“I really don’t know much.”
“He used to help me with school. He could do really difficult math problems in his head. He remembers everything, things he reads, things he sees, things with no personal significance—like what kind of shoes someone wore on any given day. Seriously, I can’t even remember what I had for lunch. I’m clearly not like him. I’m sure he can tell you the medically approved term for his condition, if you want to ask him.”
“I’m sorry, a condition? Something is wrong with him?”
Her head drops a bit. “You have to understand something, Sophie. I love my brother, and I want what is best for him.”
“Yes, I know, Cassie. I care about him too. Very much.”
“What I’m trying to say is...I don’t know...Oliver...he doesn’t do things like a normal person.”
“Cassie, it’s okay. I think I know by now he’s a weird man. That’s all right. I’m a weird woman.”
“That’s not going to be enough to make it work.”
“Go on,” I say, not rejecting the thought.
“Look, Juvie was a difficult time for Oliver. I don’t want to see him go down like that again. He really can’t be with someone who can’t handle it.”
“Are you saying I can’t handle it?”
“That’s...that’s not what I meant. Sophie, I’m trying to do you a favor. I know him...he’s a part of my heart. He will make you happy, make you laugh, more importantly make you think, and you’ll fall hard for him. But he’s a complicated man, hard to understand. He’ll be great at first, but then you’ll see. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”
I stand my ground. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Oliver’s eyelids begin to quiver. Then, he awakens, looking alert, lovely, and somewhat upset. “Hey, big bro,” Cassie lulls with her honeyed voice. “It’s good to see you’re up. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” he mutters. He moves his head to the side and looks directly at me. “What are you doing here, Sophie?”
I come closer to the bed. “Oh, well, it’s nice to see you, too.”
“Why are you partially unclothed?”
Cassie’s eyes shoot open as if she’s just witnessed an offense. I examine my yellow shirtdress with the hems falling to my thighs.
“I was in California today,” I retort. “Imagine my concern when Cassie calls to tell me you’re in the hospital. You should’ve told me about the kidney stones.”
“It wasn’t necessary.”
“What do you mean it wasn’t necessary?” I fire an icy glare at him. “You’re in the hospital. It clearly was.”
“It’s not a big deal, Sophie.”
“I don’t care if it was a paper cut, don’t hide things from me. How would you feel if I had hidden something from you?”
“Both of you, relax! I don’t want to be a peacemaker,” Cassie cuts in. “The important thing is, Oliver is getting better and he’ll be let out of the hospital soon. It’s what matters, right?”
Oliver shakes his head. Defensive walls go up and tension pierces the air. He isn’t the slenderest bit pleased.
“No,” he argues. “I’m going home right now.”
***
AFTER OLIVER SPEAKS to some people at the hospital they have him released. He goes home and I willingly contribute with attention and care. This situation makes him overly vulnerable, which in turn makes him abnormally exasperating. It’s perhaps the first time he doesn’t ask me to stay with him. He does the contrary—tells me to leave. Regardless of his wounded pride and virility, I stay anyway.
“I can do this on my own, Sophia. I don’t need your help,” he whines like a little boy as we go out of the elevator and into the main bedroom—my arm around his waist, his hand on my shoulder.
“Stop acting like a child, Oliver.”
The way to the room starts to feel very far. I’m not exactly sure as to how I can be of assistance, considering he’s taller and heavier. He mumbles something in another language. I’m not able to sort out what he says, but I assume it isn’t anything cheerful.
“Sophie.”
“Jesus. Is it that hard for you to let yourself be taken care of? You’re just arguing for the sake of arguing.”
“This goes both ways, doesn’t it?”
“Shut up, Oliver.”
All to avoid the humiliation of his condition, he moves me away from him and carefully walks to the bed pressing his stomach as if it hurts, and then collapses onto the bed.
“You see?” he says. “I can do this by myself.”
In my gut, I know an excess of sympathy helps no one. “Yes, you are a strong man, but you’re tired now.” I fluff a pillow and pat it. I remove his shoes and reach his waist to pull down his pants.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“You can’t undress me and expect me to do nothing about it.”
“I’m trying to make you feel comfortable.”
“I like that dress.” He suddenly changes the subject. “But I like what’s underneath even more.”
I roll my eyes a little bit, half annoyed, half smiling. He pulls me to the bed until I’m perched over his body. “Oliver, don’t,” I say. “You’re in recovery.”
He begins trailing his nose up my neck. “No, I am in pain because you’re distant.”
“Distant? I’m on top of you! I don’t want you to get hurt. The doctor said you have to—”
“Not having you hurts me.”
“Do you really have to say that? That is so low.” He breathes into my ear. Instinctively, I shiver all over. “Wait. No,” I mumble as he softly bites my earlobe. “Don’t...”
Right there, in the midst of making love, I become hyperaware of my emotional situation. There are things he hasn’t told me, and yet, there is that voice at the top of my head telling me I’m falling for him at an abnormal velocity. Who do I think I’m kidding? Have we even discussed the concept of emotional depth?
An overpowering reflex for survival takes over. I slither out of his embrace and move away from him to a corner of the bed.
“What’s wrong?”
I don’t have the foggiest notion, so I shrug and tell him just that. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I can’t do this right now.”
“Why not?” His brows furrow in confusion. “It’s okay. You’re not going to hurt me.”
Nothing could have prepared me for this, for spot-on, candid honesty. “This is all catching up with me.” I breathe fast, agitated.
“Catching up to you?” He sits up with caution, letting his head fall back against the bedhead. “Breathe, Sophie.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “What is it?”
“Everything is moving really fast.”
“And I’m assuming this is bad.”
“Well, yes! So much has happened today and I think you should get some rest. I know I need it, too.”
He looks confused beyond belief. “Why is fast an issue all of a sudden?”
“It’s not just that.”
“Then what is it? Anything that is troubling you, tell me, and we’ll resolve this.”
I nod before smiling at him. “Oliver.” I look at him, desperate to be understood, but he just looks confused. “I want a real relationship. One where you can be truthful and I can trust you wholeheartedly. One where I can be truthful and you can trust me wholeheartedly. No secrets. I want to know who you are and who you’ve been. I don’t want to find out about you by some article on the Internet. I want you to tell me everything, good and bad. You can trust me.”
After I say it, his eyes become fixed to the window. I develop a sudden urge to withdraw from the situation, out of complete awkwardness. I wish the bed would magically open up and drag me down with it to a hidden place.
His silence is too painful. “Please say something.”
I pull my legs to my chest and run my hands up and down them to generate what little warmth I can. My face contours in
to what disappointment looks like. Why is he hesitating? He has never hesitated before.
***
MORNING COMES QUICKLY and I cannot bear to look Oliver in the eye before he wakes up, so I flee with what shred of respect I have in me.
It only takes two really relaxed people to obstruct the flow on a busy Manhattan sidewalk. I come to this conclusion as Stacey and I walk out of a coffee shop—I’m telling her about Oliver and his unspoken reply—and a stampede of ungraceful walkers yell at us to move out of the way. Stacey yells back at them.
“Why couldn’t he have said something?” I throw my hands in the air. “At this point, I would’ve settled for anything. Anything would’ve been better than his silence.”
Stacey takes a sip of her foam-filled coffee. “Men are asswipes.” She means it. Jonathan has called it quits on her, but Stacey has the strength of raging fire and the willpower of ten angry gladiators. “I’m really done with the whole dating situation, you know. I’m out of the ballpark! I’m done going through my love life with a catcher’s mitt on both hands. I’m now ready to fucking throw something back at someone!”
Maybe I’m used to having a catcher’s mitt on my hands—Oliver throwing out witty comments, outraging propositions, over-the-top good looks, and whatnot.
“I get it, Stacey. I threw a curve ball at him, a please let-me-know-the-real-you curve ball that scared him to his very core.”
“Let’s hope the fucker can catch.”
A few scalp scratchers later, I open the front door to my apartment. “Hey, I didn’t know you’d be home,” I say, seeing Jess walking around, carrying a big basket full of grimy clothes.
“I have nothing to wear!” She throws a dirty dress into the washing machine. “The day has come, Sophie. I’m finally meeting Eric’s folks tonight, and I just chose this day to be a gigantic pile of goo.”
“You can wear something of mine if you want.”
“I can barely fit my thumb into one of your dresses, let alone breathe in it. Besides, I just ate a pizza. I feel gross and fat.”
I let myself laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jess. You’re not fat.”
“Yes I am.”
“No! You’re not!”
Speaking of her appearance, an unpleasant image pops up in my head, the image of the bruises on her body.
“So...you doing okay with Eric?”
Her pearly eyes light up instantly. “Surprisingly, yes! I think he’s coming along. We just had to get through a little bad rut is all.” Her joy spreads like a wildfire across the apartment, although I’m not quite permeated by it.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes! I am so happy. Really, I am. I think he might be the one.”
The one? I could scream and bang my head on the wall. “You don’t really believe in ‘the one’, do you?”
“Of course I do! You need to have some faith, Sophie.”
“It’s a hype, Jess. Nobody has just ‘one’ love of their life.”
She ignores my comment and dashes around me whilst I stand there like a dazed bird after hitting a window. I follow her into the laundry room, which also happens to be the bathroom.
“Jess...I...have to ask...”
She keeps on tossing clothes into the washing machine. “Please...don’t. Don’t do it. Don’t ruin it for me. I’m fine.”
“But...”
“I’m fine!” she says, louder.
I bite my lip and glue my eyes on the floor. “Okay.”
“Why do you hate Eric so much?” From her tone, you can tell she demands an answer.
“I don’t hate him. I just think you deserve better,” I confess, leaning my head on the doorframe. “I’m sorry, Jess. I wish I could tell you different.” I want to speak louder but all I can do is mumble. “I don’t usually say this, but you mean a lot to me. If there’s something you want to talk about, or whatever...I’m here for you.”
She turns the cycle knob on the washer, fully ignoring me. “So what are you doing home so early?”
When she’s ready, we’ll talk about it. “I’m waiting for Oliver. I have an appointment with the police.”
“Is it serious?”
“I don’t know. I’m really wishing that someone will tell me this has all been a bad joke and there’s really no one out to get me. A girl can hope, can’t she?”
“A girl can also pray,” she says in a very encouraging tone. “Where are you with the whole living with Oliver thing?”
“Nowhere.” I sigh. “I am nowhere.”
“Does that mean you’re not moving in with him?”
I shrug. With all that’s been going on, I don’t think I have a very lucid mind to make a decision, much less a good one. I have to choose between living with a man I don’t like—Eric—and living with a man I like very much. Without a doubt, choosing Oliver is easier. But the question is: which is more frightening? When it comes to love, nothing is simple.
***
WE ARRIVE AT the FBI office to discuss the evidence that has pushed the case in a specific direction.
“Good afternoon, Detective.” Oliver extends his hand for a shake as we step out of the elevator and Detective Hamilton is waiting for us. He offers us some coffee, then leads us into the meeting room with transparent glass walls. I put my arm around Oliver as he walks— slowly and carefully—and hold it there tightly for support. He’s in pain after the surgery, very weak, though he won’t say it out loud. At the long conference table, Oliver takes a seat at the head and I sit to his right.
“Well, what do we know?” Oliver prods, straight to business.
“We have an idea,” the detective says, pulling up a chair.
“An idea?” My voice shrieks. “You have an idea?”
“We searched your apartment through and through, Miss Cavall,” the detective says flatly. “We found nothing, except for the doll.”
“What do you mean nothing?” I eye him. “The place was trashed.”
“We didn’t find any evidence. No sign of forced entry or hurried exit. I’m guessing our friend knew who was home and who wasn’t.”
“Which means he could’ve taken me right then and there. I was alone.”
“Not quite,” he counters. “He was there to scare you, nothing else. While we found no DNA, no fingerprints, no nothing, he was rash. The overturned table tells us that. Something happened to him that day...made him angry. It’s almost like he had a breakdown.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“We tried tracking his position from different Twitter accounts, but he left no digital breadcrumbs. I can tell you this: he’s skillful, and very smart. I don’t know if I can say the same about whoever broke into your apartment.”
“Are you saying it’s not the same person?”
“It’s a possibility,” he replies.
Oliver pulls on his tie and undoes the top button. “What do you have on the doll? Who bought it? Where did it come from?”
“We’ll know soon enough.” The detective opens a manila folder on the table before him. Without emotion, he nudges several photographs of the doll toward us. “As you can see, there’s no neck stamp and no body tag sewn on the side of the doll. This would’ve told us who manufactured it. The dress, however, had a tag but it was cut out.”
“What about the knife?”
“Taken from the knife block on the kitchen counter. No prints. It’s clean.”
There’s a knock on the door. A lady agent peeks her head in and says, “Sir, she’s here.”
“Good. Send her in,” he orders. “We called in the best doll collector in New York.”
In walks a flashy Asian girl, about ten, in a white tee, denim skirt, and pink, knee-high Converse boots. She has brown hair, braided in pigtails, and a slew of colorful bangles adorn her slim wrists.
“She’s a kid,” I quickly note.
“No, I’m a fairy and grant wishes.”
I turn to the detective. “And she has an attitude.”
“What is this?” Oliver says, serious.
“This is Helen Makigookee,” the detective gestures. “Helen has quite an impressive collection of dolls from all around the world, over two-hundred, knows them inside and out.”
“Two hundred thirty-two. And it’s not Makigookee.” She says all pompously, rolling her eyes. “It’s Makiguchi, as in Gucci. Is this going to take long? My mom’s waiting outside to take me to the dentist.”
“Aren’t you a little old for dolls?” Oliver taunts, looking at her. I throw him a glare.
“I don’t play with them, you fool. I collect them.”
“Same thing. You’re what, fifteen?”
“Almost twelve.”
“Same thing.”
“Mr. Black, please,” the detective says civilly. “Helen, take a seat wherever you like. We aren’t going to take much of your time.”
As soon as Helen sits down, she spots the photographs of the doll on the table and stretches her little hands across me to reach them. The three of us stare at her, then at each other.
She studies the photos. “I need to see her.”
We’re calling it a “her” now?
“I’m afraid the doll is in evidence, Helen,” says the detective.
“And I’m afraid I need to see her. I can’t just look at a picture. I have to touch her.”
I stiffen. Oliver props his elbows on the table and runs his hands through his hair, seemingly about to lose it. Detective Hamilton calls for his partner and orders him to bring in the doll from the case. The four of us sit in relative silence until the doll is brought in. Helen is given a pair of latex gloves; then she takes the doll in her arms. My stomach twists and I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. I’m glad I’m sitting down; if I were standing, my legs would give out.
“Interesting.” Helen examines the creepy figurine. “She seems to have a unique structure. Silicone arms, hands, and legs, full-face, white body. Very soft and delicate. Perfect stringing. The seam on the back is almost invisible. Unlike any doll in my collection. No signs of damaging. Seems new. Feels like it just came out of a box too. Could be Mattel or Madame Alexander. Hard to tell. It’s not an American Girl. It’s not a look-a-like or a fake either. The dress, shoes, and jewelry don’t seem part of a meet outfit. It must be the owner’s choosing or making.” She strokes her hair tenderly. “She’s art.”
A Diamond in the Rough Page 24
