A/N: Yep, I decided to push part four back a few more chapters, along with the cover art. It really changes nothing about the story, just means part three is a little longer than the others. And that the cover has to wait another week. :( I think it makes more sense for the story, though. Anyway. Thank you for the comments, and especially the ones about my portrayal of trauma/PTSD in this story. Much appreciated. I'm giving this chapter a very mild TW for mentions of suicide. /TW I think that's it for now. Have a good week, everyone.


CHAPTER 30: Hand to God

. . .

Once they were in the bathroom, the door shut tight to prevent any nosy, fur-covered snouts from poking in, Olivia took charge. She ushered Amanda to the toilet, signaling for her to take a seat on the closed lid. The blonde was oddly compliant, lowering herself onto the porcelain cover with measured movements. It reminded Olivia of the way a pregnant woman would sit down, holding her stomach as she squatted, crabwalking backward, the other hand out for balance on the towel bar. Amanda was in more pain than she was letting on, a condition Olivia recognized all too well.

She opened the medicine cabinet first, squinting at the assortment of over-the-counter and prescription labels on the top shelf until she located the Percocet in its pylon-orange bottle. With a press and twist of the childproof cap, she was about to shake two of the tablets into her palm when Amanda said, "Uh-uh. Already had a couple today. And I's . . . I was drinkin'. Just gimme the Tylenol. Please."

"Are you sure? It's been over six hours since . . . " Since they sat like statues next to each other at Noah's dance recital. Since they fought and fucked and fled. Since Alex. Had that really all happened in the past six hours? God, no wonder she felt so discombobulated. (Another Serena word. Her mother's spirit—and spirits—were alive and well tonight.)

"You can have another dose by now, can't you?" she finished, looking down at the pills as if they would supply the answer. She shook them in her palm like pint-sized dice and almost jumped out of her skin when Amanda's hand suddenly appeared, covering hers.

Hunched over, arm stretched to the hilt, the blonde gazed up imploringly. The pain on her face went beyond her physical injuries, drawn from a deep inner well of the soul—that place where true anguish and sorrow abide. From time to time there were glimpses: Esther's death, that night on the bathroom floor in the Catskills, in the hotel room after their attempt at bondage went horribly awry. But never had Amanda's sadness been so raw, so near the surface, as in that moment, arm reaching out to Olivia across the sink. "Please."

Quickly, Olivia emptied the tablets back into the bottle and returned it to the shelf, seconds before the wave of guilt crashed over her, threatening to drag her under. She knew Amanda was careful with drugs, coming from a family of substance abusers. Once upon a time, Olivia had exercised the same caution, especially with alcohol. As recently as a week ago, she wouldn't have dreamed of downing six servings of wine on a work and school night, or popping an extra Zoloft to help her sleep. Tonight she'd done both.

It would be the last time. She would give up the antidepressants and the wine altogether, if that was what it took to never feel this way again, smell this way again. See Amanda looking at her this way again.

She grabbed the extra strength Tylenol from the shelf, tempted to bring the bottle of spearmint mouthwash with it, but she was too ashamed to gargle in front of Amanda. Serena used to carry a Listerine bottle with her almost as faithfully as her purse and thermos of vodka. Yet another smell that evoked strong, unpleasant memories for Olivia; these, of hurtful words and hurtful hands, both intended to tear her down, both leaving scars. After a while it became familiar. Normal, even.

Tucked away on the corner of the shelf like a dirty secret, the Zoloft bottle peeked out at Olivia. She unfocused her vision, the medicine labels blending together into one killer dose, and snatched up a tube of Neosporin before she swung the cabinet door shut. Her eyes automatically readjusted on the mirror, her breath catching when she saw the reflection. The hair and eyes were darker, but it was Serena, bloodshot and burnt out—just the way Olivia remembered her. Other than the ring of dirt around her neck.

She tried to brush it off with her fingertips, then realized it was the hickeys Amanda had left behind, marking her. It didn't upset her, as she'd thought it would; as it had in the past, whenever a boyfriend got a little overzealous during a make-out session. Somehow it seemed appropriate. A temporary tattoo that summed up her life story: Marked.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Amanda watching her examine the bruises. She looked like a strange exotic bird perched there on the toilet, the fluffy blanket wrapped around her small shoulders. When their gazes met, she even turned her face away in shame, as if tucking it beneath her wing.

"It's . . . " Olivia let the rest fade. She had said it too much already, and it wasn't true. She wouldn't become a liar, on top of everything else.

Rolling out one of the drawers under the sink, she selected a pink square from the Dagwood stack of terry cloth inside. Ironically, she thought it might be the same washcloth the kids had brought her as a cold compress on Christmas Day. It was for cleaning up blood this time, so she soaked it with a warm stream from the faucet, wrung it out, shook the excess water off her hands and into the sink. She'd almost forgotten the Tylenol, and she turned to Amanda with the bottle in one hand, the washcloth in the other, a questioning look on her face.

"I'll go get you a glass of water," she said, when Amanda selected the medicine. The blonde was funny about her pills and, in spite of regularly inhaling her meals without chewing, would not dry swallow tablets or capsules of any kind. That little quirk usually made Olivia smile, but her thoughts were interrupted now by a hand taking hold of her wrist, preventing the departure.

"Don't go." Amanda kept a loose grip, as if she were afraid to squeeze any tighter. She drew Olivia's hand nearer instead, almost close enough to rest her cheek upon, and pointed toward the sink. "I can just use Optimus Prime."

On the counter, lined up biggest to smallest behind the basin, were three plastic cups that the kids used for rinsing after they brushed—Noah's, naturally the tallest, sported the only Transformer whose name Olivia remembered; in the middle, Jesse's cup had once depicted Olaf from Frozen and a flurry of snowflakes, but all were now lost in a blizzard of dried Colgate; and last but not least, Matilda's tiny pink cup with the sunny little daisies that matched her toothbrush. It was too much to bear, the thought of no longer seeing every kid-related item in the apartment in triplicate like that, and Olivia dismissed it at once.

"Are you sure?" she asked, extending a vague gesture at the door. "I can check if we have any frozen peas. Might have to be brussels sprouts, if you can handle that."

Amanda pulled a face, though neither of them laughed at the in-joke or her revulsion. She and the older kids wouldn't touch Olivia and Matilda's brussels sprouts with a ten-foot pole. "Stay," she replied softly, but with absolute certainty. Her throat clicked as if there was a lump in it, although whether a lump of emotion or another injury, it was hard to say. "Please."

"Okay." Olivia touched Amanda's hand, then gently eased away to rinse out the Transformers cup and fill it with a jet of cold water. She offered it over and intercepted the pill bottle Amanda was having trouble opening because of her bruised and swollen knuckles. Tapping two of the Tylenol into her fiancée's palm, she watched as they were tossed back, a long guzzle drained from Optimus' helmet.

"Thanks," Amanda said around the last gulp. Water dribbled down her chin, and she swiped at it with the back of her hand, wincing when she grazed her lip.

"How'd that happen?" Olivia underscored her own bottom lip with the pad of her index finger, answering Amanda's question before it was asked. Gingerly, she lifted the blonde's chin and began daubing the blood from her mouth with a corner of the warm washcloth. "Nasty split. Did you bite it when he hit you?"

"Um, yeah, I—" Amanda turned her face away as she set the cup on the counter. Below, her knee pogoed up and down until she clamped a hand over it, forcing it still. In a perfect imitation of Frannie caught stealing food from an unattended dinner plate, she gazed upward through her sandy lashes. The ocean meets the shore—was there anything more honest than that? "No, that's . . . that's not what happened. Don't be upset, okay?"

An ill feeling clenched like a fist in Olivia's stomach—like a pang of severe hunger—and she realized she was gritting her teeth. No wonder the pounding in her skull had suddenly exploded. "Okay."

"It was my fault. I shouldn'ta been grabbin' on you when I knew you's having a bad dream. You kinda . . . threw your elbow back." Amanda demonstrated half-heartedly, jutting her elbow to one side. Chin lowered to her chest, she mumbled the rest so softly, it was difficult to make out; still, Olivia got the gist: "Hit me in the mouth. You didn't know what you were doing, you thought I was—"

But Olivia didn't hear the rest. The only thing she heard, over and over like a bad song (what were they called, those tunes that got stuck in your head and drove you mad? Earworms—how fitting), was the last part: You didn't know what you were doing. How many times had she said that to her mother? You didn't mean to hurt me, you just didn't know what you were doing. You didn't mean to say those things, you were drunk. You didn't mean to choke me, you thought I was someone else.

"Liv." Amanda rested her palm against the back of Olivia's hand as it hovered near her mouth, the washcloth gone still.

The interruption to her thoughts was jarring, and Olivia started, nearly dropping the wet rag at their feet. She bunched it tighter in her fist, quickly resuming the dabbing without lifting her gaze any higher than the shallow divot just above Amanda's upper lip. She did love that little fairy-kissed spot, but if she raised her eyes now, Amanda would see them awash with tears. Nobody liked a weepy drunk.

She almost got away with it, until the tears overflowed her half-drawn lids and coursed heavily, hotly down her cheeks. When she knew for certain she'd been caught ("Baby," cooed Amanda, hands rising like an evangelical at the altar, to wipe away the moisture), she let the washcloth slip from her fingers, drew back a step, and covered her face with both hands as she wept.

"What are we doing, Amanda?" she asked, voice surprisingly steady despite the emotion pouring out of her, scorching her cheeks and her throat. She'd thought she was all cried out when she went to bed earlier; she was wrong. "What the hell are we doing?"

"What? Darlin', I don't— Can you look at me?" Amanda captured her by the waist, guiding her forward into a tight hug around the middle. "What do you mean?"

The cigarette odor drifted up from the detective's shaggy bun, seeping through the cracks between Olivia's fingers, but it didn't matter anymore. Nothing could be worse than the feeling that they were being torn apart, slowly but surely. That smell was how she felt inside—dark, ugly, burned, scarred. She lowered her hands and found Amanda gazing up with the saddest, bluest eyes imaginable. Olivia formed a V with her hands below the blonde's chin, fingers just grazing either cheek, her thumb tracing the outline of Amanda's mouth.

"Are we completely destroying each other?" she asked, genuinely in search of an answer. Because she didn't know. She had never been connected so inextricably to another person, as she was to Amanda.

The relationship with her mother had been dangerously codependent at times, but Serena was too inaccessible, too steeped in her own pain, for a true connection to ever form between them. Even Olivia's bond with her children didn't feel as all-consuming, because she knew (told herself she knew) she could never lose it. But Amanda could walk away at any moment and must be held onto tightly. Somewhere along the way, Olivia had lost sight of how to live without her, of the damage that kind of dependency could cause. Lindstrom had warned her, and she did it anyway. She'd made Amanda the center of her universe, and when that center shifted, everything else spun out of control with it. If she had just been stronger, maybe they wouldn't both be suffering right now.

"What?" Amanda blinked as if Olivia had flicked water into her face. She took her arms from around Olivia's waist and hooked her fingers over the hands cradling her cheeks. Moisture had gathered in the corner of her left eye, and though that was from the injury, she looked on the verge of real tears. "No, Liv. Don't think that."

Olivia saw that her fiancée hadn't finished, that more was about to follow, but she proceeded anyway. She needed to hear her fears out loud, if she had any hope of vanquishing them. The ones kept inside and nurtured were the ones who grew big and strong; who turned on their masters. "How can I not? Look at you, Amanda. Your face . . . "

Her voice gave out, and for a moment, she could only gaze sadly at the blonde's battered features—still pretty, like the strange beauty of a destructive storm or a wildfire—and shake her head. "I can't handle seeing you this way. Knowing I caused it. And look at me: I'm basically my mother. I even smell like her, for Christ's sake. You wanna know why you couldn't wake me up at first? Because I drank too much, and after that fight we had, I took another pill. I— I thought about taking more. Just to sleep, but . . . I can't keep going like this. I can't be like her. And I can't be responsible for hurting you."

Without realizing it, she had started to cry again. These tears she allowed to flow freely, in full view of Amanda—partly because the detective was holding onto her hands and partly because the shame of her confession was so great, she wouldn't even try to hide it.

"Oh, Liv." All at once, Amanda appeared to have aged ten years, her expression grown weary, her posture grown heavy. Even her hair looked flatter, washed out. She closed her eyes, turning her face against the palm of Olivia's hand, pressing her lips there in spite of the pain it must have caused. "Baby, you've got it all wrong. None of this is on you. C'mere."

Against her better judgment, Olivia gave up resisting and allowed herself to be pulled into Amanda's lap after the first few tugs. It should be the other way around, really—Amanda was slimmer than she, delicate-boned and comfortable at a weight Olivia hadn't seen since she was a uni; not to mention the hole still knitting itself back together in the blonde's gut—but she wanted to be held. She felt small, the way she did as a child when she longed for her mother to hold her, to say everything was going to be all right. Serena seldom had, and she definitely never initiated it like Amanda did now, settling Olivia across her lap, treating her light as a feather.

"First off, it ain't your fault, the way I look," Amanda said in a voice soft but serious, as if she were impressing a point on a young child. She had wrapped Olivia into the blanket with her, practically rocking her like a swaddled infant. If she smelled the wine, the vomit, and the sweat, she was doing a good job of hiding it. "I'm the one who ran off half-cocked and got into a fistfight. And if I hadn't snuck up on you like an idiot while you were sleepin', my lip would be fine. 'Sides, you didn't hit me that hard. My teeth were just in the way."

The last part was meant to be a joke, Olivia realized by the inflection Amanda used. Neither of them laughed. She cupped her hand to the detective's cheek again, the heel of her palm supporting Amanda's chin; her thumb skimmed over the split lip without touching, like a stone skipping the surface of a pond. The bleeding had slowed, and now the fissure resembled the broken skin of a piece of fruit, pink and pulpy underneath. It probably wouldn't require stitches. Or maybe that was just what Olivia needed to tell herself. "Does it hurt very badly?" she asked, anxious. She peered into Amanda's swollen eye. "Are you sure I shouldn't take you to the hospital?"

"I'm sure. And my lip doesn't hurt that much, see?" Amanda probed the raw spot with the tip of her tongue, the same way she did when she dribbled chocolate sauce or some other messy topping down her chin. She managed not to flinch, but the cut had to hurt. Even now, Olivia could taste blood in her mouth just remembering some of her own similar injuries. "We'll put some of that Neosporin on it, and I'll be— you don't hafta do it right this minute."

Olivia sat forward and reached for the ointment, laid out on the counter with the Tylenol and the Transformers cup. An oral pain reliever would have been better, in case of ingestion, but the Neosporin would have to suffice for now. "Yes, I do," she said, squeezing a dewdrop onto her index finger and carefully dabbing it to Amanda's lip. Their eyes met as she tended the wound, and there was something different in the pale blue irises; something quiet and resolved that frightened Olivia, until she recognized it—surrender. "Just try not to lick. I'll stop by the drug store and pick you up some balm tomorrow."

That simple comment seemed to bolster Amanda's spirit somehow, and she held Olivia tighter, nodding along as if she'd received a full treatment plan from a medical doctor. She didn't even claim not to need balm, or scoff at the suggestion that she might lick the antibiotic from her lips like one of the dogs after a vet visit. "Thanks," she said softly, and touched the strand of hair that framed Olivia's face, rubbing it between her fingers. It probably felt like the bristles of a used paint brush—stiff and oily—but she treated it as if it were hand-painted silk. "Now, about your mama. You gotta know you're nothin' like her, Liv. If you think—"

There was a pause, and Olivia glanced up from the Neosporin tube she was rotating against her knee, fingers sliding to the opposite end after each revolution, an endless loop. She held her breath and waited for the rest, almost certain she knew what it would be.

"If you think the drinkin' and the pills are becoming a problem, we can get you some help." Amanda placed her palm on top of Olivia's restless hands, anticipating a strong reaction to those words ("Mom, I think you need help," Olivia had worked up the courage to say, only after she'd moved out permanently) before one even came. "But it's not like you're getting drunk and poppin' pills all the time. You had a bad night, overdid it a little. It's understandable. Trust me, darlin', I know what addicts look like, and that ain't you. Not by a long shot. You do kinda stink, though."

The last part was so offhand, Olivia almost didn't catch it. She forced a weak smile to match the tentative one Amanda tipped at her. It was true that tonight had been her worst night in quite a while, that she seldom drank past her three glass limit—although she'd been hitting it regularly for the last several nights—and could count on one hand the number of times she had taken more than the recommended dosage of prescription meds since she'd started visiting the doctor by herself in high school. But the specter of her mother's alcoholism (and later, her father's, brought to her attention by her junkie brother) would forever stand just over her shoulder, whispering doubt, whispering for one more. You can handle it.

"Not that I have any room to talk. I pro'ly smell like the ass-end of some old honkytonk bar." Amanda shrugged her shoulder, sniffing the strand of lank blonde hair that draped there, loosed from the bundle atop her head like straw from the hat of an overstuffed scarecrow. She wrinkled her nose, finding that her assessment wasn't too far off. Releasing Olivia's hands for a moment, she reached behind her head, snagged the hair with one finger, and guided it off her shoulder. She cast an apologetic look back to Olivia. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come home like this. Didn't even stop to think about it triggerin' you. It was just the cigarettes, though. And some bourbon. Swear I didn't have any vodka. That douchebag spilled his on me."

Vodka never had been Amanda's drink, at least not that Olivia was aware. It hadn't occurred to her until right then that the detective might be intentionally abstaining for her sake. Absurdly, the thought made her want to cry again, but she held herself together. No sense crying over spilt milk—or spilt vodka. "I believe you," she heard herself say, and found that it was true. Whatever Amanda had gotten up to tonight, she wasn't lying about it now. Neither of her legs were bouncing beneath Olivia, and her gaze was fairly steady. Intent, even.

Still, Olivia didn't want to ask too many questions and risk frightening the blonde away. It was best to let Amanda open up on her own, otherwise she became defensive and closed off. Olivia understood that response; had spent years perfecting it, as a matter of fact. But this past year with Amanda, she had discovered the enormous relief that came from sharing her deepest, darkest secrets with someone she trusted, someone who cared enough to listen. She wasn't perfect at it—there were times she still caught herself holding back, and there were memories she still hadn't brought to light and likely never would (what good could come of detailing the slaps and shoves, the hateful words, the choking, the sadness?), but her instincts were no longer to shut down, to board up all her windows and doors, and shelter in place. At least not with Amanda.

If only her fiancée felt that way in return. Olivia tried to be as accessible and judgment-free as possible, offering as much support as Amanda would allow, but it never seemed to be enough. She was never enough.

"You ain't— aren't feeling, like . . . you wanna, you know, die or somethin'," Amanda asked haltingly, fine worry lines etched like parentheses around her mouth, deeper creases laddering her brow, "right?"

Taken aback by the question, Olivia automatically shook her head without pausing to consider an answer. She had wanted to die before—when her mother couldn't bear to look at her, although that was more guilt for having ever been born than a wish not to live; when Harris breached her lips, shattering that painstakingly constructed illusion that it would Never Happen to Her; when Lewis breached her soul, twisting it and her body to suit his warped fantasies; when Calvin used her like a dirty gym sock and thanked her afterward—but she'd never been suicidal.

(Click.)

That was different, though. The Russian Roulette hadn't been by choice, despite Lewis framing it that way. Nothing she had done with
(or to, or for)
him was by choice. Nothing.

"Noth— no." Olivia shook her head again, firmly. The migraine thrummed inside her temples with each side to side motion, her vision lagging, smearing, like a cheap video camera with poor tracking. She stilled, breathing steadily through her nostrils, as if meditating. "I just wanted to sleep and forget about . . . things for a little while."

Shamefaced, Amanda looked down at their hands for several long beats, her throat contracting thickly. It was the only sound in the small bathroom—that, and Olivia's ticking watch. She had put it back on out of habit when she got dressed before Alex's arrival. With the realization came a fresh wave of guilt, and Olivia bit her lip until she could no longer hold back, blurting in unison with Amanda:

"Good, because the note by the bed—"

"I called Alex after you left."

. . .