Thief (Love Me With Lies #3)

by Tarryn Fisher

  “Christmas is important to me,” she said. “This is wrong. A child should never be away from her mother on Christmas.”

  “A child should never be away from her father on Christmas either,” I shot back. “But you made sure that happened for two years.”

  “This is your fault for moving away. I shouldn’t have to pay for your asinine decisions.”

  She was right to a degree. I didn’t have anything for her, so I told her I had to go and hung up.

  Christmas isn’t important to Leah. She doesn’t value family or tradition. She values being able to put our daughter in a Christmas dress and carting her to the numerous Christmas parties she attends. All the wealthy mothers do that. Tis the season to show off your children and drink low-fat, liquored-up eggnog.

  I go shopping for her presents the day I find out I’m getting her for Christmas. Sara goes with me for reference. We’ve had drinks a couple times and I land up telling her everything about Olivia, Leah and Estella, so when I ask her to come shopping with me, she jumps at it.

  “So, no dolls,” she says, holding up a Barbie. I shake my head.

  “Her mother buys her dolls. She has too many.”

  “What about art supplies? Nurture the inner artiste.”

  I nod. “Perfect, her mother hates her to be dirty.”

  We head over to the art aisle. She dumps play dough, paints, an easel and crayons into the cart.

  “So, any word about Olivia?”

  “Can you not?”

  She laughs and grabs a box of chalk. “It’s like a soap opera, mate. I just want to know what happens next.”

  I stop at a tie-dye t-shirt kit. “Let’s get this, she’ll like it.”

  Sara nods in approval.

  “I haven’t reached out to any of our friends. She told me to leave her alone and that’s exactly what I’m doing. As far as I know — she’s knocked up and living fuckily ever after.”

  Sara shakes her head. “Unfinished business is a bitch.”

  “Our business is finished,” I say more sharply than I intend. “I live in London. I have a daughter. I am happy. So fucking deliriously happy.”

  We both laugh at the same time.

  I talk to my mother the day before she flies out with Steve and Estella. She’s acting odd. When I ask her about it, she stumbles over her words and says she’s stressed about the holidays. I feel guilty. Steve and my mother are foregoing their usual plans to bring Estella to me. I could have gone home, but I’m not ready. She’s everywhere — under every twisted tree, in every car on the road. One day, I tell myself, the sting will subside and I’ll be able to look at a fucking orange and not think of her.

  Or maybe it won’t. Maybe life is about living with the hauntings.

  I buy a tree and then scour the city for pink Christmas ornaments. I find a box of tiny ballerina shoes to hang on the tree and pink pigs with curly silver tails. When I grab two armfuls of silver and pink foil, the sales clerk grins at me.

  “Someone has a daughter…”

  I nod. I like the way that sounds.

  She points to a box of pink flamingos and winks. I throw those on the counter too.

  I set everything up in the living room so that when she arrives we can decorate together. My mother and Steve are staying at the Ritz Carlton a few blocks away. I figure I’ll let Estella choose what we eat for Christmas dinner, though if she asks for sushi or a rack of lamb, I’m screwed. The following day, I arrive at the airport to collect them an hour early.

  I wait, sitting on the edge of one of the baggage claim carousels that aren’t in use. I’m anxious. I wander off to buy an espresso and drink it, looking out at an empty runway. I don’t know why I feel like this, but something ugly is curling in my stomach.

  People start walking through the gate, so I get up and wait near the front of the crowd, trying to spot my mother’s hair. Blonde is a hard color to miss on a woman. My brother once told me that he remembers her having red hair when he was little, but she firmly denies it. I pull out my phone to check if there are any missed calls or texts from her and see none. She always texts when she lands. My stomach does the sick lurch. I have a really strange feeling about all of this. What if Leah has done something stupid? There is nothing I’d put past her at this point. I am about to dial my mother’s number, when my phone starts flashing. I see a number I don’t recognize.

  “Hello?”

  “Caleb Drake?” The voice is a woman’s, breathy and quiet, like she’s trying not to be overheard.

  I get chills. I remember the last time I got a call like this.

  “My name is Claribel Vasquez. I am a counselor at Boca South Medical Center.” Her voice drops off and I wait for her to continue, my heart beating wildly.

  “There’s been an accident,” she says. “Your parents … your daughter. They-”

  “Are they alive?”

  She pauses. It feels like an hour, ten hours. Why is she taking so long to answer me!

  “There was a car accident. A semi-”

  “Estella?” I demand.

  “She’s in critical condition. Your parents-”

  I don’t need her to say anything else. I sit, except there is nothing to sit on. I slide down the wall I am leaning against and hit the ground, my hand covering my face. I can barely hold the phone to my ear I am shaking so much.

  “Is her mother there?”

  “No, we haven’t been able to contact your ex-wife.”

  “Estella,” I say. It’s all I can manage. I’m too afraid to ask.

  “She came out of surgery about an hour ago. There was a lot of internal bleeding. The doctors are monitoring her now. It would be best if you came back right away.”

  I hang up without saying goodbye and walk straight to the ticket counter. There is a flight in three hours. I have just enough time to go home and get my passport and come right back. I don’t think. I just throw a few things in a bag, catch a cab back to the airport and board my flight. I don’t sleep, I don’t eat, I don’t think. You’re in shock, I tell myself. Your parents are dead. And then I remind myself not to think. I need to get home, get to Estella. I’ll mourn them later. Right now, I don’t need to think about anything but Estella.

  I take a cab from the airport. I call Claribel directly as soon as the door closes. She tells me Estella’s condition hasn’t changed and says she will be waiting for me in the hospital lobby. When I run through the doors, Claribel is waiting for me. She is childlike in size, and I have to bend my neck down to look at her.

  “She’s still critical,” she says right away. “We still haven’t managed to get in touch with Leah. Are there any other numbers we can call?”

  I shake my head. “Her mother, maybe. Have you tried her?”

  Claribel shakes her head. I hand her my phone. “It’s under in-law.”

  She takes it and walks me to the elevator.

  “You might want to call Sam Foster. If anyone knows where she is, he does.”

  She nods and steps inside with me. We take the elevator to the critical care unit. I watch the floors light up as we pass them. When we reach the fifth floor, Claribel steps out first and swipes an access card through a keypad next to the door. It smells like antiseptic, though the walls are painted a warm tan color. It does little to lighten the mood, and somewhere off in the distance, I can hear crying. We walk briskly to room 549. The door is closed. She pauses outside and places a small hand on my arm.

  “It’s going to be hard to see her. Just keep in mind there is still a lot of swelling on her face.”

  I breathe deeply as she opens the door, and I step inside. The light is dim and a symphony of medical equipment is playing around the room. I approach her bed slowly. She is a tiny lump under the covers. When I stand above her, I start crying. A tiny piece of red hair sticks out from the bandages on her head. That is the only way I can identify her. Her face is so swollen that even if she were awake, she wouldn’t be able to open her eyes. There are tubes everywhere
— up her nose, down her throat, snaking into her tiny, bruised arms. How did she survive this? How is her heart still beating?

  Claribel stands at the window and politely looks away while I cry over my daughter. I am too afraid to touch her, so I run my pinkie over her pinkie, the only part of her that isn’t bruised.

  After a few minutes, the doctors come in to speak to me. Doctors. She has multiple because of all the injuries she sustained. By the time the 747 touched down on American soil with me in its belly, my three-year-old daughter had survived surgery on hers. I listen to them talk about her organs, her chances of recovery, the months of rehabilitation she’s facing. I watch the back of their white coats as they’re leaving the room and I hate them. Claribel, who had slipped out a few minutes earlier, comes back into the room with her phone in her hand.

  “I spoke with Sam,” she says softly. “Leah is in Thailand. It’s why no one has been able to reach her.”

  My eyes narrow. It’s almost second nature when Leah’s name is mentioned.

  “Why?”

  Claribel clears her throat. It’s a tiny, chirping sound.

  “It’s all right,” I tell her. “I don’t have ties to her emotionally.”

  “She went with her boyfriend. Since you were supposed to have Estella for Christmas.”

  “God, and she just didn’t tell anyone? Was he able to contact her?”

  She pulls on her necklace and frowns. “He’s trying.”

  I cover my eyes with the heels of my hands. I haven’t eaten or slept in thirty hours. I glance at Estella.

  “Her mother should be here. Let me know as soon as you hear something.”

  “I’ll get them to send a cot up. You should eat. You need to be strong for Estella,” she says.

  I nod.

  I don’t eat. But, I do fall asleep in the chair next to her bed. When I wake, there is a nurse in the room checking her vitals. I rub a hand across my face, my vision blurry.

  “How is she?” I ask. My voice is hoarse.

  “Vitals are stable.” She smiles when she sees me rubbing the back of my neck. “Your wife went to get a cot sent over.”

  “I’m sorry. Who?” Had Leah made it back that quickly?

  “Estella’s mother,” she says. “She was just here.”

  I nod and start walking toward the door. I want to know where the hell she was while our daughter almost lost her life. You don’t just leave the country without telling anyone when you had a child. She could have made it here before I did if anyone had been able to contact her. Why she didn’t bother leaving a number with my parents … I stop walking. Maybe she had. They weren’t here to confirm it. Maybe that’s why my mother had sounded so strange on the phone. Or maybe my mother had known who Leah left the country with, and that’s what made her upset. My mother. Think about that later, I tell myself for the thousandth time today. My feet kick-start and I’m walking again. Around the corner, into the main corridor where the nurses’ station is. Beeping … beeping … the smell of antiseptic … I can hear muffled footsteps and hushed voices, a doctor’s pager going off. I think about the crying I heard earlier and wonder what happened to the patient. Had it been tears of fear or mourning or regret? I could cry the trifecta of those emotions right now. I look for red hair and see none. Rubbing my hand across the back of my neck, I stand in the middle of the corridor, not sure where to go. I feel detached, as if I’m floating above my body instead of being inside of it. A balloon on a string, I think. Is this what exhaustion looks like, everything muted and blurry? Suddenly, I’m not sure what I came out here to do. I turn around to go back to Estella’s room and that’s when I see her. No more than a few yards away, we’re both still, watching each other, surprised — and yet, not — to have fallen into this same corridor together. I feel the balloon pop and suddenly, I’m being pulled back into my body. My thoughts regain their sharpness. Sounds, smells, colors — they all come into focus. I am living in high definition again.

  “Olivia.”

  She walks slowly toward me and doesn’t stop a few feet away like I think she will. She comes right into my arms, molding herself against me. I hold her, pressing my face into her hair. How does such a tiny fleck of a woman have so much power that I can be restored just by looking at her? I breathe her in; feel her under my fingertips. I know, I know, I know that I am the match and she is the gasoline and without each other we are just two objects void of reaction.

  “You were in the room earlier?”

  She nods.

  “The nurse said that Estella’s mother was here. I was looking for red hair…”

  She nods again. “She assumed and I didn’t correct her. Sam called Cammie, Cammie called me,” she says. “I came right away.” She touches my face, both hands on either cheek. “Let’s go back in and sit with her.”

  I blow air through my nose trying to quell the overwhelming emotions, the relief that she’s here, the fear for my daughter, and the anger at myself. I let her lead me back to Estella and we sit on either side of her, saying nothing.

  Olivia stays with me for three days. She coaxes me into eating, brings me clothes and sits with Estella while I shower in the little bathroom attached to the room. In the days that she is there, I never ask why she came, or where her husband is. I leave out the questions and allow us to exist together in the worst few days of my life. Besides Leah, another person missing in action is my brother, Seth. Steve had mentioned that he was going on a deep-sea fishing trip the last time I spoke to him. I wonder if Claribel had managed to contact him and if he knew that our mother and stepfather were dead? Then, the strangeness of the situation hits me. Leah and Seth both missing at the same time, and how strangely my mother was behaving days before they were supposed to fly to London with my daughter. Had my mother known that Seth and Leah were together? I try not to think about it. What they do now is their business.

  On day two, Olivia quietly reminds me that I have to make funeral arrangements for my parents. I’m on the phone with the funeral director late in the afternoon when Olivia walks in holding two cups of coffee. She refuses to drink hospital coffee and has been making the pilgrimage across the street to get Starbucks twice a day. I take the cup from her and she sits down opposite me. Albert — Trebla — the funeral director is asking questions, but I can’t focus on what he’s saying. Flowers, religious preferences, email notifications. It’s all too much. When she sees me struggling with the decisions, she sets her coffee down and takes the phone from me. I hear her speak in the voice she reserves for the courtroom.

  “Where are you located? Yes, I’ll be there in forty minutes.”

  She is gone for three hours. When she gets back, she tells me that everything is taken care of. She is just in time to see Estella wake up. I’ve been looking at her eyelids for days, so I almost cry when I see the color in my daughter’s irises. She whimpers and asks for her mommy. I kiss her nose and tell her that Mommy is on her way. Leah had trouble getting a flight out of Thailand. We’ve done nothing but fight over the phone. Last I spoke to her was a few hours ago, and she was in New York switching planes. She blames me, of course. I blame me too.

  When the doctors and nurses leave the room, Estella falls asleep holding my hand. I am so grateful she didn’t ask about her grandparents. Long after her fingers go limp, I’m still gripping her little hand, my heart beating a little easier.

  Olivia is standing at the window watching the rain late in the day. She left earlier to go home and shower. I expected her to be gone for the night, but she came back two hours later, wearing jeans and a white tunic shirt, her hair still wet and smelling of flowers. I watch her silhouette and for the tenth time that day, am overtaken with the grief/regret cocktail I’ve been drunk on.

  “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have made my parents bring my daughter halfway across the world to see me…” It’s the first time I’ve said any of this out loud.

  She looks startled, turning away from the window and
glancing my way. She doesn’t say anything right away. Just walks over and sits in her usual chair.

  “The day I saw you in the music store it was raining too, do you remember?”

  I nod. I remember everything about that day — the rain, the drops of water clinging to her hair, the way she smelled like gardenia when she furtively approached me.

  “Dobson Scott Orchard was standing outside of the music store. He offered to walk me to my car with his umbrella. I don’t know if I was one of the ones he watched, or if he decided on the spot, but I had a choice: high tail it out of there under his umbrella, or go inside and talk to you. It would seem that I made the right choice that day.”

  “My God, Olivia. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’ve never told anyone,” she shrugs, “but, that moment — that one, ever-changing moment — has made a profound impact on me. My entire life would have been different had I not walked toward you. The next time you would have seen me would have been on the news.” She nods, staring at the floor, her little mouth pulled off to the side. When she continues, her voice is lower than before. “The sum of all the things we shouldn’t have done in our lives is enough to kill us with the weight, Caleb Drake. Neither you, nor I, nor anyone else in this life could possibly know the chain reaction our decisions cause. If you’re to blame, then so am I.”

  “How?”

  “If I’d done what my heart said and said yes to you, you wouldn’t have left for London. Luca and Steve would be alive and your daughter wouldn’t be in the hospital in a medical-induced coma.”

  We are quiet for a few minutes as I think over her words. Everything she has said is frightening.

  “So why did you take his case?”

  She breathes deeply. I hear the air leave her in a great sigh.

  “Brace yourself, this is going to sound really sick.”

  I mock grab the arms of my chair, and she snickers.