A/N: Get out your hankies again, guys. I made myself cry with this chapter. Hope it gives you all the feels, as well. And thank you for the lovely reviews for chapter 31. I'm so glad it hit home for so many of you. Y'all are the best. Oh, and happy October!
And she says take me away
Then take me farther
Surround me now
And hold, hold, hold me like holy water
- Big & Rich, "Holy Water"
. . .
CHAPTER 32: Holy Water
. . .
"It just . . . it just isn't. You're— we're different."
"Different." Olivia stiffened as she echoed the conclusion, sounding it out like a challenging word in a spelling bee. You're so different, Serena had told her, stumbling hungover from the bedroom to find five-year-old Olivia covered in Pop-Tarts crumbs, still starved for things she couldn't have.
So dark.
"You mean I'm weaker. I can't take care of myself, so you have to do it for me." She didn't accuse, just stated. She couldn't really be angry at Amanda for thinking such a thing when she had begun to fear it herself. Every time she fell apart over something mundane—prank calls late at night; pantyhose tied around her wrists; a cigarette tip glowing in the darkness—or had to be scraped off the floor after forgetting to eat, passing out. Every time she woke up crying in the middle of the night, wanting so badly to be held. Every time she self-medicated with pills and wine.
"No. That's not— no, Liv." Swallowing thickly, Amanda looked at her with the same pleading as before, the good eye oversized in her small face. "I shouldn't have said all that shit to you about the nightmares and the drinkin'. I didn't mean it. I just wanted to . . . to piss you off. I wanted you to fight me 'cause . . . " She gazed around the room, as if the rest of the sentence might be penciled in among the tiles like answers in a New York Times crossword. "Aw hell, I don't know. I'm the one who's broken here, not you. I just been so scared lately, and I think I was tryin' to push you away to keep you safe."
Olivia cocked her head to one side, regarding Amanda with deep concern. She wanted to take the blonde in her arms, the way she did with the children when one of them came to her, frightened and crying, but she checked the impulse. A hug wasn't going to solve this problem. "Keep me safe from what, love? Why are you scared?"
"From me," Amanda said, her voice quavering, tears threatening to spill anew. "From how bad I am. My . . . mean streak, my nasty habits. I'm scared I'm turning into him. M-my daddy. An abusive piece of shit who just takes and takes from you, and m-makes everyone around me miserable. I can't do that to you and the kids. I can't h-hurt y'all like that."
There it was—and if it hadn't struck Olivia the moment she heard it, clarifying so much of what had happened in the bedroom a few short hours ago, then the torrent of agonized tears Amanda unleashed would have driven the point home. The detective had been worrying about this for a very long time, probably most of her life. But until the past few years, she only need think of herself. Now, she had a whole family depending on her.
Olivia understood in ways she could never hope to articulate, but for Amanda's sake, she would try. "My love, shh," she murmured, cupping the blonde's face in both hands and soothing her with soft, nuzzling kisses to the cheek and forehead. She cooed several variations of the calming words, waiting for Amanda to regain a little composure before she went on. "You are not an abusive piece of shit, do you hear me? I know abusers—I lived with one for eighteen years, I was partners with one for thirteen years after that. I've seen every type of abuser there is in the past fifty-two years, and I'm here to tell you, that is not who you are, Amanda."
She heard herself repeating a phrase from long ago ("You help people, you don't hurt them") and then: "You say you take and take, but that's not true. All you've ever done is give to me: your time, your understanding, your strength, your love. I've never been happier than I am when I'm with you. Do you know how long I waited for that? The only thing that makes me miserable is seeing you this upset."
Retrieving a contrail of toilet paper from within the depths of the blanket, Amanda swiped it under her leaking nose and sniffed. "But tonight—"
"Was one night," Olivia said, drying Amanda's cheeks with the backs of her fingers, taking extra care on the left side. She was about to sugarcoat it, just as Amanda had told her not to, but sometimes a sprinkling of sugar helped when the medicine was bitter. "You made a lot of mistakes. So did I. And it's gonna take time to fix it, yes. But we've got the rest of our lives to work on it. Together."
"How can you . . . " Amanda cut short the incredulous reply, modifying her tone to something less harsh and demanding. "Why aren't you mad? I thought for sure you'd light into me about the gambling. And the smoking."
Considering the answer for a moment, Olivia fretted her lower lip. She had expected to light into Amanda too; in the past, she would have, especially if the detective's job performance had been affected. But they were in a different place with each other now. Once someone had finally earned Olivia's trust, it wasn't easily broken—sometimes even when it should be.
"I guess, because I know how you feel," she said, testing the words as she spoke them, weighing their truthfulness. She meant every one. "You've seen how it gets to me when a case reminds me of my mother, or . . . " Or when I remind myself of her. "Just, how hard it is for me to separate from that. But I used to worry about my father, too. His violence. That I was somehow like him because I chose a job where I could be violent and hard. Cruel, even. I lived with this constant fear that a switch would flip inside of me one day, and I'd become just like him.
"And then . . . and then Lewis—" Olivia paused involuntarily. She couldn't help it; her breath still caught whenever she said his name. Amanda's hand slid around the crook of her elbow and squeezed, excusing her from finishing, but she had already started down the path. No turning back now, Captain. "When I stood over him with that metal bar. I hardly remember it. The— the beating. Sometimes I get these flashes: how the bar felt in my hand or . . . the sounds." She shuddered, hearing them even as she spoke. The dull thuds when she hit a soft spot; the gravel-crunch of bone when she didn't; and the hell-screams from some poor, tortured soul, who turned out to be herself.
"I do remember wanting him dead," she said thinly, finding it difficult to speak above a whisper. Her throat was so dry. "And I wanted to be the one who did it. I . . . I really tried."
"Liv." Amanda took Olivia's trembling hands in her own, chafing them, curling them to her chest like a guarded treasure. "You don't hafta—"
"Just listen," Olivia implored, closing her eyes and taking a moment to breathe. She didn't count it out this time. For a while she'd gotten so used to numbering her respiration, she sometimes had to stop and think how to breathe normally. She would waken at night, digits poised on her tongue, at times upwards of fifty. That obsessive-compulsive behavior had all but disappeared with Amanda's help.
She opened her eyes for a glimpse of the nautical charms that hung from a silver thread of chain around her fiancée's neck. Her beautiful lighthouse in the storm. "Afterwards, I thought that was it. I'd become a monster like my father, like my— like my mother always thought I was. Took me a long time to figure out it wasn't true. Being with Noah helped. And . . . " She hesitated, knowing Amanda wouldn't want to hear the next part, though it was true. "And therapy. I still wonder sometimes—if that was him coming out in me—but less now. You and the kids keep me human."
"Aw, baby," Amanda said, so softly it was almost mouthed. She tucked Olivia's hands to her neck now, chin resting against the backs, her face displayed like a Ming vase on a pedestal—and just as beautiful, in spite of the developing bruises. "I didn't know you felt that way about it. You ain't no monster, I can tell you that. You got the best heart anyone could ask for. It's different with me, though. I went off on my own and did that stuff. You didn't have a choice. He kept you drugged, sleep deprived, dehydrated, starved, tortured, assaulted. Any one of those things by themselves can make a person snap, but all of them together? That wasn't even you who beat him, Liv. It was the trauma."
Good girl, Olivia thought, vaguely. Out loud she said, "But it is the same. Sweetheart, look at all you've gone through recently. It's only been a few weeks since you got shot and could've died. Less than a year since the Catskills. A little over two since— since Calvin and Amelia. I know you think the last one only happened to me, but you were threatened too. And before that came the brothel shooting. And Esther . . .
"Those are all traumatic experiences, love. If you're just pushing them down instead of dealing with them, don't you think it's possible they're affecting you in all kinds of negative ways?" Olivia grazed her thumb along the channel of Amanda's windpipe, detecting even the tiniest shift as she swallowed, breathed. Listened. "And not just the newer traumas, but the older ones too."
Amanda swallowed hard, her entire throat clenching beneath Olivia's touch. The nod that followed was almost imperceptible—felt, rather than seen. "Yeah, I think . . . I think you might be right. Daphne said somethin' kinda like that too. About everything that's been happening lately, not about the old stuff. I haven't told her about most of that. Guess I should probably tell somebody, huh?"
"Only if you want to," Olivia said gently, trying not to press her luck. This was the longest conversation about Amanda's trauma—past or present—they had ever gotten through without the detective throwing a wall up around herself. Advocating for therapy would just make her shut Olivia out again, as it always had. "But I do think it would help, yes. God knows I'll be giving Lindstrom a call soon."
Amanda cast a remorseful glance to Olivia's neck, shaking her head sadly and taking a deep, weary breath. "You know, I never went to see him that time you sent me there," she confided, her right eye as wide as a confessing child's. She lifted Olivia's hands a little more, hiding her lips behind the knuckles to murmur the rest. "I did go to his office, but I got . . . anxious and left before he came out."
"Yeah, I know." Filled with guilt as well, Olivia stroked the fine line that punctuated the corner of Amanda's mouth. She had found out about the skipped appointment a week or two afterward, and never followed up on it with her detective. Too preoccupied with her new baby and trying to find a balance between motherhood and running a squad on her own. Maybe if she had pushed harder back then, Amanda wouldn't have had so far to fall this time.
Pensively, Amanda pressed her lips to the pad of Olivia's thumb, looking as though she were contemplating her next move in a game of chess. She made a faint peck sound against the finger, before finally drawing back to say, "I think . . . maybe I should try again. Uh, talkin' to someone. A psych— therapy. I don't want us to have any more nights like this ever again."
It was hard to conceal the surprise and the hopefulness she felt at hearing those words coming from Amanda's mouth, but Olivia managed. She nodded as if the younger woman had announced nothing more crucial than a sudden desire to take Spanish lessons. "Okay. I can set up another appointment for you with Dr. Lindstrom. For a referral."
"Yeah. That'd be good." Amanda circled her thumbs compulsively against the back of Olivia's hands, her breathing shallow and shaky. She hadn't sounded this nervous since the night they first kissed, the night they almost had sex on the floor of a ski lodge. "That'd be real good. Thanks, baby. And . . . and I'm gonna start going to meetings more regularly. Never shoulda slacked off in the first place. Thought I had it under control more'n that."
No one understood better than Olivia the false comfort of believing you were in total control, only to have the rug pulled out from under you upon discovering you controlled nothing. She was also aware that Amanda's problems weren't magically fixed because she wanted to try therapy—any more than Olivia's issues had all been solved by years of it—but it was a significant step in the right direction.
"Everyone makes mistakes once in a while, love. The important thing is to acknowledge it and do better next time." She placed a hand gently at either side of Amanda's head, drawing it down to kiss the brow. The smell of cigarette smoke, suffocating and stale, tweaked at her nose, made her eyes tear. She blinked it away and summoned a faint smile. "I believe in you. And I'll be here for you in whatever way you need. You're not like your father, Amanda. Or your mother. You're stronger than they are—and you're mine."
The last part felt vaguely manipulative, but a little manipulation wasn't always a bad thing, as long as it helped. If Amanda knew she had to stay clean for someone else, she would do it. And so would Olivia.
Now she kissed Amanda on the lips, the contact so light it was barely detectable, weightless as a feather in the breeze. Still, she tasted blood when she tucked the kiss onto her tongue with her bottom lip. Amanda touched her own mouth apologetically, swiping at the seeping cut with the side of her hand, though Olivia hadn't flinched—Amanda was as much a part of her as the blood in her veins, the heart in her chest.
"How 'bout I get cleaned up," Amanda said softly, after a few moments of gazing silently into each other's eyes, saying things that couldn't be spoken out loud, only intuited. "Wash off this stink so you don't have to keep smelling it. We can talk some more in bed, if you want? And I just mean talk, not—"
"I know."
"You wanna . . . " Amanda gestured toward the shower, curtained in gray ombré that resembled a foggy landscape, but she withdrew her hand hastily, as if it had drifted too close to a fire. "Pro'ly not. Never mind."
Wordlessly, Olivia unfurled the blanket from around their waists, tossed it on top of the hamper lid, and eased out of her fiancée's lap. She helped Amanda to her feet—to her credit, she didn't groan, though her legs were probably stiff from supporting Olivia all that time—and made sure she was sturdy before turning around. Her back to Amanda, Olivia swept her hair over one shoulder and waited.
"You sure? You don't have to." Amanda's voice was small and wavering, a candle flame guttering in the dark. But the light was still burning. She touched Olivia's back, first above the bra clasp, then below it, soothing the skin with her fingertips; it sounded like she had kissed them beforehand. The knobs to the dresser hadn't been painful, but those were the same spots they pressed against.
"I know I don't have to." Olivia gazed over her shoulder, meeting Amanda's eye quietly, tenderly. "It's what I want."
They took turns undressing each other, neither of them lingering longer than necessary, though each clasp was undone with the care of a seamstress altering a bridal gown, each strap gliding free of their bodies as fluid as silk. They undressed like shy young lovers about to see each other nude for the first time.
The leggings fell into a puddle around Olivia's ankles, and Amanda knelt to draw them off, lifting one foot at a time to remove the hems, both socks going with them. She took Olivia's panties down next, guiding them from hips to thighs, calves to feet, her hands caressing but not wandering, her gaze at a respectful level in spite of the angle. Eyes locked on Olivia's, she rose to full height and stepped from her own underwear when Olivia peeled them down her backside and let them drop to the floor.
The last item that remained was the Breitling. Amanda lifted the wrist wearing it, her hands curled lightly around either side of the strap, holding Olivia's arm like it was fragile, a rare and delicate artifact. She'd done that for a long time after the shoulder surgery as well. "I'm so sorry my mama broke your watch," she said thickly, and turned Olivia's hand over to kiss the heel of her palm before unbuckling the strap below it. "And for the awful stuff she said to you. None of it was true, you know that, right?"
Olivia knew no such thing. The reason Beth Anne's words cut so deep was because they were at least partially true. Serena hadn't loved her, not really. Not the way a mother was supposed to love her daughter; the way Olivia loved Matilda and Jesse. For whatever reason, she wasn't meant to experience that kind of unconditional maternal love herself. She'd resigned herself to it long ago, and nothing Beth Anne had said or done contradicted that. It's just the way it was.
"You don't have to apologize for her, love," Olivia said, intentionally skipping over the last question. She waited for Amanda to deposit the watch on the granite countertop, safely away from the sink, then turned her gently by the shoulder and released her hair from the ponytail ring. It fell in a swish of long, golden locks and a smoke-signal whiff of tobacco.
She didn't flinch away; it was amazing how quickly humans adapted to even the most disagreeable conditions. (A few more days with Lewis, who knows what she would have grown accustomed to?) Before Amanda could press any further about her mother's belligerence, Olivia caught her by the hand and led her towards the shower, lightly urging, "Come on. Let's wash off some of tonight."
The water was bracing and much too hot, but neither of them tried to adjust it, only sucked air sharply through clenched teeth, hissing like roaches as they traded places beneath the punishing jets. That too became tolerable after awhile, and Olivia took the brunt of it, letting it pelt her back like artillery fire as she lathered Amanda's hair in coconut-scented shampoo; peeled away the flap of gauze that hung by a thread of soggy medical tape, and soaped down the detective's alabaster skin, so pale a blue cast of veins was visible underneath; and massaged at the knots she found in the small, bird-boned shoulders, tight as fists.
A bit of muscle tone had been lost in the past few weeks, a few pounds gained, softening Amanda around the edges and giving her belly a vulnerable, unformed look, like dough that hadn't risen. Excluding the ghastly scar, it was what Olivia imagined her fiancée's abdomen might resemble in the earliest stages of pregnancy. She rested her palm there for one fleeting second, before smoothing away the errant suds that tried to surpass the aura of pink flesh around the freshly laid scab.
When it was Olivia's turn, she closed her eyes and finally allowed the tears to fall. Silently and only while Amanda was behind her, working the shampoo into her hair with a touch so tender it made her yearn—for what, she didn't know. Something well beyond her grasp.
The good thing about crying in the shower was that no one could tell the difference between water and tears, but when Amanda turned her around to rinse, she kept her eyes shut tight and rubbed them ruthlessly, ensuring any redness had an explanation. She only opened them once Amanda guided her out of the spray and drizzled a glob of body wash into the pink pouf that hung next to the soapy blue one on the shower caddy. (She suspected Amanda of getting the mesh sponges mixed up most of the time, but tonight she made an effort and Olivia appreciated the gesture.)
If the eyes gave Olivia away, Amanda didn't notice. She was too busy feeling guilty about the hickeys, gazing sadly at them while she swept the pouf from shoulder to shoulder in an inverted arc, no higher than the clavicle. She touched the backs of her fingers to the side of Olivia's neck, looked up with misty blue eyes—water or tears, impossible to say—and mouthed, "I'm sorry."
"I know," Olivia whispered, and let her eyes drift shut again as the blonde went on apologizing with every caress, down the length of her body; every press of the palm—above her left breast, at the slope of one hip, over a mystery bruise on her thigh—as if there were healing in its touch.
And maybe there was. Olivia had never felt so loved and cherished as she did right then, Amanda taking care of her without expectation of anything further. It was almost more intimate than lovemaking, more sensual than a kiss, and she trembled with it by the time Amanda finished up, guiding the leftover soap from her body with a sweep of the hand.
Without asking why, Amanda held her for a long time after, their heads resting on each other's shoulders, until the water beat lukewarm around them. She finally cranked the knob behind them when Olivia started to shiver in earnest, and it was she who led Olivia from the shower now, she who patted Olivia down with a towel and used it to squeeze the moisture from her hair (so, so gently). Olivia reciprocated with another fresh towel from the basket on the counter, and after they had combed out their hair, gathered the undergarments that were scattered about like shed snake skin, and wrapped themselves in Downy-scented terry cloth, they headed for the bedroom.
Olivia had just turned from placing her watch on the dresser, avoiding a glance at the heart-shaped splotch of Merlot next to it, when she found Amanda, still clad only in a powder blue towel that absurdly brought out her eyes, kneeling behind her. Both knees were on the carpet, bottom resting on her heels, hands bowled in her lap, as if she came bearing frankincense or some other ancient perfume. She'd been there for a while, watching, crying. The tears sliced her cheeks with glistening strokes. Some of the swelling around her eye had gone down, a bruise the shade of a rotted apple beginning to form. It would only get darker now, but soon it would fade. Bruises always did.
"Will you still marry me, Liv?" Amanda asked, the quiver in her voice sounding fearful rather than like a welling of emotion. She raised up on her knees and reached for Olivia's left hand, tenting hers around it as if she were praying. She brought the steepled fingers to her chin, her expression as beseeching as a beggar woman's. "I swear to God, if you do, I will spend the rest of my life making up for tonight. I won't ever walk out on you again and I'll do my best to make sure I'm never the one who makes you cry. I know my word ain't worth much right now, but you have it. And all of me with it."
The situation rang familiar to Olivia. Not the proposal, but the begging forgiveness, the promises it would never happen again. She had picked herself up off the floor, put herself back together, and listened to those same sentiments from her mother more times than she could count—and every time she'd vowed never to fall for it again. From anyone. It was the reason she had such difficulty trusting people. It was the shadow she had lived under for years, like Amanda living under the one cast by her father.
What was it Olivia had said to her once? Maybe it's time for you to come out from under that shadow.
Maybe it was time for Olivia to do the same. To trust.
"Yes," she said, and knelt down to be at Amanda's level, adding her free hand to the others, so that she too was praying. (And why not? Didn't she have the answer to her prayers right in front of her?) "Of course I'm still going to marry you, Amanda. You're the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. I'd be lost without you. You're my little pretty, remember?"
"Yeah, I am." Amanda's smile was lopsided from the split lip and bruised eye; it wavered like a distant shoreline through her tears. And after Olivia leaned in to kiss it, so softly they barely grazed lips, Amanda murmured, "I do."
. . .
