Olivia Christakos and Her Second First Time (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Junior Year at UCLA, January

I stood in the most embarrassing aisle in the store, biting my nails. Feminine washes. Magnum condoms. Tampons. Home pregnancy tests. I needed someone to call or to help me decide which brand to get, but Chloe was mad at me for ditching her for the millionth time to go stalk James and Megan.

At Blue Coins last weekend, I’d watched them under this big, floppy hat of Mia’s and they never saw me. I watched him kiss her so gently—his beefy hand in her blond hair—and noticed how she rubbed her perfectly manicured fingers all over his thigh. I watched them dance. I watched them laugh, knowing that he would show up at my room later, blue balls in tow. Saturday had been our night for three months now.

And I’d only had one period—at the end of October—that had interfered with that plan. That had been a deliciously good night despite the natural roadblock. A night where I’d been able to get James off with my mouth and he’d gotten it up for a second round in the shower.

I grabbed the most expensive test,
you get what you pay for
in my dad’s voice echoing in my mind. I didn’t look up once at the zit-faced cashier who rang me up. I didn’t want a baby—even James’s baby. It would wreck my body, my life and probably my delicate relationship with James. I simply wasn’t ready. I also picked out a Red Bull and chocolate from a stand nearby, but then switched the Red Bull to water before the kid could scan it. I didn’t know the rules about caffeine and unborn babies, but I didn’t think they meshed well. The thought that I might be thinking for two tore into my brain.

After I paid and the kid bagged my items, I stepped out of the store and vomited next to my car.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Now

I’m sitting in my car outside of the family planning center. After I’d convinced Cora a million times that I was okay to drive, I came here. That was fifteen minutes ago. The place closes for the day at five. It’s 4:50.

I want to know Old Liv better, and maybe after this place and then the boxes, I’d know more. She’d rescued a boy, which is good. She might have hurt Wyatt before the accident, which is bad. She was a decent enough person to keep one good friend around, but not her family. She’s smack dab in the middle of the morality scale. Whatever lay beyond the threshold to this family planning place could tip those scales, however, and I’m scared to find out what that something might be.

4:55.

I don’t even know if the people here will talk to me. They might be busy and I’ll have to make an appointment just to ask a question. Aren’t there privacy laws? But I doubt they pertain to me wanting to know information about myself. I could probably go in there and ask for a copy of my file. For, you know, my regular doctor. I wouldn’t look like such a fool asking questions like, “What was I seen here for? I don’t remember.”

4:56.

I turn off the car.

I’m an adult, I remind myself. I can stroll right in there and get my records. So why am I having such a hard time doing it?

But I know. It’s not the act of asking, it’s the act of finding out.

With another deep breath, I glance at the clock a final time. 4:58. They probably can’t even get the records to me today. Probably tomorrow. I might have to wait an entire day to find out something that could be so inconsequential. It’s probably just birth control, but something in the back of my brain tells me that most birth control doesn’t cost five hundred dollars. Maybe I got one of the more expensive kinds, though.

After pushing myself out of the car and forcing myself up the walkway, I open the door with a shaky hand. A rosy-faced boy greets me cheerily. “Welcome. How can I help you today?”

I didn’t know they let boys work in a place like this, but I guess that’s sexist. “Hi,” I say, coming up to the counter. “I need a copy of my records here. I know it’s late and you probably don’t have any time, but just, you know, whenever you—”

“Sure!” he says. “It’ll be no problem. It’ll take just a second. I need your ID...”

I hand it to him. The good one, not the fake one.

“And I’m actually waiting on the last patient to finish up, so I don’t mind helping you out while I wait. I was just going to wait in silence, but now I get to talk to you. Yay!” He claps his hands together once, looking sincere.

“Great,” I say, clearing my throat. “Thanks.”

He clicks a few things on his computer and the printer next to him whirrs.

“Sign this please.”

I take the paper he offers and glance at it. “What is this?”

“Oh, sorry. It’s a release stating that this office has released your medical records to you. If you ever need them to go directly to your doctor, we can do that for you too. Check the box that says
to you
or
to your doctor.
”

I nod. It’s all so easy. He hands me a pen. I sign as he holds the paper for me—I can’t do it with my casted arm—and he hands me the papers from the computer, folded in half.

“Have a good day,” he trills.

I wait until I let myself out of the building, toddle across the walkway, and am in the safety of my car before I unfold the papers.

What I read only adds to my confusion of Old Liv.

I’m not sure how to feel.
Unworthy
comes to mind first. Then angry. I sit in my car so long that I don’t notice all the cars in the parking lot have vanished, leaving me hanging out alone. But I can’t go home. And I can’t drive anywhere else. I’m shaking so hard I would get into an accident.

I’ve killed an unborn baby and I don’t know why. The words from my records roll over and over in my mind. Surgical Abortion. Dated a couple of months ago, in March. It says that I was twenty weeks along. That’s a long time to keep a baby baking inside of me, stewing on what to do with it. I couldn’t imagine getting rid of a baby when my pregnant belly must have already been growing.

My stomach twists. Why would Old Liv do that? There’s no way I could do that now—to have something growing inside of me for five months and then one day decide to kill it. I was growing sick to my stomach thinking about it.

Is that why Wyatt is so mad? If so, so many pieces of confusion would fit. The reason I’d felt resentment toward him when I woke up. The cold and hesitant way he’s been acting towards me. How he couldn’t go through with having sex with me. Probably because he didn’t want a repeat situation happening.

Maybe Wyatt and I broke up over the abortion and Wyatt forgave me and was trying to patch things up. Or maybe he can’t forgive me yet. He’s Mr. Charity after all. The abortion might have crushed him. We had a kid together and I killed it. No wonder he’s acting off.

I hold my head in my hands and cry for myself, forgetting Wyatt. I touch my belly, wishing I could remember what it was like to be pregnant. Had I been sick? Did my boobs get bigger? Had I ever been able to feel it move? Would I, being the New Olivia, have kept the baby?

Then I cry for the baby. I cry for Wyatt. I let myself scream and cry for this little person I will never meet that was half me and half Wyatt. But that thought stops me. What if it wasn’t Wyatt’s? The possibility that I cheated on him still remains, which would make me an even worse person—if that’s possible.

I cry harder, leaning over the steering wheel. I stay that way for a couple of hours.

* * *

I drive straight to Wyatt’s.

When I get there, though, Charlotte answers the door. I’ve wiped my tears from my face and checked to make sure my makeup wasn’t everywhere, but my face is still pink and looks swollen. Hopefully she won’t notice.

She hugs me as Wyatt walks up behind her. He sees my expression, even though I’m trying to hide it. “What is it?” he asks, looking stricken. He steps closer. “What happened?”

I do this sad little hiccup cry and he pulls me inside. Shoos Charlotte away. I let him hold my hands, knowing there is no way to bring up this subject lightly. There is no right place, right time. I don’t know how to do it. I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

Wyatt’s parents are getting dinner together in the kitchen. They are both large and dark in their hair and eyes. His mom looks over, her expression sharp but caring. “Come eat with us,” she says, setting a bowl of salad on the dining room table.

I shake my head. “I can’t—”

“It’s fine. Come on now. Food soothes the nerves.”

I gaze at Wyatt and he nods. Hesitantly, I let Wyatt’s hands go and follow his mom into the dining room. I sit in a hard wooden chair, too shocked into silence to attempt small talk. I don’t even know what I’m eating or what the conversation is about. My brain is focused on one thing:
deadbabydeadbabydeadbaby
.

When the table is cleared and everyone retreats to their respective places, Wyatt takes me out back. A pink loveseat-style swing hangs off the porch. It’s in need of a new paint job, but the chain is thick and strong looking, so I sit. Wyatt sits as close as he can without sitting on my lap. Silently, he brushes the hair from my face. It’s windy and he has to keep doing it. I like his soft touch, but it makes me feel guilty. Finally, he says, “Want to talk about it?”

Even after all that time thinking about how to word the question in my mind, I don’t know how to make it come out. If he doesn’t know about it, I don’t want to tell him. He’ll think less of me for sure. I also don’t want to be the one to tell him Old Liv had an abortion if there was a reason she kept it secret from him. So I hedge. “Do you know about my secret?”

He looks confused.

“I mean, did you go with me? Pay for it?”

The lines between his eyebrows deepen.

So maybe Old Liv didn’t tell Wyatt. Or maybe I’m not being clear. “Have you ever been responsible for killing something?”

His mouth opens and cracks into a small smile. “I killed a mouse once,” he says. Not really joking, but maybe to try to lighten the mood. “Not with a trap, with a BB gun. I felt shitty about it for a few days. What’s this all about?” His big, warm hand finds a spot between my shoulder blades and rubs gently.

He doesn’t know. He would have picked up on the clue instead of making a little joke if he knew. I can’t tell him now, no way. He feels shitty for killing a mouse when he was young; he would never understand what I did.

I don’t even know if I’ll ever understand it.

I stand, letting Wyatt’s gentle touches slip from my skin. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here. I thought I was ready to talk about something, but I’m not. I thought you...but you don’t.”

He stands with me, leans toward me. “I don’t what?”

“You don’t know about...
me
!” I am on the verge of crying and I don’t want him to see that, so I twist away from him and head back into the house. No one is around to stop me, thankfully—I don’t know if I could have resisted Charlotte even now—and I storm through the front door.

Before I close it behind me, Wyatt cries, “Olivia, wait!” But I don’t listen. I close the door, run to my car and take off without looking back.

Did I make this decision on my own?

Do my parents know?

Chapter Thirty-Four

Junior Year at UCLA,
January
3-5 Minutes Later

Two blue lines.

Fuck.

I can’t have this baby.

I shouldn’t have a baby.

I’m totally not ready for a baby.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Now

At home, in my room, I use a kitchen knife to cut open the cardboard boxes that I dug out of my car. I’m hungry for more answers.

The first box is winter clothes: sweaters, hoodies, sweatpants and expensive-looking purses. I wonder where I would have gotten the money for those if I didn’t have a job. I dig around a while to make sure there isn’t anything else noteworthy in there and then discard the box to the side. The second box holds pictures. A box of loose 5 x 7s, mostly of me and my friends, possibly from high school. Holidays, sleepovers. Chloe’s in most of them, along with some other girls I don’t recognize. Mia and Ava might be among them, but I couldn’t even guess at which ones they are. Pictures of my family are below those—Natalie playing in her room, Cora on the phone looking stressed, and Dion leaned over a notebook wearing glasses. I guess they were always workaholics.

The doorbell rings somewhere down the hall. A few seconds later, Dion calls me. I place the pictures back into the box and walk out of my room. If it’s Chloe or Wyatt, I’m sure Dion would have let them in, so I don’t know who it could be. I’m not in the mood to see anyone.

The boy from my dreams stands in the doorway. The boy from my nightmares. My body withers, like all the water in it has evaporated. I’m rooted to the spot, both curious and wary at the same time. I feel my jaw drop and I hug myself, feeling insecure. The boy is taller than in my dreams—he has at least a foot on Dion—with a head of uncontrollable blond hair that looks longer than what I’ve dreamed and his green eyes have charisma sauce smeared all over them. He’s talking to Dion, but his eyes flit over to me.

When Dion turns, he sees my expression. “Oh, shit,” he says, as if he’s just realized he’s made a mistake. “Cora?”

“Hey, Liv,” the blond guy says. “Remember me? I’m James.” He tries to take a step inside the house, but Dion stops him with a hand to his chest. The name
James
reverberates from my brain, down my spine, and lands into my stomach. It quivers there like a fearful and beaten puppy.

“James...?” I say, the word sounding as familiar as an old pair of jeans.

“Cora?” Dion tries again, beginning to look panicked.

I take a couple of steps forward, drawn to this boy somehow. I have questions for him.

“Let him in,” I tell Dion.

He looks unsure, but drops his arm. The guy beams at me.

I don’t smile back. There’s probably a reason this guy hasn’t been around.

Seconds later, Cora appears from the stairs. Instantly her face goes hard and red. “What the hell are you doing here?” she says to James. “You have no reason to be here.” She charges and I think she’s about to bulldoze him, but she only reaches out to close the door.

“Wait,” I say at the same time James says, “I have Liv’s phone.” he sticks his hand through the quickly closing door and waggles it in the air. “I thought I should return it.”

Cora grabs it and closes the door without a second’s hesitation.

I move to go after him, but Cora grabs my arm. “You don’t want to do that.”

“Why not?” I ask, stopping. “And why does he have my phone?”

She sighs and sucks on her teeth. “I don’t know.” She slips the phone into her pocket.

“Can’t I have that?” I ask with confusion.

“It’s ours,” she says with a snarl. “Your father and I pay for it, so it’s ours.” Some of her anger has carried over to lay on me.

“Just give her the damn phone,” Dion jumps in.

“No.” She turns around and walks out of the room.

I’m more than confused. And pissed. I’m not a fucking child! Why call me into the room at all? Was Dion not supposed to? And why couldn’t I have my damn phone? It might have some pictures on it or something that I want.

After a brief moment, Dion walks over to me. “Sorry about that,” he says, taking my shoulder. I want to shrug it off, but he wasn’t the one who treated me like a child. “She’s going through a rough time. It’s late. Maybe we should all go to bed.”

I want to argue that I’m the one having the rough time and that I should be allowed to have my things. Especially if they can potentially clue me in to Old Liv’s life, which a phone most definitely could do. “Is Mom going to bed too?” I am also sick of them treating me like a baby and if Cora lies down too, that would at least insinuate that we are both adults that need some cooling off.

“Ah...” he hesitates. “Probably not. We’ve gotten a lot of calls from that website and she’s trying to schedule people to work.”

I grimace, my anger replaced momentarily with guilt. “I hope there isn’t too much work. You guys can handle it, right?”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. We should have said thank you. It was a kind thing to do, to spend all that time working on something so selfless. For us.” He leads me down the hall to my room. “The help couldn’t have come at a better time.”

“Why’s that?”

He stops at my door and leans against the wall. “Well, don’t tell your mother I’m telling you, she’ll only worry for you. And don’t tell Natalie.” He looks at her bedroom door, which is a foot from mine and whispers, “The business is collapsing. There was some...fraud. Your mom is upset about it, of course, because it was her father’s business. This might not be what she wants, but it might help us out of the debt.”

“Fraud? That’s horrible,” I whisper. “Do you know who did it?”

“We...have an idea. And we don’t want to turn them in because it’s someone close to the family. So we’re just taking the hit, trying to fix things on our own. We were riding it out to see if business would pick up and until your website, it hasn’t. If things get much worse, we’ll have to sell the house and move. We might lose all our clients to someone closer. We’d have to start our lives from scratch. But because of you, business has picked up. Let’s hope it lasts and that it’s enough to pay what we owe. Pray for us, will you?”

I nod, but I haven’t done any praying since I woke up from the coma. Did Old Liv pray?

He wraps me up in his arms and pecks me on the cheek. “You know,” he says into my hair. “This might be the first hug we’ve shared since the hospital. I’m sorry I haven’t given you one sooner.”

I squeeze him back. “It’s okay,” I say, even though my adrenaline is still coursing under my skin. I’m not sure I’d be able to keep it in check if it were Cora hugging me.

Dion leaves me and I go back into the room, back to the pictures, to keep my mind occupied from dangerous boys and patronizing mothers. I still need answers. Some of the pictures are framed. My high school portraits, mostly. Me, with my hair curled tightly, sitting on a chair. Sitting next to a pond. Holding a volleyball. Was I in volleyball?

The next picture confuses me. The right corner of the photo says
Prom 2010-2011.
It’s a picture of me and a boy. Blond, tall. James. There’s another one from the year before, also with James.

But I remember Natalie saying Wyatt and I went to both proms together. I turn the frame over and pop out the back. I hope to find a date or explanation on the back of the picture, but there’s nothing. The rest of the pictures in the box are elementary school pictures, baby pictures, even black and whites of people I don’t recognize but who kind of look like older doppelgangers of Cora and Dion. It seems the deeper I dig into the box, the older the photos get. Like my own personal time machine.

If I took these boxes with me to L.A., I’m guessing pictures and my family mean a lot to me. If only I could remember.

I take out the two prom pictures and lean against the wall. I set them in my lap, side-by-side, looking for something that tells me these photographs are not real or a reason why Natalie would lie. Maybe she just didn’t know? But why wouldn’t someone correct her? Surely my parents remember. Lies, lies. Everywhere more lies. But
why?
And how deep does the lie go? What else are they hiding?

I seem happy in both pictures—flushed face, perky hair, large smile—like someone in love. Studying James is more difficult.

He looks like he
could
be in love, but there’s something else behind that façade. He looks angry. His jaw is square and large, his shoulders large and round underneath his suit jacket. His stance is stiff, ready to explode or something. Like he’s a dormant volcano.

* * *

I fall asleep like that—looking at the pictures—and wake up with my bad arm and back in agony. The photos fall from my lap as I straighten out. I stand but I’m stiff and achy. The lamp is still on in my room, but I can tell it’s a lot later. Outside, a full moon floats straight overhead and the streets are completely quiet. Part of me wishes Wyatt was somewhere out there—despite him going along with Natalie’s lie about prom, about possibly everything—skateboarding and taking pictures in the dark and in a second I will see him skate by under the streetlight. Thinking about him makes me feel brave.

I pull the curtains back over the window and walk out into the hall. I want my phone back. I want to see what kind of pictures I took if Cora didn’t delete them all.

The house is blackness. Except for the small amount of light rolling out through my bedroom door, it’s cave-like. After opening Natalie’s door to confirm she’s asleep, I continue down the hall to the bathroom. No one’s in there. I tiptoe to the living room. Dark.

I make my way through the empty kitchen and into my parents’ room. I near a soft snoring—female snoring—and instantly my palms go clammy. Something about being in someone else’s bedroom at night is creepy. Especially if they are sleeping. Panic squeezes at my chest. I don’t know if I can do this.

My eyes adjust to the darkness and I see two bodies in the bed, both facing away from me. I try to relax; I can hear my own breathing and worry that it will wake them up.

Cora’s jeans sit in a heap in front of me. Maybe the phone is still in them. I crouch, my hands shaking, and check the pockets. No luck. Looking around the room, I begin to feel hopeless. A dresser with four large drawers is pushed against one wall, a vanity with a dozen more drawers stands against another, and a large, black trunk sits at the foot of the bed. I don’t know if I can go through everything without a) feeling like a complete skeez and b) getting caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

This may be the only time I have to look for the phone before she gets rid of the thing—if she hasn’t already—so I force myself over to the dresser on wobbly legs. The top drawer is full of Dion’s socks and underwear. I use only my fingertips to move things around and find nothing. The second drawer is full of his pants and I lift each one and check the bottom of the drawer. Nothing again.

Cora’s drawers have the same result.

I move on to the vanity, but everything in the drawers is glass or plastic and clink together when I open them or move things around. It’s nearly impossible to see the contents in this darkness, so I’m searching by feel. After I go through the third drawer—that is full of face creams and such in glass jars—Cora rolls over in bed.

My stomach jumps into my throat and I freeze. Closing the drawer as quietly as I can, I scoot toward the trunk, hiding myself in case she decides to sit up. Her snoring pauses. I try not to breathe, but my heart is racing and needs the extra oxygen.

What if she gets up to use the bathroom and sees me? What will my excuse be?

The mattress moves—bounces up and down the tiniest amount, like it might when you stand up from it. All my muscles tense and my mind whirrs.

Then, a breath of a word, “Olivia?”

I’m caught.

Hesitantly, and slowly, I stand.

My eyes drift over to the bed. Cora and Dion are still in it, sleeping, butts touching. My shoulders relax a little.

My eyes flit over to the doorway, and I expect to see Natalie. But no one is there. What the hell? My name falls from Cora’s lips again, “Olivia, no.” She’s still sleeping, dreaming of me—maybe a bad dream—and here I am ransacking her stuff. Doesn’t exactly make me feel very good.

But I have to find the phone. It could open so many doors. James’ number is probably on there. I could call him.

I return to the last drawer that I’d been digging through, my hands shaking even more than when I started. When I’m about to give up on it and move on, something tiny slides beneath my fingers. I pick it up. A key. Instantly I think of the trunk and slide over, slipping the key into the brass keyhole. It unlocks with a loud clank and Cora stirs in bed again.

After counting slowly to twenty and focusing on calmer breathing, I lift the heavy lid. My heart drops. It’s even darker in the trunk, like some black hole stuffed full of clutter. No way will I find my phone if it’s here. I drag my fingers across the stop. Something long and metal rolls around and nearly falls out. I catch it and it tries to slip out of my shaky grasp.

I’m able to steady it. It’s a flashlight. I try the button, expecting it not to work. But it does and shines a long beam up to the ceiling. I turn it off with a
click
again. Count to twenty. Point it back into the trunk and turn it on again. Another flashlight lies on top, along with some C batteries and a slew of candles. Hopefully this is more than an in-case-of-an-emergency trunk. It might be—why else would there be a heavy lock on it?

Underneath those, a smaller box sits, unlocked, and some big books that could be photo albums. Cora or Dion must have loved to take pictures and maybe someday I can ask to see them. Some loose papers are stuck on the side. I don’t have any interest in them at first, but when I see that they’re credit card statements, I pull them out.

There are a few papers in Cora’s name and a few in Dion’s. At first I think there is nothing special about them, but after studying them for a few seconds more, I notice that all the charges were made in L.A. Every single one of them. I’m not sure why, but my stomach twists thinking about it. Was this part of the fraud Dion was talking about? The debt altogether is at least fifty thousand dollars, with minimum payments in the hundreds.

I replace the papers and open the smaller box. It’s full of hundred dollar bills, maybe a couple of thousand dollars’ worth. Not enough to save the business. The inside of the top lid says,
Property of Christakos Creatives.
Maybe it’s petty cash, then.