A/N: Lots of questions in the review sections about why Amanda took Riva's St. Jude necklace. There's a lot at play there, but the main reason is: it's symbolic. To the story, to me, and to Amanda. She killed someone (three someone's; well, four in her mind, because of Kat) and killers often take trophies from their victims. Hunters, too. It signifies how she sees herself now, and it's familiar ground to her, be it through the job and dealing with pattern killers, or growing up in the South and going hunting with her father from a young age. She took a life; it's like Angel having the teardrop tattoo because he murdered someone. Common phenomenon, I guess. Also: these guys took everything from her, from Liv, and it's a way of taking something back from them. They took her faith too, so she took Riva's. It's layered. Plus, she's just straight-up traumatized as hell, sleep-deprived, and starving—each of which can cause a person to act erratically on its own. Honestly, she's not much better off than Olivia, mentally, she just doesn't know it. She's not intentionally trying to trigger Liv with the necklace, but Amanda has impulse issues and taking, keeping, and wearing the necklace is part of that. If we want to get really deep, it's tied to her gambling addiction, which also causes her to rely on luck & talismans (eg. only smoking when she gambles).
So, yeah, she took it for a lot of reasons. Not saying they're sane ones, just that it didn't come completely out of nowhere, for her or the story. Hope that clears it up a little! This chapter is very long, btw. I didn't really find a place to split it, and 22 pages is a nice, juicy read, right? Trigger warning for graphic depictions of a rape kit/the aftermath of rape. I didn't get the chance to do a deep reading of this one, so please excuse any typos or inconsistencies. I think that's about it for now. Oh, happy SVU premiere week!
Chapter 33.
Slow Dying Flower
. . .
"Oh my God. You saw the whole thing. Didn't you?"
At first Amanda couldn't reply. Not wouldn't, but literally could not, her tongue refusing to cooperate beyond lolling silently in her mouth. She licked her lips and tried again, eventually producing a weak, "Some." She cleared her throat and reached for the blanket, to rearrange it on Olivia's shoulders, only for it to slide right off again. After another unsuccessful attempt, she gave up on the blanket and stood next to the bed with her head bowed like a child come to confess her most shameful sins. "I saw some of it. Couldn't help it, Liv, they sent me a link. I didn't know what it was—thought it might be the ransom demand, so I clicked . . . I'm so sorry, darlin'. What they did—"
"Who else?" Try as she might to hold in the tears and harden her features, her tone, moisture streamed from the corners of Olivia's upturned eyes. She had to swallow hard several times before she could continue, and even then it was a struggle to make herself heard. "—else? Wh-who else saw me like that?"
"Not that many," Amanda lied. This time it was necessary. Olivia looked as if she might shatter into a million pieces, depending on the number of viewers her deep humiliation had garnered. She couldn't handle the truth right then, no matter how much she might think she wanted it. "Just a couple people in the squad and some fibbies. I made sure it was eyes-only, and Dana—"
"Fin?" Olivia glanced sidelong, without lowering her head from its backward repose. She looked paralyzed in that position, an image reinforced by the deep bruising that encircled her neck, as thick as a belt strap, with a scrabble of harsh fingerprints coloring outside the lines. Layer upon layer of bruises, stitched together with the thread of white left behind by Calvin Arliss' straight razor. She would have so many new scars to go with it now, outside and in.
Amanda swallowed thickly, hoping to delay her reply for as long as possible. She remembered well the shame and fear she'd felt after the Patton assault even just thinking about her fellow officers finding out—that was partly why she never reported. But to know that someone you had worked alongside for over twenty years, someone who had your respect, and you his, watched as you were brutalized and degraded like that? She couldn't imagine.
One glimpse of Olivia's pleading brown eyes, so desperate to hear answers that Amanda could not give, at least not truthfully, and she pushed aside those old images and memories best forgotten. She had her St. Jude medal, the solace of knowing that most of Olivia's attackers were dead, and almost a decade worth of armor she'd constructed diligently, piece by inflexible piece. She would neither bend nor crack. Two gunshot wounds didn't lie: she was damn near bulletproof.
"He didn't see much," she said, treading carefully. Weaving in a bit of truth made it harder to detect the lies. She had learned that from Olivia actually, her advice not to oversell a fib and to lead with honesty a useful blueprint for duplicity when taken out of context. And the captain was a pro at claiming things were fine when they most certainly were not. "Couldn't . . . couldn't bear to watch. He didn't want to, you know, violate your privacy any more than it already was. He's been doing real good keeping things under control for you, baby. Real good."
When he wasn't siccing asshole psychiatrists on unsuspecting detectives to drug them against their will, she added to herself. That was a dirty rotten trick she would not soon forget. Or forgive. All the same, it ranked rather low on Amanda's scale of fury, hatred, and vengeance-inspiring events at the moment. Definitely not something Olivia needed to know about anytime soon, although Amanda would exercise extreme caution in sending her back to Lindstrom. But she would worry about that later.
Right now Olivia wanted to know: "Kat?" She practically choked on the short name, like she was aspirating on it the way a drunk died from lying flat and inhaling their own vomit. Nevertheless, she wouldn't sit up, wouldn't acknowledge the tears flowing from the corners of both eyes, wetting the pillow, her hair, her ears. Fixed on the ceiling tiles, her gaze was the only part of her that didn't waver. Her teeth weren't chattering together like before, but she couldn't have fired a gun with any sort of accuracy with that tremor in her hands, either. "Did she watch?"
For a split-second, upon hearing the officer's name in a setting so far removed from work or the shipping warehouse, Amanda forgot that Kat was dead. It was easy to believe she was still back at the precinct, trying to crack the case, or off at Sealview, grilling that bitch Sondra Vaughn. Her death felt like a dream Amanda had yet to wake up from. Jesus, that's how every minute of the past three days had felt. Why couldn't she just wake up?
Concentrating on the weight of St. Jude, strangely cool against her chest, Amanda let that be her totem, telling her where and when she was. Who or what she was now was up for some debate. "Only a little at the beginning," she said, hating the sound of it. As if the livestream had been a stage musical with a prelude, intermission, a trip to the concession stand, a grand finale. That's entertainment! "She left pretty early on to follow some leads. She was, uh, a big help in me finding you. Wouldn't give up until she knew you were safe. Good police."
"The chief?" Olivia sniffed, but refused to wipe underneath her damp nose. She seemed determined not to let on that she was crying, despite the evidence written all over her face, and even more determined to name off every cop she could think of who might have had a front row seat to her rapes. Cops she worked with day in and day out, who looked to her to lead. Men and women who had now seen her nude, spread-eagle, command taken from her by the types of criminals she was supposed to put away.
How would she ever look them in the face again, when she could barely even look at Amanda?
"He's been really busy. If he did see anything, it was just a passing glance." Amanda failed to keep the contempt out of her voice—while his best captain was missing and being subjected to unimaginable torture, the chief had been off doing God only knows what. He should have been at the precinct every minute she was gone, instead of calling Fin for updates like he was checking on his cat at the vet. But Olivia seemed relieved to find out about his lack of interest. She closed her eyes and nodded, as if giving silent thanks.
"Come on, now," Amanda added, with a note of conclusion. Like she was ending a phone conversation that had gotten off track and needed to be gently reined in. They were off topic, and poor Este was hanging back, head bowed, allowing them space to process and grieve. But the longer they delayed, the more it drew out the rape kit. And the greater the chances that Olivia would ask questions Amanda simply could not answer. "We'll talk some more about that later, huh? Right now, let's finish getting you checked out."
Expecting a protest and receiving none, Amanda held Olivia's hand and, though not in the way, stepped aside for Este to resume her examination. She cast anxious glances at her wife, who didn't acknowledge the nurse's return or the hand Amanda clutched to her chest. It rested there, warm and limp, the arm loose as a cooked noodle, until she almost couldn't bear to feel it against her. The way it waited to be manipulated into whatever form its controller saw fit. It no longer belonged to Olivia, but to whomever picked it up and used it for their own sick purposes.
Part of Amanda wanted to shake Olivia by the arm and tell her to snap out of it—that she couldn't give in to despair, Amanda and the kids needed her sane, whole—but that was the fear and the guilt talking. Tough love would not be helpful in this situation and would probably make it about ten times worse. What scared Amanda the most was not knowing what type of love, if any, might make a difference. She doubted it was possible to love Olivia's trauma away this time, and despite her years of experience, she had no idea how else to make any of this better.
Maybe there was no way. Maybe all those victims she had supposedly helped, all those pearls of wisdom and healing she handed out like religious tracts in the hands of a righteous old Baptist woman, meant nothing. She'd been fooling herself thinking she could ever help anyone escape their pain and suffering, or the endless cycle of abuse; she had never accomplished it with her mama or her little sister, and now she never would with Olivia, either. Just one more example, out of so very many, of how profoundly she had failed her wife.
"May I continue?" Este asked quietly. She bunched up her shoulders in a sheepish apology when they both jumped anyway. Her eyes immediately went to Olivia when Amanda gave verbal consent, anticipating that the captain would not answer on her own. Present physically, she was somewhere else altogether in spirit, so that her nod, when it did come, looked weirdly disembodied. Robotic, almost. She didn't blink while Este gathered loose debris, piecing it from her hair, swiping it from between her toes.
The location of the rapes was known, so there was little need for evidence from the scene, but Amanda held her tongue. It was a routine step, and you'd be surprised what one speck of dirt or imported gravel could turn up. Sometimes it led to overseas operations and resulted in the capture of the really big fish who ran the whole show—there and in the states. Declan Murphy wasn't the only lucky son of a bitch in this game. Amanda had lucky streaks of her own from time to time, and she had to have a few saved up with all the gambling she wasn't doing lately.
She fingered the St. Jude pendant inside her collar. Treating a saint like a good luck charm was probably sacrilege of some kind, but she didn't have a rabbit's foot keychain to rub or a pair of dice to blow on. All she had was the necklace of a man she'd killed for raping her wife, and that would have to do. Don't let me have put her through this for nothing, she implored the medal. Don't let me lose her to this. Help me find Sandberg and Murphy. May Sondra Vaughn die a slow, ugly death in prison very soon. I'm sorry, Jesus. I'm sorry, Grandmama. I'll kill them all. In her name, amen.
The UV light was too much for Amanda to bear. Olivia's flesh lit up like bioluminescent waters when Este scanned the glowing wand over the areas not covered by her strategically positioned gown. It looked as if every inch of her arms, legs, back, chest, abdomen, and neck were coated with saliva, semen, and bruises hidden beneath bruises. Her eyes were glazed over, much too shiny in the alien blue light that gave her a cadaver-like tint, and she never let them stray lower than chin level. Each time the swab grazed her skin, collecting samples from full sets of teeth impressions and whimsically patterned splotches like heavy-handed graffiti, she flinched.
Amanda finally had to turn her face away, unable to watch the long and tedious process. Even Este was shaking her head at the sheer amount of deposits there was to choose from, and she cleared her throat gently every few minutes, as if dispelling the apologies or anger it would be unprofessional to speak. Amanda just hid against Olivia's shoulder, praying for this portion of the kit to end, afraid the image of that body—once a beautiful and flawless landscape, now a toxic waste site—would be burned into her brain forever. It was one thing to see the destruction as it happened, but the aftermath was almost more tragic. You got the whole picture of what had been lost.
"You're doing great, baby," Amanda whispered, smoothing her palm side to side on Olivia's back. She had to say something to keep up morale, though neither of them were holding up particularly well. She was like a little kid who thought the monsters went away if you didn't look at them, and Olivia was quaking worse than the dogs when they had to go to the vet. Her skin was on fire, despite the blankets draped off her shoulders to pool at her waist, and the partially open gown.
A mother of four, Amanda knew a fever when she felt it, but she didn't want to second-guess Este, who was so attentive and considerate of Olivia's needs. And if she were being totally honest, she couldn't turn back to the nurse until the UV light was off. Another glimpse of that Rorschach nightmare in white painted on her wife's abused flesh, and she would go crazy. This time they would have to strap her to a gurney and never let her go. Olivia would be left to face this alone.
"Almost over," Amanda lied, stroking and murmuring the way she did when one of the kids woke from a bad dream. They called for her then; it was Olivia they wanted when they were sick. Mommy made everything better. Mama kept everyone safe. That had been the deal until a Saturday morning bagel run changed everything. Now Amanda didn't know what she was good for anymore. "Just hang in there a little longer. It'll all be over soon."
"That's what I told myself while they were on top of me . . . inside of me. Almost over, can't go on forever." Olivia sounded blank, as if recalling an unexceptional trip to the grocery store rather than three days of rape and torture. "But it did. They just kept coming. Kept hurting me. I didn't think it would ever end. It did end, though, didn't it?"
That got Amanda to pull back enough to look at Olivia from arm's length. She cupped the captain's face in her hands, ensuring the attention remained on her and not on Este's gradual progress. Bathed in the weird, otherworldly lighting, it was easy to see how Olivia might become confused about what was real and what was not. "Yes, Liv, it's over. We left the shipping yard, and now we're at the hospital, remember? They'll never come for you ever again. No one's gonna do those things to you— never again."
"Okay. That's good." Fear seemingly assuaged, Olivia rested her chin in Amanda's palms, the tension melting out of her posture until she was as pliant and submissive as a dozing child. Her twitchy movements, triggered by the nurse's methodical swirling of swab after swab, calmed to an occasional faint sigh that sounded like Samantha's impatient huffs when she nursed. The need for satiation. "They're nice at the hospital. They let me watch TV, and I can eat whatever I want, even though the food isn't too good."
"I'll second that," said Este, who was busy sliding the applicators into the designated paper containers and missed Amanda's fretful glance. The older woman didn't appear to notice Olivia's regressive comments, but then, she wasn't familiar with Olivia's past and the many hospital stays she had amassed since childhood. Perhaps Amanda was reading too much into the odd anecdote, though. People said all sorts of strange things when they were in shock; hell, Amanda herself had been off in la-la land after getting shot, according to Olivia, Daphne, and Fin.
Nevertheless, she was relieved when Este finished up with the dried secretions and bite marks portion of the kit. That put them at the halfway point of the exam, and between each step the nurse paused to gauge how receptive Olivia was to moving forward. If Olivia was losing touch with reality, it should be apparent during these brief check-ins, and Amanda wouldn't have to look like the pushy, worrywart wife who kept telling the medical personnel how to do their jobs.
"Okay, dear, I'll go ahead and scrape under your fingernails now, if that's all right with you." Este displayed a tapered stick that resembled the end of a manicurist's nail file. She pressed the pointed tip into the pad of her finger to illustrate its harmlessness. "It won't hurt, and it will get some of that gunk out of there. That has to feel unpleasant."
Olivia examined her fingernails, which were indeed darkened by crescent moons of dirt at the tips, at least where they weren't chipped and frayed nearly to the nub. She did look surprised to see them in such poor shape, but she extended them to the nurse without reservation. "I went for his DNA. I'm right-handed, so you'll probably find more on that side." As an afterthought, and more to herself than to anyone in the room, she sighed, "Not that you'll need it. It's everywhere else too."
There was a callous note to the remark, but that was easily attributed to Olivia's raw emotions and severe exhaustion. And the singular "his" could have been a slip of the tongue, or just her way of saying she only got a piece of one attacker. Nothing too alarming in either instance, and the captain didn't sound muddled or incoherent, but try as she might, Amanda couldn't hide her concern. She stroked the hair back from Olivia's forehead with her palm, testing again for fever.
"How you doin', darlin'?" she asked, leaning in to get a better look into her wife's dark eyes. She didn't exactly know what to search for besides dilated pupils or pinpoints, but if something was off, Amanda was confident she would see it. She gazed lovingly into Olivia's eyes all the time; she had every gold fleck inside those deep brown irises committed to memory.
Other than a dullness where there was usually warmth, wit, wisdom—that window to the soul thing people were always talking about—she saw no noticeable difference from their normal composition. "You hanging in there? Anything you need me to get you?"
"I'm okay. Just stay with me. You promised you wouldn't leave me." Olivia tore her gaze away from the stick Este expertly rounded beneath her fingernails like she was paring fruit. Her reaction time lagged behind the rest of her responses, so that her distress over being abandoned was misplaced, but no less upsetting. She snatched a hand back from Este as soon as the nurse finished with her pinky fingernail, and reached for Amanda as if they were about to be forcibly separated. Her grip was weak, but she held on for dear life when Amanda caught the escaped hand in hers.
"I'm here, I'm here. Shh." Amanda smoothed out the back of Olivia's hand and mentally kicked herself for poking around and upsetting her wife again with her own insecurities. She should just shut her mouth, let Este do her job, and be there in whatever capacity Olivia needed her most. And right now, she needed Amanda to just be there and hold her hand.
"Sick of people leaving me," Olivia muttered, or something like it. Chin tucked to her chest, voice scratchy and whisper-thin, it was difficult to make out. She retracted her other hand when the scraping was complete, tucking it to her chest like an animal with a wounded paw. Everything about her was so goddamned wounded. Amanda had thought she'd already seen Olivia at her most fragile and withdrawn, particularly after the night terrors or flashbacks she occasionally suffered, but those were nothing compared to this. "Nobody ever loves me enough to stay . . . "
Amanda's heart clenched painfully. Whether or not Olivia was aware of what she was saying (and she more than likely was not, given the vulnerability and candor she expressed without reservation), it still hurt to know that she felt that way, so unloved. Even if it was only in the past. Amanda tried every single day to love Olivia enough to make up for all those years without it, but she was fooling herself to think she could undo the damage inflicted so long ago. She could never fully heal that lonely, abused little girl inside Olivia, just as she could never heal the angry, fearful child inside herself.
"I do," Amanda said, not bothering to temper the urgency in her voice, the desire to make Olivia feel how loved she truly was. So what if some nurse in her sixties saw Amanda getting emotional over her wife? It wasn't as though either of them had anything left to hide. She hugged Olivia to her chest, rocking her gently side to side, and murmuring anything she could think of to counteract what Serena had instilled in her daughter at birth. "And the kids do. I've seen the way them girls look at you. Noah too. You're their whole world, Liv. You're our whole world, and we're not leaving you. You believe me, don't you?"
It took a moment, but a small, sniffly nod finally came, rustling against Amanda's shoulder. Olivia's bowed head hid her face from view and muffled the frail yes she sent up like a beacon of hope—a white dove released on the wind, or a faint glimmer of light on dark and tumultuous waters. She hadn't forgotten that her family loved her, and that had to mean there was a way to bring her back. No matter how far gone she was, she would never give up on her family. She had promised that to Amanda, and though it was an easy thing to say when you were in the safety of your bathtub with someone who loved you unconditionally, Amanda believed it was true.
She had to.
"I miss them," Olivia said, breathy and so childlike she might have passed for a kid herself over the phone. It was disconcerting to hear a voice, once powerful and resonant in volume and impact, now so diminished. A voice like that couldn't command a squad room; couldn't dare a man doing hard time to try and cross her, because she had the biggest gang in town; couldn't offer peace and courage to victims of unconscionable crimes. Victims just like her. "I didn't think I'd ever see them again. Tried not to picture them, though. I didn't wanna see their faces while those men . . . while they— "
"While they were hurting you," Amanda said softly. Olivia always did have trouble applying the word rape to her own experiences, and right now she didn't have to if it was too difficult. She had submitted to a rape kit, that was admission enough. Even so, she shuddered in Amanda's arms at just the implication of what "hurting" meant in this context. Olivia knew all the many ways a person could be hurt, and the great irony of it was that she deserved it the least. People like Sondra Vaughn and Matthew Parker deserved it. People like Sandberg, Riva, Angelov. People like Amanda.
Nurse Este saved the day once again by clearing her throat and discreetly displaying a small black comb, the kind boys used to carry in their back pockets when Amanda was in high school. Lord, they thought they were cool, raking those little ten-cent drugstore combs through their shaggy too-long hair. This one wasn't for the head, though. Besides that, Olivia's long hair had been hacked off as if it were nothing. "The next step is pubic-hair combings," Este said in a confidential tone. "Now, I can do it if you prefer, but I give everyone the option of doing it themselves. Or, if you'd like your wife to assist, she can—"
"I'll do it." Olivia sat up from Amanda's embrace, easing her off as if they had been walked in on during an intimate moment in her office. She put out her hand for the comb, and for a second, she was Captain Benson again, taking charge and refusing to let anyone else do her dirty work for her. But the shaking spoiled the illusion, casting doubt on her ability to even hold the comb, let alone use it to sweep any of the perps' stray hairs from her private area. Thank God they had done away with plucking a pubic hair and a strand from the victim's head in recent years. That would have been even worse.
"Hang on, darlin', why don't you let me get that for you?" Amanda intercepted the comb from Este, prepared to zip through the step as quickly as possible. She had never done a pubic combing before, though she had stood nearby during hundreds of them, and she knew them to be a difficult part of the process. Painless, but what woman wanted a stranger grooming them there? What woman wanted her wife grooming her there, for that matter?
Amanda didn't exactly relish the idea herself—seeing the damage up close would make her want to kill Olivia's rapists all over again—but she would do anything to take some of the burden from Olivia and get her through this faster. "Lie on back while I just—"
"I want to do it myself," Olivia said, sounding for all the world like Jesse when she was being stubborn and independent. Mama, I want to walk to school by myself. Mama, I want to do my own pigtails. The six-year-old thought she could handle any task, no matter how large or small, and Olivia was no different. She thrust her hand forward, demanding the comb from Amanda, eyes locked on her open palm. It twitched like a dying animal gone belly up. "Give it to me. Now."
Normally, being given an order like that would either have incited Amanda's anger, if in the midst of an argument, or an irreverent dash of humor, if she thought it might defuse the tension. To be honest, it was rare enough for Olivia to be that bossy with her, it surprised Amanda more than anything. But trauma victims often lashed out and acted irrationally, and more than likely that's all this was. If Olivia were clear-headed at the moment, she'd realize Amanda was the better choice to perform the collection.
"Hey there, boss lady, you forget I'm the one with the forensic science degree here? I know a little bit about gathering evidence." Amanda rested a hand on Olivia's knee, tapping the inside with her fingers, encouraging it to open. She forced a coaxing smile that was usually reserved for luring the kids to bed or the dogs to the vet. God, she hated this. Herself most of all. "Come on, it'll be over before you—"
"Give me the comb, goddammit." Olivia snatched at the comb like she was disarming a gun-wielding criminal, but her aim, always so true in times past, was off. She missed it by a mile, swiping at air and huffing in frustration. Her second attempt was more successful, and she connected with Amanda's palm, knocking the comb into her lap. Rather than grab for it again, she recoiled as if it were a large cockroach.
"What the hell, Liv," Amanda said, surprised but not angry. It had become her go-to response, even with the kids: What the hell, Jess, why would you put mayonnaise in your sister's hair? Oh, Sam, what the hell you been eatin', child—green eggs and ham? Of course, now Jesse and Tilly had picked up the habit, asking what-the-hell about even the slightest inconveniences. They didn't understand that it was Amanda's way of keeping her cool under challenging circumstances.
Calmly she retrieved the comb, holding it flat in her upturned palm to show that it was a lifeless, harmless thing, not a weapon. Though, she supposed, in the wrong hands it probably could have been used like one. She lowered the comb from sight and gave Olivia's knee a reassuring squeeze. "Never mind, that's all right, darlin'. Let's just do it real quick and get it over with. Then we can move on to the next step. 'Kay?"
Not much of an incentive, considering that the next step was the anal and perianal swabs. Amanda wondered if that might be the reason Olivia was stalling now, to avoid moving forward with the most invasive portions of the kit. If there had been no anal contact they at least could have skipped that swab, but Amanda knew for certain that there had been, and repeatedly. The images and sounds were seared into her brain like a brand. Like the burns on Olivia's skin from the taser. (She'd done her best not to count them while she helped Olivia off with her clothes and on with the hospital gown.)
"No. Please, just . . . " Olivia held out her hand expectantly—even a little defiantly—and with an urgency that bordered on need. Her unfocused gaze rose no higher than Amanda's shoulder level, as if she were unaware of the face above it. She resembled a blind woman whose eyes never quite reached the speaker. It had a strange disembodying effect on Amanda, who drew closer on instinct, rounding directly in front of Olivia to bring herself into view.
"Liv, why won't you let me—"
"Because I don't want you touching me there!" Olivia cried, so agonized and raw-throated she sounded like a soldier being actively ripped apart. An arm torn off by shrapnel, a leg blown in a thousand different directions by a land mine. Gouts of blood, bone fragments as sharp and dangerous as exploding glass, gelatinous gore splattering the ground like the contents of a water balloon dropped on pavement. Human beings were resilient, but some things could not be undone. "I don't want you to see! Don't— don't want you to see what they . . ."
The ending may have faded, but the meaning was clear, and so was the realization they both had at the same time: it didn't matter. Amanda had watched every cut and bruise as it mapped its way across her flesh; from video footage alone, she could probably visualize a fairly accurate depiction of Olivia's genital trauma, based on the injuries she saw day in and day out on the job. And she knew Olivia's body, the most intimate parts, the pleasures and pains they could reach. What was left to hide?
Every fiber of Amanda's being wanted to object. She was far better equipped to handle the gravity of the task right then, her hands markedly steady though her insides felt like water, her mind singularly focused on shielding her wife from any further trauma. The state Olivia was in, it would have been easy to override her refusal. But one glimpse of her pained expression, and Amanda couldn't do it. She'd be as guilty of taking away Olivia's consent as all the men in the livestream if she continued down this path.
"Here, baby," she said so gently she practically mouthed the words. Tucking the comb into Olivia's hand with the same care, she ensured a good grip, then unfolded the small collection sheet that resembled a piece of kitchen parchment paper. She spread the sheet lightly on Olivia's lap where it could be reached without effort, and drew back deliberately when she started to fuss at the corners. There was actual physical pain in not being able to freely touch or hold Olivia as she had done for the past two years. "If you need any help, I'm right here."
Sadness darkened the hollows of Olivia's face, giving it a gaunt, skull-like appearance, and for a moment, it seemed as if she might recant and ask Amanda to take over. But she waited for Amanda and Este to move aside, where they would no longer have a straight-shot view of her progress. Watching her struggle into position, groaning and wincing, a hand at her ribs and the other clutching the comb so tightly it left a white barcode on her palm, it was all Amanda could do not to intervene.
With frustrated whimpers, sighs, Olivia toiled beneath the tent of her gown, still trying to be discreet, even if those same intimate places were to be examined minutes later. An eternity passed in sniffles and the aggressive ticking of a wall clock before she presented the comb and sheet, neatly folded back into quarters, to the SANE nurse as if it were a religious offering. Amanda had never seen a victim do that—re-fold the pubic combings sheet so any shedding was preserved within its creases—and it hit her with the swiftness of a fist. She couldn't tell if Olivia knew those tricks of the trade because of her job or because she'd had this procedure done so many times.
Este noted the difference with a look of mild surprise too, but didn't comment, only received the collection like she was handling a newborn, and murmured a light thank you. She cast a meaningful glance at Amanda before fitting the sheet into the corresponding envelope, drawing that part out with a slow and deliberate hand. The next step would be even more torturous and everyone in the room knew it; the air was so thick with tension it was stifling. Amanda wanted to run, but then she would have to abandon Olivia.
Again.
She imagined her feet as cinder blocks, too heavy to lift from the floor (not much of a stretch, really), and stayed fast at Olivia's side. If only the rest of her were made of stone, maybe then this wouldn't feel as horrendous. Maybe then she could convince herself she was doing the right thing. "Okay, baby, got another rough one coming up," she narrated, all the while wishing she'd kept her mouth shut. Commentary was unnecessary in this particular situation and came off more than anything as nervous chatter. But she couldn't let it go at that. "Just hang in there, you're doing so good. And you're almost finished."
Two and a half hours into the kit, they honestly were making good time compared to the grueling four—and sometimes as long as six—hour kits that Amanda had stood sentinel for in the past. But there was no telling how long the next several swabs would take, and whether or not Olivia could tolerate the speculum exam. These steps could not be rushed and were often responsible for the whole process being dragged out, no matter how efficient the nurse. Whenever the patient said stop, you stopped and you didn't proceed without a green light, ever.
Olivia muttered something that sounded like "It'll never be over," but she complied with Amanda's attempts to get her situated at the end of the bed where Este had extended a pair of stirrups. The nurse waved them forward as if they were parking a car and trying not to ding the bumper. The visual was absurd, almost to the point of being funny, but no one laughed. Especially not while Olivia was having such difficulty, each leg requiring a great deal of effort to lift into the metal support brackets. She hissed loudly, her face a study in concentration, pain, and wrestling with her own body.
Amanda felt powerless to assist, knowing she would only be in the way if she tried to help Olivia scoot her bottom to the very edge of the bed. She waited anyway, hands poised to straighten snarled sheets or remove any other hindrance Olivia might encounter. The physical ones, at least. She couldn't control the mental blocks she saw going up, the walls her wife was building out of reinforced steel, in place of the concrete Amanda had chipped away at for the past ten years. Right then she couldn't even control her own racing thoughts, which were so loud they drowned out Este's explanation of the anal and perianal swabs.
Not until Olivia gave a stilted cry and turned her face away, eyes clamped shut, did Amanda finally snap out of the brain fog in which she drifted. She began to speak without any conscious planning or forethought of what she would say, just the awareness that she needed to distract Olivia from the torment below her waist: "Hey, darlin', I ever tell you about the time I went trainhopping? You know, where you sneak into a freight car like they do in Fried Green Tomatoes. I ever tell you that one?"
After several moments without response, Olivia finally shook her head in a brief spasmodic jerk. She still didn't open her eyes or face Amanda, but she had at least heard and acknowledged the inquiry. That was something.
"Aw, shoot, can't believe I never mentioned it. That's gotta be one of my best Dumbass Amanda stories yet." Actually, it wasn't nearly the dumbest or the most dangerous stunt Amanda had pulled in her youth—not even the most illegal—but it was a safe memory to revisit, minus any family drama or serious injury, and it didn't end too badly. Olivia was always after Amanda to share more of her past; there were just so few stories worth telling about her home life. Skipping town on a freight train would have to do.
"N-not a d-dumbass," Olivia mumbled. It sounded like she was talking to herself, searching for a set of lost keys or a pair of glasses that were on her head. Her eyes remained closed, but she turned her face in Amanda's direction, pressing it to the hand she held in hers. She was very warm. "You're n-not. Don't say . . . "
"I know, you don't like it when I call myself names. But you ain't heard the story yet. Might change your mind by the time I'm done." Amanda stroked Olivia's good cheek with the back of her index finger, putting on a sad smile the captain didn't see. It hurt almost as much not looking into Olivia's eyes as it did looking into them and finding nothing but pain. "Think I was about fourteen at the time, and I must've been pissed at Kim or my parents for some reason or another, 'cause I decided to run away from home.
"I didn't want to go alone, though, so I invited my cousin Mindy. 'Member her? You met her at the Loganville fair. She was my partner in crime back then. Anyway, she said yes, and we snuck out to the tracks one night with our backpacks full of teen magazines, belly shirts, and country music tapes. Never mind what we'd listen to them on. Mindy brought ham salad. I brought the beers."
Even the underage drinking reveal didn't get a reaction from Olivia, although Amanda might have included it in other tales of her childhood. It was a major feature in those days, and Amanda had probably dodged the bullet of alcoholism by a very slim margin. Too busy perfecting her poker game. She decided not to mention her daddy's .22, another stowaway on that midnight Georgia train.
"Think we went through most of our provisions in the first hour and a half. Neither of us remembered to bring a flashlight, so we couldn't see to play cards or read the magazines. We just sat there in the dark like a coupla nincompoops, telling ghost stories and gossiping about boys. Mindy was used to sleeping out in the barn with her horse, but I was freezing my tail off. Remember how long it took me to adjust to the weather up here?"
Actually, she had yet to fully adjust to the coldest New York temperatures and probably never would, but it usually earned her a smile from Olivia when she mentioned her cold intolerance. This time there was nothing, not even a nod to indicate that Olivia was paying attention. Her lips were folded in, eyelids folded tight, as if she had retreated somewhere within, closing up all the windows and doors. She was slipping further away rather than staying grounded by the tale, but Amanda didn't know any other way to bring her back besides finishing.
"Anyway, we felt around in the dark like we were in that Helen Keller movie, until we found what Mindy swore was a pile of hay. 'Cover up with it,' she says, 'You'll be as warm as if you were at home in your own bed.' Figured the farm girl knew what she was talking about, so we got all snuggled in, fell asleep within ten minutes, not even. Beer pro'ly had something to do with it . . .
"We woke up the next morning all excited to see where the train had taken us. Thought for sure we'd be in Arkansas or West Virginia or somewhere. You know, I's singing 'Little Rock,' she's singing 'Country Roads.' And well, the hay was hay, sort of. Apparently someone had been using the car to store cut weeds. To burn later, I guess. Know what lives in the grass and weeds down south?" Amanda paused for dramatic effect, even though she was fairly certain Olivia was not listening. "Chiggers. Lots and lots of chiggers. They ate us alive. Seriously, I looked like I had chicken pox for a month. But the worst part? Our train out of Georgia?"
Amanda made a sideways slicing gesture, as if she were cutting off any grand ideas about her final destination. Olivia was gripping her other hand like a woman in the throes of childbirth. At full strength, she probably would have crushed some of Amanda's bones. At full strength, she wouldn't have let herself hold on so tightly to begin with. "Never left the station. Like, ever again. Defunct car. The damn thing wasn't even hitched to a locomotive. I'm not so sure the tracks were active, either."
She shook her head at the humorous twist, giving the appearance of light amusement, though she felt nothing. Inside, only death. Este signaled the conclusion of the anal swabs with a quick glance up before rubbing the applicators, cotton heads tipped with blood, on their respective slides. At least that part was done, then, and though Olivia was visibly shaking and still wouldn't—or couldn't—open her eyes, she hadn't cried or screamed as Amanda feared she might. She'd barely made a sound.
"Longest redeye of my life," Amanda said, with a silent, quivering laugh. She hated the sound of her own voice; she hated the stupid, pointless story that was better left unspoken. Why hadn't she told it to Olivia when things were good, when they could have laughed at her teenage antics together, instead of choking back tears and bile? Now it was memory with a taste, bitter as rotten grapes, and it would forever be associated with this moment, another painful invasion of Olivia's body.
"So, yeah, Dumbass Amanda, see? Tried to run away and all's I ended up doing was having a midnight picnic and pro'ly getting Lyme disease or West Nile or some shit from five million chigger bites. Thank the Lord our kids got your brains, otherwise we'd be in for a real treat in a couple more years." Amanda fiddled anxiously with the frayed ends of Olivia's hair, no longer aware of what was coming from her mouth. Anything to grab Olivia's attention, even if it was just to scold Amanda for self-deprecation or agree that their children were extraordinary.
But when Olivia did open her eyes, it wasn't to comment on the anticlimactic tales of bored teens in Loganville. Slumped against the pillows, she merely stared at Amanda for a while, the angle turning her slight frown into a pouty expression. She seemed on the verge of speaking, her respiration rapid and shallow, as if timed to her frenetic, traumatized consciousness. Poised for flight, with nowhere to go. That was the very nature of PTSD, and she had lived it over and over for most of her life.
"Saint of lost causes," she lisped, tongue moving, lips not.
It was so subtle, Amanda thought she might have imagined it. Maybe her conscience was working overtime. "Huh?" She leaned closer to Olivia, inclining an ear, but she was caught off guard when Olivia's hand extended toward her, reaching for something at chest level. Tucking in her chin, she glanced down to see that the St. Jude medal had escaped from inside her collar and dangled, coin-like, in the overhead lighting. You're waiting for someone to perform with.
The pendant landed in Olivia's hand, gentle as a raindrop, and she cupped it in her palm as if it were that fragile, a tear discarded by the sky. God was crying, isn't that the stuff they used to sell to little kids who were scared of storms? What lies we told our children in the name of comfort. What horrors we disguised as fairy tales and religion. "Like to see their face when I put it in . . . " Olivia mumbled, as if it were the inscription on the back of the necklace, read under her breath, to ponder and inspire.
"Hey." Amanda eased the pendant from her wife's hand, still upturned in anticipation of more rain, and dropped it back inside her collar. She took Olivia by the wrist, folding her arm down so the elbow was at her side, hand draped over her belly. The action and the limpness of the limb reminded Amanda of the way dead bodies were posed for burial, and she almost pulled away, refusing to associate those things with Olivia. Ever. "That's all over with, Liv. Just try to focus on where you are now, okay, baby? Listen to the sound of my voice, and breathe. You need a break? Maybe another sip of water?"
Este nodded at Amanda's glance up for approval, but Olivia cut them both off, shaking her head adamantly on the pillow. She kicked at the blankets Este had drawn back in place across her knees, tossing the covers askew, baring her legs from the shins down. There were large bruises on both kneecaps, as if Olivia had played an extreme sport without proper padding. Her whole body looked like that, to be honest. "You think they gave me a break or a sip of water when I asked for it?" she snapped, and though she was weak, her anger still packed a mighty punch. "No, they just kept— they kept . . . . Just want this over, so I can go home. Please."
Exchanging another look with the nurse, Amanda found confirmation of what she already knew—it would be a while before Olivia was cleared for release, even beyond the rape kit. If nothing else, her burns needed to be treated and the splinters removed from her feet and hands. That cheekbone should be iced, and in all likelihood she would require sutures to the current exam site. They might be looking at an overnight stay, or at least a late-night to early-morning release time.
Neither woman wanted to break the news, and in the end, neither of them did. Better to let Olivia feel like she was calling the shots than to take away her choice and her hope yet again. Este readied the vulvar swab, the first of three final swabs in the genital area and the last of the evidence collection. Feeling helpless and hollow inside, much like she had while viewing the livestream, Amanda watched the preparation in silence alongside her wife. It was as if they were waiting for the nurse to turn off the life support of a beloved family member. A fifty-four-year-old woman who suffered a tragic accident and had no chance of recovery.
It became unbearable—the silence—as the nurse began tracing the applicator on the outside of Olivia's vulva, her arm moving with the grace of an orchestra conductor, leaving little to the imagination about what was happening beneath the blankets draped over Olivia's knees. The comparisons a mind came up with to rationalize the unimaginable (at times the men had looked like bronco busters to Amanda, taming a wild, bucking bronc for the saddle) were profane and shameful. Amanda averted her eyes from the exam before her overwrought brain played any more tricks.
"I tell you about the time Kimmie 'n me brought home the pregnant praying mantis?" Amanda chuckled once, swiped at her nose with the heel of her palm. Her nose leaked like a sieve whenever she held back emotion. Or when she let it out. One of those damned if you do, damned if you don't situations. That seemed to be the overarching theme of Amanda's entire goddamn life, when you got right down to it. "Well, we didn't know she was pregnant or what the weird honeycomb-lookin' things were inside the shoebox we kept her in. Until they hatched. You know how many eggs are inside those things?"
When neither of her listeners wagered a guess, or even showed any interest in hearing the answer, Amanda provided the punchline with all the enthusiasm she could muster—that was to say, very little. "Tons. Like three or four hundred. And the lid was off the box, so they got out. Mama was screechin' and carryin' on over itty-bitty stick babies for days. Took us about a week to get 'em all out of the house. So, if Jess or Tilly ever come home with a praying mantis in their pocket, look out."
Nothing. Not so much as a flicker of the eyelashes at the mention of their daughters' names. Amanda almost preferred it when Olivia was fretting over their three-year-old being snatched up; at least then she was engaged and responsive. For better or worse, she was Olivia when she was anxious and hypervigilant. Amanda didn't know who this blank, staring woman was or what to say to snap her out of it. She frightened Amanda with her empty brown eyes and mute tongue. In some ways it had been easier hearing her cry, hearing her beg.
The vaginal swab passed in the same eerie silence, and Amanda gave up on the forced and pathetic storytime. It was all just white noise anyway, and if she had to listen to herself being unnaturally talkative and upbeat for another second, she would really go crazy. Shooting up a hospital full of civilians crazy. She was a killer now, it wouldn't be that big of a leap. Most repeat killers started small, their crimes escalating with experience. She could picture the bloodstains, like sprays of red flowers—hibiscus or some other bold bloomer—on the sterile white walls.
Closing her eyes didn't help. When she did that, she saw Olivia being raped again and again on an endless loop. So she kept them open, watchful, though they felt dry and sunken inside their sockets. She had no clue how much sleep she'd gotten in the past seventy-two hours, but she couldn't let it catch up with her now. Whatever the number, it was probably more sleep than Olivia had gotten. Until her captain was resting comfortably, Amanda would not give herself the luxury.
No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than Este finished the vaginal smear and boxed the envelope alongside the rest. It might have been a welcome sight if not for the next step: the cervical swab. Having an applicator wiggled around in your most intimate places was intrusive enough, but the culminating swab of the kit required a speculum for deeper insertion. The instrument gleamed like a brand new pistol on the tray beside the nurse. Ready to be picked up and fired.
Amanda stole a nervous glance at Olivia, expecting to find her restless and fearful at the prospect of anything larger than a cotton tip being put inside her. At some point she had sunk down further into the blankets, as if her outer retreat reflected her inner one, for she was fully immersed inside herself now, a squatter in her own skin. The resemblance to cinematic scenes of possession, when the demon finally took control of the host body, was unnerving and made the hair on Amanda's arms stand on end. She half-expected to hear the words "Olivia's not here anymore" from the puffy, cracked lips that were virtually identical to her wife's, right down to the plump little Cupid's bow, so unique to Olivia that Amanda had never seen another like it. Sometimes she kissed it just because.
But Olivia didn't speak at all. The blanket shroud shuddered around her, the only real sign of life beyond an occasional faint puff of air from her lips. She'd stopped meeting Amanda's eye some time ago, staring dully into the middle distance, her irises a shade of puddle-brown they had never been before. Color had risen in her cheeks, though, turning them an almost healthy pink. Bright and a bit glossy, like she just went for a mid-January stroll through the city.
Why didn't she speak?
"Hang on," Amanda said, waving off the speculum that Este brought forth, Olivia in its crosshairs. She didn't care how much she delayed the rest of the exam. Hell, Olivia was caked in come and saliva, they had to have DNA samples for all the men by now anyway. Amanda scooped up her wife's hand, which she couldn't remember putting down in the first place—why would she do that?—and gasped at how warm it was. Not just warm, but actually hot to the touch. "Liv baby, how you feeling, huh? Look up here, darlin', I wanna see that pretty face of yours."
With Amanda to guide her chin up, Olivia obeyed, or else the demon-thing inside of her did, but there was nothing behind the glassy brown eyes to indicate she saw anyone at all. Amanda longed for her to turn and kiss the inside of one wrist, like she did whenever Amanda's hand lingered by her face for very long. Every time she did that, it made Amanda fall in love a little more. Now just the thought of it made her heart ache.
"Why'd y'make me come here?" Olivia asked, slurring as if she'd been awakened from a heavy nap, or perhaps had gotten a bit overzealous pouring herself a glass of wine or four after dinner. She tried to home in on a visual target, but her pupils swam in and out of focus, creating a trippy illusion of depth and flatness that reminded Amanda of a cosmic vortex. She felt drawn in by it, the way she imagined things sucked you up in space, no telling what was on the other side. "I don't need t'be checked out, Mom. He didn't hurt me like that."
Mom. Amanda winced at the name, knowing what it meant to Olivia: neglect, cruelty, lies, addiction, fear, and irreparable harm. She had a pretty good idea which memory her wife was reliving right then, too. At sixteen, and against her will, Olivia had been forced by Serena to endure an unnecessary pelvic exam, supposedly for her own good. In reality it was just Serena's way of exerting control over her daughter and punishing her for having a boyfriend—someone whom she might love more than she loved Serena.
And now Olivia thought that's who Amanda was. No better than the wretched woman who had beaten, sexually abused, berated, and abandoned her more times than she could count. Logically Amanda knew Olivia was just confused, possibly even hallucinating from the fever, but that did little to soften the blow or alleviate her rapidly growing concern. This was a lot worse than a simple spike in temperature from being warmed up too quickly.
"Oh my Lord, she's burning up," Amanda said, her voice cracking with the shrill rise in timbre. She forgot herself and reached for Olivia's face, to better gauge the heat that seemed to emanate from her skin like a furnace, discernible even before contact was made. Olivia shrank from the touch, a hand over her badly bruised and swollen cheek, a whimper in her throat. But Amanda persisted, waving for the nurse to test Olivia's forehead and see for herself. "Feel. That's not no normal, low-grade fever. We gotta get her cooled down before her brain starts cookin' in her skull."
Frowning, Este put down the speculum and opted for pressing the back of her wrist to the inside of Olivia's ankle, nearby in the stirrup. Her frown deepening, she peeled hurriedly at the nitrile gloves she'd tried not to dirty and tossed them aside. "Olivia," she called, grasping the back of Olivia's calf, then pushing up from the wheeled stool with an urgency that caused Amanda's heart to leap as well. "I'm gonna go ahead and take your temperature, okay, hon? Your wife's right, you're pretty warm."
The nurse continued to speak loudly over her shoulder as she retrieved a thermometer from a cabinet beside the sharps container. Amanda put her energy into trying to coax Olivia to sit back up, instead of hunching over sideways on the bed, her head practically hanging off the edge. She was struggling to get away from Amanda's hands, which refused to let go and risk sending her pitching onto the floor. "Liv, no, hey. Come on, darlin', sit back up. It's just me. Liv. Liv!"
No matter how gently Amanda spoke, Olivia would not stop fighting her. She wasn't that difficult to subdue, as weak as she was, but fear of hurting her or losing patience and snapping at her, kept Amanda from using her own full strength. The result was a slow, feeble skirmish that put Olivia in Amanda's arms, being guided back against the bed and turning her face away so far it strained her neck.
"No, don't," she said, reaching out with both arms for something only she could see.
Kids reached out like that when they were being separated from their mothers. By children's services, by war, by death. All were the same in the eyes of a child, and all were the same in the eyes of Olivia Benson as she fought the loose arms that held her, leaning in the opposite direction. "Please. Lemme go. I want my wife. I want Amanda. Don't! Leave me alone, I want . . . want Manda . . ."
Unable to catch her breath, not from the physical exertion but the welling emotion that threatened to suck her under, Amanda gasped for air and hugged Olivia to her like a drowning woman. That's how it felt—they were drowning together, taking turns pulling each other down in an attempt to keep their heads above water. Who would emerge the winner, while the other floundered and eventually sank to the bottom, was anybody's guess. "I'm right here, Liv. I'm right here." She dispensed with the kid gloves and held on fiercely to Olivia, determined to keep them both afloat, no matter what else she had to let go of to do it: pride, composure, strength, control. Even her whole self, if that's what it took.
"I got you, baby. Shh, it's me, it's Manda."
"No, y-you're not— she's not h-here." Olivia shook her head restlessly, putting her weight into her arm and shoulder as if Amanda's chest was a door to be broken down. Barely succeeding to nudge her captor off balance, she whimpered in frustration and dropped her forehead against Amanda's collarbone, a defeated head-butt that hurt about as much as a thump from a sturdy pillow. "She d-didn't come. I cried f-for her . . . when they hurt me, I c-cried for h-her, but she dinnit c-come. Why didn't she come for me?"
All pretense of a brave face gone, Amanda wept into the hair at the top of Olivia's head. It was the one spot left relatively unscathed by the torment the rest of Olivia's body had endured for three days. The one spot that still felt safe, like home. Leaving that one small comfort was its own kind of torture, but Amanda forced herself to put Olivia at arm's length by the shoulders, ducking down to eye level, where she couldn't be missed. "It's me, Liv, I'm right here. I came for you soon as I could, baby, I swear it. I'm sorry it took me so long. I— I heard you cryin' for me, and I wanted to be there more than anything. More than any— any—"
The rest would come out only as a sob, and she swallowed it back forcefully when she felt Este's hand on her arm, a thermometer at the ready. If she had gotten through to Olivia at all, it was hard to say, but some of the tension seemed to have drained out of the muscles in the captain's shoulders. She held still for the forehead thermometer, though its tiny chirrup, no louder than a hatchling, sent her into a full body spasm that Amanda once again likened in her mind to an electric shock. "Shh," Amanda soothed, watching anxiously for Este's reaction to the reading.
"Hundred and three," said the nurse in a low voice that belied her alarm. She was finally getting it.
"Should it be that high?" Amanda felt around on Olivia's inflamed skin with cold, helpless hands, as if she might locate the source of the heat. All she found was more hot skin and a sudden puppetlike limpness of limb that startled her. She'd preferred it when Olivia had fought back.
"No. It shouldn't." Este bustled over to the laptop she had wheeled in on a cart before beginning the exam, presumably checking the administered medications and procedure lists in Olivia's chart.
Prepared to demand an explanation and that the nurse do something, Amanda opened her mouth to speak, but instead uttered a surprised cry as Olivia turned to jelly and collapsed into her arms, deeply unconscious. If Amanda hadn't been there to catch her, she would have fallen headfirst onto the floor. Luckily, she still sat mostly on the bed, and Amanda was able to guide her back against it with little effort, propping her head on the pillow.
"Shit, she fainted or something," Amanda said. Rough, as if it were an accusation and the nurse was to blame. And wasn't she? Amanda had known there was something wrong, but Este kept downplaying it as shock or a response to the rape. If Amanda had listened to her gut, this wouldn't be happening. Whatever this was. "Get off the damn computer and help her. Liv baby, wake up. Can you hear me? I want you to stop this right now, and do as I tell you. Open your eyes, goddammit."
No amount of fingers snapped in her face, firm patting on the cheek, or being shaken by the shoulders could rouse Olivia. She was dead to the world, and whether or not it was permanent, Amanda couldn't say. When two hands took her by the arms and moved her aside, she almost whirled around, punching. She would have clocked Este right in the face if she'd followed her instincts. Now she stood by, feeling wooden and simpleminded, watching while Este listened to Olivia's chest with a stethoscope.
"What is it? What's wrong with her?" she asked anxiously, tracking the nurse's every movement, suddenly very clipped and hasty, as she rounded the bed and pressed a call button on the instrument panel by the laptop. Amanda couldn't see it, but she was willing to bet the button was labeled Emergency. She grabbed up one of the lifeless hands at Olivia's side as if it were a coveted item, the last of its kind. "Why'd she pass out like that? Why's she got such a high fever?"
Jesse often got tuned out because of her incessant questions, at least by Amanda, who had built up a strong tolerance being raised with Kim. But now Amanda remembered what it was like to be six years old and have your cares and concerns summarily dismissed by someone older and more knowledgeable. And like a six-year-old, she felt herself about to have an angry outburst if she didn't get some answers. "Will you please tell me what the hell is—"
"I'm not sure," Este said, hurriedly. She trotted back over to Olivia, checking her pupillary reaction with a pin light from the pocket of her scrubs. If there was any difference—good or bad—beneath the lids Este peeled apart with her thumb and forefinger, Amanda couldn't detect it. Unsheathed, the eye bulged in its socket, the iris pointing due south like a pole at the bottom of a globe. Like the eye of a frantic fish that knew its time was up. "Her heart sounds are erratic, pulse is . . . very low. It's possible she's hemorrhaging internally."
"Well, you have to find out if she is and fix it then." Amanda didn't care how obvious her advice was, they apparently didn't know their ass from their elbow in this hospital, otherwise they wouldn't have missed something so crucial in the first place. It wasn't entirely Este's fault; she hadn't been the one to check Olivia over for signs of internal damage. But how could she just let Olivia sit there getting worse and worse, and not have any clue she was bottoming out?
How could Amanda?
Even standing at Olivia's side, speaking to her and holding her hand, Amanda had failed to protect her. The universe seemed hellbent on taking Olivia from her, as if God himself had deemed Amanda unfit to care for such a remarkable soul. Either that or he just wanted to make her suffer and had taken some pointers from Sondra Vaughn on how best to go about it. She cursed them both silently, God and Vaughn, and steeled her mind against the dark thoughts.
No one was taking Olivia from her, no matter who they were or what power they believed they wielded. Amanda could move mountains in the name of her wife, her Captain Benson, whom she loved more than life itself—but, of all obstacles to stand in her way, she found that she could not move Este. The nurse wasn't much bigger than Daphne, just a little thicker around the middle due to age, but she put her hands up to halt Amanda's advances toward the bed, having stepped back to be out of the way.
"Mrs. Rollins-Benson—"
"Just call me Amanda," Amanda snapped, trying to sidestep the smaller woman's wide, blocking stance.
"Amanda, I assure you I will do everything I can to help your wife, but right now I need you to back off." Este put some authority behind the last part, making it clear she meant business. She wasn't intimidating in the least, but her stern schoolteacher expression was still plenty effective. Pissing off someone who held your wife's life in their hands was never a smart move.
Amanda couldn't afford to make any more dumbass mistakes. That's what got her and Olivia here in the first place. Meekly, reluctantly, she backed up to allow Este some space, all the while checking on Olivia's status with fretful glances. The captain hadn't stirred and remained slumped on her pillow, head drooping down against her shoulder, a top-heavy daisy turned away from the sun. Amanda wanted very badly to step forward and sit her upright where her head would at least be supported, but she was afraid of getting in the way and harming Olivia further.
"I've alerted emergency staff," Este said as she buzzed around the bed, recording Olivia's vitals, provided by indifferent, faceless machines that didn't care whose wife they were hooked up to; whose mother. A wave of despair, as vast as the ocean itself, hit Amanda while she hung back, unable to help—she knew what most of the monitors were for, what was a good reading and what meant the patient was in distress, but she couldn't make heads or tails of them right then. It all looked like gibberish, and she felt about ten years old.
How many times had she waited in the wings for her daddy to quit beating on her mama so she could get Beth Anne patched up? How many of those times had she ended up in a hospital room like this, a scared kid with nothing to do but wring her hands and pray
(no, she didn't do that anymore)
and hope to hear the doctors and nurses say everything was going to be okay? No wonder her heart was about to explode inside her chest.
It dawned on her that she couldn't read the monitors because her eyes were filled with tears, so she swiped them away, found it made no difference. Olivia was still dying right in front of her.
"—need you to leave the room," Este was saying, at the end of a distant tunnel. In Amanda's bleary vision she looked like Agent 007 viewed through a gun barrel, like in the old James Bond movie trailers. How odd.
But then, everything about this living nightmare was odd: the muted voices of the medical staff as they poured into the room; the unfamiliar faces and stony stares drifting past Amanda, swarming around Olivia; the sensation of floating as hands lead Amanda away, and she offered no resistance; her own flat affect reciting Olivia's known allergies—"Cats, sulfa drugs, latex, gluten"—when someone asked about the patient's allergic reactions.
"My God, what did they do to this woman?" someone else muttered just as Amanda went out the door. She never saw the face of her escort, who disappeared back into the room and shut the door soundly behind them. She stared at it for a long time, maybe minutes, maybe hours, willing it to open again. Just a false alarm, Olivia was awake and asking for her. Needing her. She would rush to her wife's side and get it right this time. Every word, every gesture. Amanda would fix everything she'd broken.
But the door remained closed to her, as if she'd been cast out of the Garden. She realized it was the first time in three days, with the exception of lost video feed and a few other interruptions, that she didn't have eyes on Olivia, couldn't see what was being done to her. At least the livestream had given Amanda the illusion of watching over the events inside the shipping container, no matter how awful they were or how impotent she'd felt. She had known what she was up against.
Now she was falling without a net and no clear view of the ground. No way of preparing for impact.
"I didn't get to say goodbye," she whispered, pressing her palm to the door. She expected it to be hot, as if the fires of hell blazed on the other side, but it wasn't warm or cold, just neutral. Just a door, and such things were made to be opened. Letting her fingers drift down to the lever, she was moments from depressing it, storming back into the room, demanding to be with her wife.
Behind her a familiar sound stayed her hand.
. . .