by the excesses of her affluent lifestyle, an unaffected innocence somehow. This one’s different from the rest of
them.
Fuck, what the hell is wrong with me? She’s just another screwed up Abercrombie junkie whose had all she’s ever wanted. I need to stop my wayward thoughts right now. Alarmed at how I can’t tear my eyes away from her, my heart thumping in its cage.
She’s fighting with herself to keep looking at me.
Good, it shows she’s got strength against herself. She’s going to need that big time.
This one’s fight is just about to start
. It’s unnerving but I can’t stop looking back. Christ, she could be on a personal death wish for all I know, riding on a cresting, ugly new wave right to her death. I need to stay uninvolved.
I feel sorry for her uncle. He obviously really loves that screwed up kid, but he’s making a big mistake going against what my dad says. He’s just like all the others, in denial. She’s an addict, period. He’ll come back to my dad, like they always do.
Thank God for that, she’s finally shut her eyes.
I need to get out of here and get some air.
Olivia Carter
I tried, I really did, but no television, no phone and the constant guilt of having Preston and Victoria’s frightened faces constantly checking me was just too much. Even Oreo kept his distance and as for Annie, well I couldn’t even look her in the face.
I wander into Preston’s study and try to log onto Facebook, but they must have changed my password. That was quite clever of them. Thing is, Tyler’s a member of Wattpad and had always said that we could contact him on there if we needed anything. Great, my Wattpadd log-in still works. Within five minutes Tyler has messaged back saying that he will pick me up from the woods. Ava is apparently at a ‘spa’ somewhere. That is usually parent-speak for rehab.
I just pull on my Uggs and grab a hooded sweatshirt from the banister, making sure to not even close the front door properly so I can slip out quietly.
*
It’s been 48 hours since I absconded from the Carter residence a few days after I got out of the hospital. I’m sitting in the back of a police car trying to make out what their walkie talkies are saying, but my mind is jumping again from the coke, booze and weed I’ve inflicted on it.
“Miss Parker, the judge is none too pleased at your little disappearing act. He’s had us out looking for you for the past two days. Frankly I’ve got better things to be doing with my time than wasting it on messed up little rich kids like you. Do us all a favor and get your act together.”
The officer has kind eyes and I catch him looking at me with a mixture of disdain and pity as we head up the curved drive to the house. The tall green conifer trees that line each side of the drive part to let me through and, as I look out of the back window, they seem to close in, making me feel trapped again.
I try to prepare myself mentally for everyone’s reactions at home but it just all feels like too much effort. I actually couldn’t care less. I just know that I need to find a way to get back out again as soon as possible.
The large heavy wrought iron front doors are already open with Uncle Preston standing on the front steps before I’ve even emerged from the car. I notice that there are two black sedans that don’t belong to us parked further up the driveway, but before I can distract myself anymore from avoiding his gaze, I hear the pain, disappointment and anger in his voice as he gasps, “Olivia, what in God’s name have you done to yourself?”
Huh? What’s he talking about? I walk straight past him into the large hallway of the house banging into his side and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror I had looked in before I left two days ago … A large smile spreads across my face and a loud raw laugh escapes from me. I had forgotten about my image overhaul. OK, so I had been drunk when I’d done it, but even I don’t recognize the person in front of me. Jesus Olivia … All or nothing, huh? My long dark hair has been braided right from the roots in cornrows so tightly that white bits of my scalp are visible, my eyes are lined thickly in jet black kohl and my lips are lined in jet black. Wow, what a bitch.
“Olivia Carter, I’m talking to you. Have you any idea how worried we’ve been about you?”
Aunt Victoria’s sitting on the large stairs wringing her hands anxiously, her fingers knotting themselves around her large rings, her red-rimmed eyes puffy from constant tears and probable berating and anger from my uncle. She looks up and catches her breath in shock as she sees me, and her left hand clutches at the base of her throat as if she’s going to keel over.
Yeah, Victoria show your Upper East Side genteel ladies what the half-breed’s done to herself.
“What do you want me to say, Preston?” I hiss angrily, irritated at being dragged back like a naughty child.
“I’m not even going to ask where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing. Just looking at you and the state you are in paints quite a picture. Come and sit down please. We really need to talk,” he says.
Something about this picture feels all wrong, but I can’t put my finger on what.
As I consider whether to make the effort to go through to the large drawing room on the left off the hall or to just run straight up to my room and lock the door, I see the doctor who I had first met in the hospital. He is slowly walking towards me with two men in matching polo shirts and cream chinos closing in behind him.
“Olivia, do you remember me? I’m Dr. Nathaniel Carmichael. We met at the hospital in Stanford?”
His voice is soft and gentle, but I can’t help the nagging feeling that he’s trying to trap me in some way.
Nothing comes out of my mouth as my loaded, bombed brain can’t cope with trying to figure out what’s going on. I cannot coordinate my speech.
“Olivia, do you have any idea how much you’ve had to drink or what drugs you’ve taken over the last few days?” he asks, like it’s the most normal question to ask in the whole world.
Totally out of power, I start to laugh uncontrollably at the vision of all these powerful, intelligent people standing in my hall nervously and helplessly as if I’m some dangerous predator. They all stare at me, their eyes widening.
“Olivia, look at me, please,” pleads Preston. “This is really serious now. I’ve done everything I possibly can to help you, but you’ve been sentenced to sixty days in rehab by Judge Werner.”
“Sure, he’s your friend. Like you couldn’t get me out of it over a game of golf?”
The doctor edges forward. “We’re not going to get far with this. It’ll be best if we just take her with us now. The sooner we can start treatment the better.”
“What? Take me where? What treatment?” I manage to stutter.
Tweedledee and Tweedledum in the matching outfits make their way towards me, catching me as I fall and trip in an effort to run. My arms hurt where they are holding me as I try to wrestle and writhe my way out of their tight grips.
“You can’t do this. Let go of me. Uncle Preston, please, I beg you. I’ll do whatever you want. Please let go of me, you’re hurting me. I don’t want to go anywhere.” Large pearls of tears mixed with black kohl drip from my eyes and run down my face making me look like some kind of menacing clown.
“Olivia, my darling, dear child. I love you with all my heart, but I’ve failed you. I promised your mother I would take care of you, but I’m way out of my depth here. One day I know you will forgive me, but I need to hand you over to Dr. Carmichael now who is going to take you to his rehab clinic in Utah. It’s all going to get better. I promise.”
Preston Carter looks like a broken man, pain etched all over his face. He looks rough, like he hasn’t had a decent nights sleep or peace of mind for days.
“You can’t force me to do anything or go anywhere I don’t want. It’s illegal. This is kidnapping and I’ll call the police.”
“Olivia, you’re not 18 yet and so we can do what we feel is in your best interests. It will be much easier and more beneficial to you if you decide to help yourself and not put up a fight. What we are doing is called crisis intervention,” says Dr. Carmichael, matter of factly.
Where did they pull this idiot quack from?
“But I’m 18 in two months. Please.” My sobs are unstoppable.
“Well, Olivia, if you decide to leave at that time that’s your decision but your court order is for sixty days. It’s been decided.”
Go away, you freak doctor.
“Please just talk to me. I’ve written you a letter, which I hope you’ll read when you feel better,” Uncle Preston begs.
Talk to you?? About how your great friend’s son Lucien Borgia killed my soul in his bedroom six months ago???
The accompanying physical pain with this thought brings forth such anger as I scream at him, lunging forward, “I hate you, Preston Carter, I will never forgive you. You are not my father. You took me away from my real family.”
As I am dragged through the hall, the last things I hear before the big door closes, locking me out, are Aunt Victoria sobbing and Preston saying, “Oh God …”
Sobbing and gasping with a mixture of humiliation and fear, the assholes in chinos gently put me in one of the black sedans that was parked in the driveway with one of the twits beside me. He hands me some wipes but I just throw them back at him. Fine. I’ll do what they want. Sixty days isn’t long and then I’ll fucking show them.
Olivia Carter
The car pulls into the private runway that the Carters use for their flights at JFK. I knew that Preston must be desperate because his blood-red Bombardier CL-600 was sitting there waiting for us. He is very particular about that toy. I think about how I could stick something into the leather seats and rip them.
A wave of nausea overwhelms me and before I know it I’ve gone from throwing up at the side of the plane to being belted in, ready for take off. The matching bodyguards keep their distance and sit at the back while Dr. Carmichael sits across from me. He knows better than to try and talk to me.
I have to stay angry because the second I let my mind dwell on the fact that I am being sent somewhere weird with a bunch of strangers who could do anything to me, the panic and tears will set in. I keep telling myself to channel the hatred.
We take off and after about ten minuets of being bounced around I start screaming. “Why is it so rough? Something’s not right. We’re going to crash.”
A gray-haired pilot comes through and kneels beside me. “Miss Carter, we’re being held at this altitude by Air Traffic Control because it’s quite crowded today. I promise it will be calmer once the plane climbs higher.”
Dr. Carmichael switches seats and sits down next to me. I can sense he is trying to make eye contact so I just stare out of the window. We bounce around some more, my stomach starting to lurch again as I put my earplugs in and switch on my iPod.
Yellow
by Coldplay soothes me, drowning out the thrust of the powerful jet engines as they kick in. We bounce around some more. It seems to have gotten worse. Visibility through my window is non-existent and I cant even concentrate on the different shapes the clouds form like I usually do. I can feel prickles of sweat forming at the back of my neck.
“Sit forward, Olivia, and put your head down between your knees. It’ll help you. I’ve got a sick bag here if you need one.”
I hear him asking one of the attendants who keeps staring at me for a washcloth with ice in it. Why does he care? Why does anyone care?
It’s all getting too much and I’m about to break down in floods of tears. I’ll probably drown us all in them. I wince as something icy cold is pressed into the back of my neck. It feels absolutely wonderful. I realize how thirsty I am but don’t want to give in by asking for some water.
“Take some small sips of cold water. When’s the last time you ate anything?”
I grab the water and greedily start gulping before Nate Carmichael stops me. “Hey, slow down, Olivia. There’s plenty of water. Rush and you’ll get sick.”
I don’t answer him but I think I nod.
But then we break through the clouds. There’s the sun and the air is so smooth that it doesn’t even feel like we’re moving.
The alternating bouts of rage and sadness that I’d been experiencing up until now are starting to give way to exhaustion. Dr. Carmichael has started to grow on me and any attempts at putting up barriers hasn’t been successful. Probably due to him constantly coaxing me to have just another raspberry muffin, Hershey bar, or soda.
“Kiddo, why don’t you read the letter your uncle wrote you?”
I nod and feel my heart momentarily stop as he reaches into his pocket, passing me the expensive, copper engraved writing paper that Preston favors.
My darling Olivia,
As my own flesh and blood, you embody all that it is to be a Carter.
I have realized that I will never truly understand what addiction is like and how hard it truly is without being addicted myself, but regardless I feel like I have a pretty good understanding. That being said, I want to apologize for letting the frustration of your words and actions (and other factors, too, of course) cloud my judgement and not be fully sympathetic to your perspective. It can easily be overwhelming but I will continue to try harder for you.
I want it to be clear to you that I feel no shame about you whatsoever. I am so ridiculously proud of you. You have overcome so much that my achievements hardly compare. I am a true believer in the ‘everything happens for a reason’ philosophy and hope that your experiences will teach you strength and allow you to help others in need in the future.You know how I feel about certain things, maybe that is the source of our disagreement so I am not venturing into that valley. Instead I hope to be able to convey to you how I feel about you and maybe you will use your wisdom to understand the road I travel.
Selfishly, I look at you as a legacy to my life. You are the only heir. All I ask is patience and understanding; that is the virtue maybe I lack, but it is one that I can work to develop.
I cannot close without trying to put into words how important one thing is to me and how frightened I am concerning it. Olivia, drugs scare me. They frighten me so much that at times I am not rational. When I talk to you about them it is from a position of fear. That intense fear makes me say things and do things that may not be in the best interest of our relationship. This is not an excuse, it is only a fact I hope you can understand. How can I explain to you how much fear I have and what it does to me?
I want to tell you about a true story about your dad and I when we were younger. Growing up,as we got older we could go to the creek and the river, near where Grandma Carter lived. Crossing the creek was a railroad bridge. Sometimes if a train was coming me and some of my friends would stand on the bridge up against the rail as a train went past. We thought it was cool the way the train blasted past as we clutched the rail with our backs up against it. What I never thought much about, but can remember now, was sometimes as the engine passed we could see the engineers looking at us and the look on their faces. As I remember now they were probably the most frightened men I have ever seen. We didn’t know or think about what we were doing, it was exciting. Now I understand why they were so frightened. I understand the fear in those engineers’ faces. They knew if only one of those handles on the whole train was sticking out all of us would be killed and there was absolutely nothing they could do but hope and pray we lived through their train passing. I understand now their fear and my excitement.
The train is a good metaphor for my fear. Sometimes my fear puts you standing right in the middle of those tracks. Off on the horizon I can see that train coming faster and faster. As it is getting closer you cannot hear it or know that it is dangerous. I am running as hard as I can; I know when I get to you it may be a ‘me and the train’ situation to save you. There is no decision, you cannot hear me you cannot hear the train. Can you see the fear in my face? I will not hope and pray I will leap between you and the train. I cannot be rational with this much fear. I am not asking you to forgive my fear or even to understand it. I only ask that you recognize it and appreciate that fear this irrational is only borne of intense love and admiration.
I want you to know I will always be here for you. I will always love you, no matter what. When you have had enough and want to get help, I will be here to help you get it. I just pray that it is very soon.When you are out, I hate it when the phone rings. I pray I never get that devastating phone call that I have lost you. My heart would die.
All I truly want you to know is that all of your life, no matter what you do or what you feel, I will love you.
Lovingly yours,
Uncle Preston
There are black drips on the page, which also pool on my hand. I realize they’re my tears.
“Olivia, how are you feeling?” I don’t even try to ignore the kindness in his voice anymore.
The tears come this time like a tornado through a wreck. I sob until exhaustion overwhelms me and my eyes close.
