The Night Olivia Fell

by Christina McDonald

  “We named her Zoe. I thought you’d like it.” I turned my face into Olivia’s hair, hoping to catch the scent of her, but it wasn’t there anymore. It, too, was gone.

  I had a sudden memory of her then. She was standing on the beach, looking out to sea, her hair a long blond flag behind her, her cheekbones sharp in profile. She turned to me and caught my gaze, trapped it for a fleeting moment in hers. Smiled. A soft smile, the kind you give somebody you know by heart.

  Zoe mewled softly and nuzzled into the crook of Olivia’s neck.

  “She knows who you are,” I marveled.

  Maybe it’s possible to remember your mother from the womb. Just for those first few moments. Maybe you remember her smell or something less tangible, the sensation of swimming inside her, the familiar cadence of her heart pulsing against your ear, the sound of your shared blood powering its every beat.

  I tightened my arms around them both. Zoe started making tiny baby noises, and I thought she would cry, but she didn’t. Her lids bobbed closed, open, then closed again, and she drifted asleep, her mouth hanging open.

  Olivia took a ragged breath, but it stuck somewhere in her chest. A sob wrenched out of my throat. I wished I could do it all over again, go back in time and be a better mother. But there are no redos in life. You can’t go back and make things better. All you can do is live with it and move forward.

  I looked at Zoe, asleep on Olivia’s chest, and I was whisked back in time to the morning Olivia was born. I zoomed in on a memory of how my hands dwarfed Olivia’s tiny body; how well she fit in my arms; the love that overwhelmed me just at the sight of her. They say time goes by fast, but really it was a blink, every single second between then and now just a blur.

  I stroked a hand across Olivia’s cheek. It didn’t feel soft anymore. Instead it felt thin, papery.

  “Whenever, whatever. I’m here forever,” I said.

  And suddenly I understood what my mom was saying that last day. She was saying good-bye. And in her good-bye, she was promising she’d be here, inside of me.

  Zoe opened her eyes. Her gaze collided with mine and she gazed at me seriously, the way only a baby can. I studied the smooth contours of her cheekbones, the delicate line of her brow, the slope of her tiny nose.

  She looked so much like Olivia did as a newborn it hurt. But it was also kind of nice, like Olivia hadn’t really gone, in a way. Or maybe just like Zoe was a piece of her she’d left behind.

  From Olivia’s bed, I stared out the hospital windows toward the sea and watched the sun set, a trickle of light receding in the distance. Suddenly the sun met the horizon, momentarily washing the room in a dazzling display of gold.

  It reminded me that the first hour of every new day starts with darkness—and then the sunshine comes.

  And right then, in my arms, pressed against the tiny, warm body of her daughter, Olivia took a ragged, uneven breath: her last.

  I like to think she left on the wings of that sunbeam, dancing the way she did on that last day, flying away. Free.

  45

  * * *

  ABI

  epilogue

  A few months later, when the spring air was just starting to warm, Anthony, Sarah, Derek, and I took Zoe to the cemetery hill where we’d buried Olivia.

  I could’ve come alone, but Olivia wouldn’t have wanted that. Maybe I couldn’t save Olivia, but I realized now that I could save myself. I could learn to open up to love and second chances. I could be better at that.

  Zoe was strapped in a baby carrier across my chest as I walked. She wriggled and kicked, her whole body vibrating with happiness. You’d never guess she’d been born prematurely after her mother spent months on life support. She was the picture of health, perfect and whole.

  The sky above us was a vivid blue with cotton-ball clouds floating lazily, the grass a carpet of vibrant emerald. In the distance, the sea was a shimmering expanse of blue, white swells cresting, then rolling in to crash against the rocks.

  When we reached the granite headstone marking where Olivia slept for eternity, I unstrapped Zoe and propped her on her tummy on a waterproof pink blanket. I inhaled deeply, complex emotions braiding my stomach.

  Anthony wrapped his arms around me from behind and held me tightly, took all of my sadness and fear and anxiety and held them so that, just for a moment, I wasn’t the only one carrying their weight.

  I looked up at him. He’d recently cut his hair into a short spiky do and shaved his face. When his bright eyes met mine, my heart gave a little skip. I smiled and lifted my face for a kiss.

  He seemed a lot less frazzled since he’d moved his mom into the home. He had regular visiting hours where he’d take her for long walks or just to a café to sit and be together. And he didn’t have to worry anymore about whether she’d set the house on fire or get lost roaming the streets.

  I didn’t know what our future held, but I did know I trusted him, was letting myself trust him, in a way I hadn’t done in a long time.

  I leaned my head back against Anthony’s chest and remembered the day he’d shown up at my house with an espresso machine. Zoe had only just come home from the hospital a few days before, and I was exhausted.

  I’d looked at the espresso machine and knew it was a gift with a meaning.

  “I have a lot of baggage,” I warned him. He carried the box to the kitchen and put it next to the microwave.

  “I’ll help you carry it,” he replied.

  He pulled the machine out of the box and plugged it in with a flourish.

  “Voilà.” He smiled. “Caffeine.”

  “I have a baby.”

  “I love babies.”

  He crossed to me and took both my hands in his, smiling gently. His eyes were a vibrant pale green as they caressed my face. “One step at a time, okay?”

  We formed a loose semicircle around Zoe, facing Olivia’s headstone. It was the first time we’d all come together to see Olivia. The first of many, I was sure. And next time, Madison would be here. That’s what we were hoping, anyway. The poor girl still hadn’t forgiven herself for her last words to Olivia being cruel ones.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” I’d asked her later. “If you knew Derek was the baby’s father, if you knew they were together, why didn’t you tell us?”

  “He’s my brother,” she said simply. “Even when I hate him, I love him. I wanted to protect him.”

  I sensed Olivia would’ve forgiven Madison. Family, after all, was the most important thing. Family was proof that love existed.

  Zoe kicked gleefully and let loose a delighted baby shriek. Derek picked her up and nuzzled her nose. He was an excellent father, around as often as he could be despite being at the University of Washington throughout the week.

  We’d decided Zoe would stay with me. After Derek graduated from college and had his own place, she’d spend weekends with him. For now Jen, Sarah, and I shared childcare.

  Sometimes worry and anxiety slipped in like an old friend, fear that I’d lose her. But I pushed it away. To feel love was to feel fear—you just couldn’t let it dictate your life. Love was a risk, but it opened up a world of possibility, one you would never experience without it. I’d never understood that before losing Olivia.

  Olivia’s daughter was loved. That was the most important thing.

  I looked at Zoe in her father’s arms. She was a miracle. Every night when I rocked her to sleep, feeling the weight of her little head resting gently in the crook of my neck; every morning when she saw me and her face broke into a gummy smile; every time I held her bottle in her rosebud mouth and she gazed at me with absolute trust and adoration, she helped push some of the grief aside. I took comfort in knowing that, although nothing would ever make up for losing Olivia, I had more than just a memory of her in Zoe.

  We’d all brought something for Olivia, and one by one we set our tokens against her headstone. Me, Zoe’s hospital baby bracelet; Anthony, a single white rose; Sarah, a stick of cinnamon gum; and finally, D
erek stepped up.

  “I didn’t bring you anything, Liv,” he murmured softly. “But I brought this for our daughter.”

  His voice was thick, gravelly, as if it hadn’t been used in many months. He was different now, thin as a rake in his skinny blue jeans, his face almost as white as his T-shirt. His eyes were hollowed out by grief. I thought about the future he’d now face without Olivia in it—the future we’d all face.

  He settled Zoe in my arms, then reached inside a large plastic bag and pulled out a framed picture, setting it on the ground in front of Zoe and me.

  It was a charcoal sketch of Olivia. In it my daughter came to life: the tilt of her chin, the spark in her eye, the tug of a smile on her lips. She was looking at the artist, and I could see what she’d been feeling in that moment cracked open wide and on display for all to see: love.

  I moved Zoe to my hip and knelt to trace my fingers across the portrait. “Did you draw this?”

  He nodded. “I thought Zoe . . .” He stopped, raw heartache playing across his face.

  “It’s beautiful. I’ll hang it in Zoe’s room.”

  On the horizon, the sun burst out from behind a collection of clouds, painting the sky gold. I looked around at my family. Never in a million years had I thought it would turn out this way.

  I closed my eyes and let the grief wash over me, let the bitter sting of loss clutch at my bones. What followed was a release, not just of grief, but of gratitude too. Of what Olivia had given me, both in life and in death.

  One of my tears splashed onto Zoe’s cheek. She blinked, startled, and reached for my chest.

  I pulled Zoe close, breathed in her scent, and whispered in her ear: “Whenever, whatever. I’m here forever.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Publishing a book is a team sport, and there have been so many amazing people along the way who have made this book a reality. First, thank you to my super-agent, Carly Watters at P.S. Literary Agency, for picking me out of the slush pile and making my dreams come true. You guided a novice writer to a debut author and believed in me every step of the way. I’m forever grateful for that.

  Thank you also to my fabulous editor, Kate Dresser. Your insight and enthusiasm turned this novel into a polished piece of work, and truly inspired me. Thank you so much for taking a chance on me and being a champion for this book.

  I am so grateful to the team at Simon & Schuster and Gallery Books who’ve worked so passionately on this novel: Molly Gregory, editorial assistant; Chelsea Cohen, production editor; Jen Bergstrom, publisher; the marketing team, Liz Psaltis, Abby Zidle, Mackenzie Hickey, and Sade Oyalowo; and publicist Michelle Podberezniak. Thank you also to HarperCollins UK, especially to editorial director Manpreet Grewal, who brought my book to the UK; editorial assistant Cara Chimirri; and the marketing and sales team, JP Huntings and Georgina Green. And thank you to my publicists Crystal and Taylor at BookSparks for giving my book the reach I hoped for.

  I’m also grateful to Richard, my husband, my best friend, and my biggest champion, who not only let me disappear to write whenever I needed to but actively encouraged me every step of the way; and my boys, Adam and Aidan, who inspire and delight me every single day. Thank you for teaching me about love: the unconditional type. Also my wonderful friends who’ve listened to me talk about writing over coffee, wine, or basically any other time: Aimee, Anna, Annemarie, Danika, Natalie, Laura, Sarah, Nick, and Shareef. Thank you! And thank you to Lisa and Michael, who patiently answered my endless questions about police and detective procedures.

  I am indebted to my mom, who encouraged me to reach for my dreams; my dad, who in life taught me to laugh and in death taught me to say good-bye; and my siblings, Kimberly, Sheri, and Daniel.

  I would never have finished this book if it weren’t for the insightful and inspiring teachings on story, plot, and character by John Truby in his London masterclass. Thank you for taking the time to answer all my questions.

  Finally, thank you to all my readers and every single reviewer and book blogger who’s taken the time to talk about my book. You are the reason I write. Thank you.

  Don’t miss Christina McDonald’s thrilling new novel

  WHO SHE USED TO BE

  * * *

  Available from Gallery Books in January 2020

  Keep on reading for a sneak peek!

  1

  * * *

  She’s dead.

  The first thought charged at me, stark and unrelenting. My body was frozen, rigid as my shocked mind tried to absorb this fact.

  She was slumped on the floor in the living room I grew up in, lips turning blue, mouth gaping, brown eyes staring at nothing. A dark pool of blood spread like molasses from beneath her head, seeping into the sand-colored carpet. The urgent beat of her pulse had faded from a quiet, imperceptible rhythm to an unrelenting nothingness.

  Both my hands were clamped around my mother’s throat. An emotion thudded so viciously in my chest it was painful, an intense, searing sensation, a cross between fury and fear.

  I stared at the blood cooling on my hands. It was everywhere: under my fingernails, in my mouth, in my hair. It streaked my shirt and soaked into the knees of my jeans, blackening, congealing, filling the air with its metallic breath. The sickly sweet scent lodged in my nose, clinging to the back of my throat so I felt I would vomit.

  My next thought: What have I done?

  “Mom!” I tried to scream, but only a choked sob came out.

  My head spun and I started to shake uncontrollably, shock draping itself over me as my eyes fixed on a painting of a field of daffodils. It was new, the only new item in Mom’s house. It was so bright and cheerful, the opposite of my efficient, serious mother.

  Hail clattered against the windowpanes, wrenching my gaze away from my mom’s body to the rain galloping down the glass. The wind thrashed against the house, the sound of an animal howling. Thunder boomed outside and I counted, just like Mom taught me. One, two, three.

  The living room lights flickered, illuminating, then covering the familiar items of my life: Mom’s favorite green armchair, the cast-iron fireplace, a parade of family photos on the walls. A sharp pain wrenched in my chest and I swayed like a drunk, sweat dampening my skin. A flash of lightning hissed, illuminating a bulky shadow on the other side of the room.

  Terror drained my blood to my toes, making my feet thick and heavy as statues. Fear tangled metallic and salty on my tongue, shooting through me like a drug, an electric pulse buzzing straight to my brain and zipping along every nerve ending.

  Suddenly I was outside, the night sky pressing on my skin.

  The burning scent of ozone mingled with the pungent scent of wet earth, scorching the fine hairs of my nostrils as I dragged oxygen into my screaming lungs. Black and purple clouds roiled in the sky above. Thunder rumbled ominously. The air crackled with electricity, static lifting the fine hairs along my bare arms. Rain skidded into my scalp, licking at my face.

  Mom! I sobbed, tears mingling with the rain on my cheeks. Air hissed in and out of my lungs as I ran through the tree-clad suburban street. I ran from the blackness that threatened like agony. I ran until my lungs burned and my legs ached and my chest felt like it would collapse, my tennis shoes slapping hard against the slick pavement.

  I was crying so hard I could barely breathe, my breath stuttering in my throat, chest clenching tight with pain. I skirted the perimeter of the elementary school and pounded toward the park, passing cars parked neatly along the curb. In the distance I registered the sound of a dog barking. I veered toward it.

  Then, just there, beyond the smooth, black curves and cut-out shapes of a steel statue there was a burst of light. Somebody was taking pictures from the viewpoint, capturing Seattle’s iconic nightscape lit by shards of lightning. Rain hammered into my eyes as I sprinted toward the shadowy outline. I drew level with the statue, my heart pounding so loud I could hear nothing but the drumbeat in my ears.

  Suddenly there was a massive boom, an explosion
somewhere I couldn’t identify. And then the light came, crashing against my retinas, hissing along my nerves, exploding inside my organs.

  I fell to the ground spasming, crippled with agonizing pain. I heard a shout from very far away as fire engulfed the inside of my body, every nerve ending flayed open and consumed with heat. Molten lava licked at my core, incinerating my organs and radiating out to my skeleton, my blood vessels, my skin. A blistering fizz roiled through me, forcing my eyes shut; I was no longer in control of my brain or body. I was completely paralyzed.

  The smell of electricity and heated metal stung my nose.

  And then there was nothing.

  Blackness swallowed me whole.

  GALLERY READERS GROUP GUIDE

  This readers group guide for The Night Olivia Fell includes an introduction, discussion questions, ideas for enhancing your book club, and a Q&A with author Christina McDonald. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book.

  Introduction

  * * *

  In the small hours of the morning, Abi Knight is startled awake by the phone call no mother ever wants to get: her teenage daughter, Olivia, has fallen off a bridge. Not only is Olivia brain-dead, she’s pregnant and must remain on life support to keep her baby alive. And then Abi sees the angry bruises circling Olivia’s wrists.

  When the police unexpectedly rule Olivia’s fall an accident, Abi decides to find out what really happened that night. Heartbroken and grieving, she unravels the threads of her daughter’s life. Was Olivia’s fall an accident? Or something far more sinister?