You can dance in a hurricane, but only if you're standing in the eye –Brandi Carlile, "The Eye"
Four years apart is enough time to think about what you want to say to the person who abruptly walked out of your life – tore a limb off of your body, stopped your already fragile heart. It is enough time to forget all the hurtful things you wanted to say. It is enough time to not blame him anymore. It is enough time to forgive, out of necessity, so that you may continue to live.
Olivia is a mother now. She has responsibilities. She's the sergeant now. Sergeant Benson. Mom. Olivia is a mom. She is the one who makes the decisions now. She is the captain of her own ship. She is in control. She is sturdy. Solid. Unyeilding.
And it is so fucking exhausting. She doesn't have the time, doesn't have the time to read the email that popped up last week in her inbox. The one that, upon seeing, she put instantly in the "untitled" folder. The one she can't stop thinking about. Elliot Stabler. Elliot sent her an email. Who sends emails anymore? She doesn't have the time.
It is 3 A.M. on a Sunday, and Noah's asthma has them back in the emergency room. The doctors want to keep an eye on him for a little while longer, just to make sure he's stable. Stabler. God damn Elliot Stabler.
As Noah sleeps peacefully in his triage bed, having finished his last breathing treatment, Olivia gently runs her fingers through the dark tuft of hair on her toddler's head. She finds herself like this often, in the late hours, caressing his hair, almost in reverence, almost in devotion, careful not to wake him. Careful.
The hospital is quiet. The nurses and doctors aren't peaking in quite as often. If there are any rape victims in this hospital – the one she has spent so much of her career in, of her life in – she doesn't know about them. She only knows about the ghosts, the stories that haunt these walls. She closes her eyes, and thinks about the email. Suddenly, in this hospital room, she has the time.
Olivia opens her eyes and shifts in her chair to reach around to the pocket of her jacket and grab her iPhone. She types in her passcode and stares at the home screen picture. It's of Noah – of course it's Noah. She looks at the real Noah, the one right in front of her on that bed, and smiles. Even though he is sleeping, she is smiling for him. All her smiles these days are for him.
When she looks back to the phone, she lets the smile fade. She doesn't know who to be when she opens the email. Olivia the mother is not the person who is supposed to receive that email. And though she has not read it yet, she knows that email isn't for Sergeant Benson, either. It's for Olivia. Olivia, who she hasn't been in so long.
The last time she was Olivia was when William Lewis made her put that gun to her head and pull the trigger. She thought she was going to die. The time before that was when Lewis had her tied to that metal bedframe. She thought she was going to die. The time before that, she was in an interrogation room, alone, crying violently because Elliot had turned in his papers. And then he wouldn't return her calls. And then he was gone. She thought she was going to die.
As far back as she could remember, being Olivia meant feeling like she was going to die, or someone else was going to die, and she had no control over it. It always felt like the air was being sucked out of her body at a furious rate. Being Olivia meant feeling beaten and weak. It felt like losing, like loss.
But the quiet, the peace, the nothingness happening right now in this hospital, lets her slip into her memories - Olivia's memories - just a little bit. Just enough to open the email, to read the words Elliot had to say to her.
Olivia,
Eli's 7th birthday is coming up in a couple of weeks. Can you believe it? We're having his party at Puppet Works in Brooklyn, between 4th and 5th in Park Slope. They're doing a production of Pinocchio, but Eli heard the place was supposed to be haunted, so that's the real attraction I think. This kid…smh. But remember what it was like to want to believe? It's going to be on Saturday, the 21st. The show starts at 1, and we'll do cake and presents after. The'll be some classmates of Eli's and a couple grandkids I have running around. I think Noah would have fun seeing the puppets. We hope you two can make it.
Elliot
555-8172
Olivia didn't know how Elliot knew about Noah, but of course he did. Of course. She, however, knew nothing of his grand kids. She knew nothing about him anymore. Olivia didn't know Elliot now like she didn't know Olivia anymore. But, somehow, Elliot knew who she was. He knew she was a mom. How could she be Olivia and be a mom in the same place and the same time in front of Elliot? She didn't know.
The phone number he sent wasn't the one Olivia had in her phone filed under Elliot, so she replaced it in her address book. She didn't know whether it was his home number or his cell. She didn't know, but she put it in under mobile, and opened a new text message. To Elliot, mobile.
Hey El, she wrote, and sent. Her number was the same. She hoped he knew. If he asked who it was texting him, she couldn't answer him. She couldn't. He'd have to know.
TBC