by DM Sharp
“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.
Chapter Twelve
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.
<
br /> 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.
Chapter Thirteen
Olivia Carter
“Once we get off the plane, we’ve only got a short drive, about an hour, to reach our destination. Things will work out.”
I step off the plane like I’m wading through sticky glue, my boots feel so heavy as my three companions form a triangle around me until we get outside where the brightness of the sun and sheer blue of the sky make my eyes wince. For once I miss the dark and rain.
“Welcome to Utah, Olivia,” Dr. Nate says as he beckons to me to get into another black sedan that has drawn up beside us. “You’ll probably find it interesting to know that the word Utah is derived from the name of the Ute tribe. It means ‘people of the mountains’ in the Ute language.”
“Why would that interest me?”
“Well, your mother was Native American, wasn’t she?”
“Guess so.”
“We’re going to my rehabilitation facility called Cedars and you’ll stay with us for a bit while we give you all the help you need.”
“I don’t need help,” I mutter darkly under my breath as the car door shuts behind me and the blacked out windows give my eyes a break from the surrounding brightness.
The car winds its way through the slick, rock canyons, aspen and pine forests. I’d seen pictures of the red rock cliffs in magazines before, but this was something else. My eyes are barely able to take in one type of scenery before it totally changes again. There are more notices for national and state parks and monuments than I’ve ever seen in any other region in the country.
Dr. Carmichael’s voice fades into the background as he tells me that our route follows the Colorado River then approaches the La Sal Mountains through Castle Valley. Flashing images of the Carters’ Upper East Side apartment, the feel of the thick carpet on my bare toes, the smell of Victoria’s alyssum bath oil completely overtake me. Alternating waves of nausea and abdominal cramps have crept up on me. I need to concentrate on the outside and focus on what Dr. Carmichael is saying as we travel through the Manti-La Sal National Forest.
“Motorists will wind their way up to an elevation of 12,700 feet and then drop into the red rock canyons of the Colorado River plateau. That’s where Cedars is, Olivia.” My nose is starting to run and my muscles ache.
The enormous rocks, cliff walls hundreds of feet high, and sandstone spanning across the landscape, send me to sleep.
*
I’m sitting slumped in the back seat on my own. My mouth is all dry apart from the right hand side where I’ve obviously been drooling. Gross. As I reach up to wipe it with the back of my hand, a lady in a peppermint green golf top and beige chinos holding a folder with my name on it pops her head into the side of the car and beams the broadest smile I have seen in a long time, enhancing her perfect lovely white teeth.
“Miss Carter. Glad to see you’re awake. Welcome to Cedars, my dear. My name is Cynthia. Come and follow me and I’ll escort you to your room. You must be tired, so let’s get you all settled in and then I can show you around.”
Her soothing voice is full of compassion and charity and I automatically trust her like the old Olivia would. Quickly I tell myself that everyone is here to trap me, hold me against my will and stop me from making the choices that I’m free to do. So much for fucking liberty.
Ava and Asher Forrester Payne always described state of the art spa facility type of places. This looks like some kind of luxury campground. I’m surrounded by waterfalls, green shrubbery and a large red hut to which beaming-smile-and-white-teeth is headed like she’s on a mission.
I’m starting to feel shivery and jumpy as Cynthia leads me through what looks like a five star hotel lobby reception area and then down a long whitewashed corridor with an eclectic mix of pictures hanging on the walls. She must have sensed that I’m not feeling too good as her pace quickens.
We turn around a corner and she unlocks a white door.
“This will be your room while you are staying with us, Miss Parker, before you are ready to go on a trek. I hope you’ll find it to your taste and comfort.”
Huh? What happened to the white straitjackets and locked wards that you see on late night TV? Trek? As in hiking? I must be tripping. Sure, good luck with that one.
Inside the room I look at the white walls, white ceiling and white bedcovers on the white double bed. Everything is so white here, but not at all clinical or scary. It’s modern and makes me feel clean and pure. There’s some kind of tall white statue at the end of the bed. I think it’s a giraffe made of wires and there’s a huge bright ocean blue painting on the wall opposite the door. I stare at the picture and feel like I could walk right into it. A tall vase holding four pale lilac-colored lilies sits on the white rectangle bedside table. My mother loved lilies.
I look towards a door on the other side of the room and, o
n cue, Cynthia wanders over to it and opens the door to a huge beige tiled room. I get up to have a look. Its very different to the traditional colonial style bathroom we have in Fairmont County. There’s a showerhead in one corner of the room, a toilet on the other side and a sink. No glass doors and no bath. Just a small mirror above the sink in which I catch a glimpse of my face. Holy hell, the sheer red of my newly dyed hair takes my breath away. My face has streaks of black all over it from my tears earlier, with jet black kohl rings around both of my eyes, and my lips are still jet black, too. I’ve looked like this all this time and no one here has batted an eyelash.
As if she can read my mind, Cynthia says, “It’s a wet room Miss Parker. We don’t have any baths here anymore. We’ve had some unfortunate incidents in them in the past, but let’s not talk about that.” She beams that large smile at me again.
“You’ll find some comfortable attire in the drawers, so why don’t you try the wet room, have a shower and refresh yourself and then you can wander down to the lobby, and have them page me and I can show you around.” And with that she sashays out of the room, closing the big white door behind her.
I squeeze my hands between my legs and flop over onto the bed. I need to close my eyes, but I’m vaguely aware of my head starting to thump, my throat feeling painfully scratchy and dry, a cramping sensation in my stomach and waves of nausea running through me. I try and think of what I’ve taken in the last two days: an eightball of coke, a few joints, vodka, tequilla, Red Bull, champagne, oh, and Oxycontin. I feel like I’ve got the flu.
I must have drifted off, but I am woken by my shivering, jittering body. My bones and muscles feel as if someone has poured lead into them. I can’t move, but I can’t keep still at the same time. I think I’m going to be sick. I need to get out of here. As I force my aching body into a sitting position, the door opens and in comes Cynthia with a tray of food. Ignoring me she puts the tray down gently and moves as if to go out of the door to leave me.
