FTVW's prompt! Bit different this one! Hope you like it!
*** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU ***
History
I like the dreams of the future better than the history of the past. - Thomas Jefferson
He appeared in the squad room about a week or so after my mother's death. I was at my desk, head down, trying to block out everything but my work. Trying not to think about everything that had gone down in the last week or so. It might sound harsh or callous from a 'grieving daughter' but I wasn't just any grieving daughter and putting my back up against my work was the only way I knew to get by.
Then he appeared. I heard him before I saw him. Elliot had met him at the door, and he asked for 'Livia' Benson. I knew then it was him. No one else had ever called me Livia. Only him.
I looked up and reluctantly made my way over to where he was stood, huge bouquet of flowers in his arms. He clucked over me as I approached, in the way that people who are older than you think they have the right to when they've known you for any length of time.
I kept my distance, keeping Elliot between he and I and looked at him questioningly, "James." My tone was cool, too cool actually, I was coming across like a bitch, but then, he deserved it. "What are you doing here?"
He pushed his ostentatious bouquet into my arms, muttering something about being sorry for my loss. God I'd heard that one a few thousand times in the past week, and it didn't get any easier to hide the smirk it prompted. My loss was very little truth be known, and James knew that as much as anyone.
I mumbled a thank you for the flowers - although to be honest I was tempted to shove them straight back at him - and then made out I had work to do and tried to walk away, only stopping when I found I had to because he wrapped his hand around my wrist and wouldn't let me go. Elliot, who was still stood at my side, moved forward to step in, but I shook my head. This one was mine to deal with.
I pulled my hand away and glared at him, "I'd like you to leave."
He sighed, "Livia. Please. It was a long time ago. I'm clean now." he gave me a watery smile that made me want to punch his lights out, and when he spoke again I came incredibly close to doing so, "Your mother would want us to be friends."
I snorted, "Then that sounds like all the more reason for us not to be." I turned on heel and walked away and by the time I reached my desk and sat down, he was gone again.
Elliot came to my side, "Who was that?"
I didn't really want to get into it with him, but I didn't see as how I had much choice, not since he was stood there hovering, looking so concerned. I stared down at the flowers on my desk, not wanting to look at him, not wanting him to see how much the visit had affected me. "Just an old friend of my mothers."
"I see. Nice of him to come and pay his condolences." Elliot replied, but from the tone in his voice I could tell that he knew that actually James' appearance in the squad room hadn't been nice, not in the slightest. And boy, he wasn't wrong there…
*** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU ***
"Mom? Can I talk to you?"
She was in her study, and usually I wouldn't have dared disturb her while she was in there. She'd retreat there for one of two reasons, to drink, or to work, and I never liked to put myself between her and either of those things. I knew, or at least hoped, on that particular occasion that she wouldn't be drinking, but all the same, I knew I was pushing my luck by approaching her there.
"Of course darling."
I know what you're thinking. I was pretty stunned myself. But she'd emerged from rehab, although not for the first time, just a few months before, so I guess she'd turned over a new leaf. I made my way into the room, perching nervously on the edge of her desk, and she stopped working and looked up at me questioningly,
"What is it Olivia?"
I took a deep breath, wondering if I was doing the right thing. To be honest, I wasn't actually sure I was. Like I said, mom was fresh out of rehab, the last thing I wanted to do was do or say anything that might set her back, but what I had to say was important and so, in spite of my fears I decided to plough on.
"James was here when I got in from school today."
Again she looked at me questioning, "And?"
"You gave him a key." I regretted everything about what I'd said the minute I said it. I sounded whiney and accusative, and like a brat. Not my mother's favourite qualities in anyone, least of all me, by a long shot. She glared at me,
"And? This is my house young lady."
Yeah, I thought, and its my home. A home where I should feel loved and comfortable and safe.
"He touched me mom." I blurted the words out, wanting to get them into the open before I changed my mind about telling her. A long frosty silence followed as she just looked at me, a look of distain on her face. And then finally, she found some words to respond.
"He did what?"
I'd lost her. I knew that instantly. From her tone of voice and the expression on her face. Gone was the warm, smiling, post rehab mother, the one with the "darlings" who was willing to make time for me. I'd pushed my luck and she'd been replaced with the one I'd known all my life. The one who was likely to go rushing back to the bottle at any minute. I wrapped my arms around myself, "It doesn't matter. I'll go."
"You will not go!" she reached out, grabbing me by the wrist and yanking me back so roughly that I feared my arm would come out of its socket. "You'll stand here and you'll explain yourself."
I didn't dare argue with her, so I stood in front of her, my eyes fixed on the study floor as I told her what he'd done.
"He touched me here." I pointed to my breasts, cringing, anticipating a less that supportive response from her, "Through my top."
She snorted, "Dear God, 16 years without a father really has done a number on you hasn't it. You wouldn't know fatherly affection if it slapped you around the face."
I'll tolerate a lot from my mom, I always have, but the insinuation that I didn't know the difference between "fatherly affection" and being groped was a step too far. I looked up at her, my eyes blazing, "He's not my father! He's just another drunk you got it on with at rehab. Or rather didn't get it on with!"
Her eyes narrowed dangerously, but I didn't care at that point, I was already in full flow, "He wanted sex with me because you won't put out mom. He said he needed me to satisfy his urges because you wouldn't."
Her face went tight then, became unreadable and I knew I'd hurt her. But I wasn't going to put up with being sexually harassed in my own home just because she couldn't face the truth.
And facing the truth was not my mother's forte. Not by a long shot. Not where her precious James was concerned, "James wouldn't do that. He understands my situation. He's kind and patient, and he wouldn't behave that way."
But I'd lie about it. Because I was that kind of girl. That kind of daughter. The kind who would pretend she'd been assaulted to her rape victim mother. The kind who would deliberately try and wreck the nearest thing her mother had had to a relationship in 16 years. The kind who didn't want her mother to be happy.
She must really have hated me.
I sighed, "Mom, if it makes it any easier, he was drunk."
She looked at me coldly, "Now I know you're lying. He's sober." I thought it was rich that she was asking me to believe that. She'd been 'sober' plenty of times herself, but it had never lasted long. Not long enough anyway. Why would her 'boyfriend' be any different? Still, there was no point in arguing with her. I'd been a fool to believe that she'd ever believe me in the first place.
I shrugged, "Fine. I'm lying. Forget I ever said anything." I turned on heel and walked away, and that time she let me. I went to my bedroom, jammed a chair under the door handle so no one - James namely - could get in, and fumed quietly to myself until eventually I fell asleep.
The next morning the spare key was back on the hook in the kitchen where it had always lived, and although I knew he and my mother stayed in contact, I never saw James again until that day in the squad room.
Obviously, somewhere deep down inside my mother had believed me, even if it had just been a niggling doubt that a fraction of what I'd told her was true. She'd believed me, and had wanted to protect me but she'd never been able to say it to my face. Never been able to admit that I'd been telling the truth.
And that was what hurt the most of all.
*** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU ***
"Do you want to talk about it?" Elliot asked, breaking into my thoughts.
I shook my head, as I reached out for the bouquet and dumped it my trash can,
"No thank you, its ok. Its history, and I'd rather keep it that way…"
*** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU ***