Olivia's Trek (1) (19 page)
Olivia Carter
“I’ll call 911.” I hear the bedroom door slam shut behind me as I look for a telephone, “Lucien, what are you doing? Please, we need to get out of here.”
Lucien’s eyes look completely dead and his voice is flat as he says, “I’m just making sure that the fire is contained and doesn’t spread across the rest of the apartment. My father won’t be happy.”
“Fuck your father, Lucien. Now let’s try to get your mother and get out of here. Now!”
Lucien jolts into action and heads towards the bathroom, pushing the door open. The sound of the popping and crackling of fire is loud. I start coughing so Lucien tears off his mother’s bedcovers and throws me a sheet. “Put this over your mouth and body, Olivia.”
I nod gratefully, wrapping it around me and wander over to the window, which I had insisted we shut earlier on.
Lucien yells, “Catch, Olivia,” throwing the telephone at me. My fingers miss as I try to call 911.
I yell to the operator, “I can’t breathe!”
“Stay with me,” he keeps repeating.
Tears and smoke block my access to the window as I cry to the 911 operator, “I don’t know what to do!”
The large, blinding orange and yellow glow behind the bathroom door gets larger.
My nose and throat are burning, but I can’t see Lucien.
“Lucien?” I scream, choking. The smoke is so thick, that I can hardly see anything.
The heat is becoming unbearable. It reminds me of when you open an oven.
I think I can hear wailing sirens, but I’ve dropped the phone, so I just keep walking straight ahead hoping to find the window. My head smacks into something; it’s the glass. I feel with one hand to try and open the window, but it won’t budge. I just want to give up. But after everything I’ve been through, there is no way that I am going to die like this. My mind takes over again and I start to talk to myself.
“George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, that’s it, Olivia, keep going. I can do it, I know every U.S. president in chronological order.”
I scrunch up my face, let go of the blanket and feel the window pane with both hands. I push with every ounce of strength I possess.
A huge gust of icy cold air hits my lungs as I gasp at how much it burns to breathe. I try to open my stinging eyes, my back feeling the heat of the burning furnace.
There are fire trucks and police everywhere and I see Gabriel being held back by two police officers. Someone yells up at me, “Jump!”
I see everyone look upwards towards me.
Gabriel’s face is twisted as he screams at me, “Jump Olivia!” He falls to his knees.
I can’t leave Lucien and Francesca, so I turn around, feeling the floor for where I had dropped the blanket, putting it around my face and mouth.
I turn around, using one arm to feel out in front of me, my eyes closed to keep out the thick billowing smoke. I feel someone else’s arm.
“Lucien?”
A thick, raspy voice says, “Help me. She’s so heavy, I can’t pull her anymore.”
“I’ll help you. Don’t give up, okay?”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Do you hear me, Lucien? You follow exactly what I say now. We need to get back towards the window and we need to jump.”
I move around and help pull Francesca Borgia’s lifeless, limp body across the floor towards what I think is the window. But it’s not the open window, it’s a wall.
Gabriel Carmichael
I had a bad feeling about this, the minute she answered her phone. I don’t want to think it but Olivia’s reaction in the café makes me think only one thing: Was it her old drug dealer?
Shit, I need to be at a meeting at two o’clock and it’s one-fifteen already. Okay, I need to think about this. Trust has to be a big part of it for us to go forward in any way. Maybe it was just her waxing appointment or whatever. No, I’m a surgeon and I know my gut. I saw the color drain from her face when she took that call.
Okay, I’ve got to play this cool. I can’t call her every time I feel like she’s got herself stuck in something. Fuck it. Damn, it’s going to her voicemail. No point in leaving a message. I’ll probably sound too irritated or annoyed, which I am, and that’s not going to help anything or anyone. No, I’ll go to my meeting as scheduled but I’ll keep my phone on in case she does call.
It’s been fifty-five minutes and I haven’t heard from her.
I sit in the boardroom drumming my fingers on my thigh as we all sit around the oval table discussing our new advertising leaflet.
I look at the impressive flyer that says, Columbia University Medical Center Division of Cardiothoracic Surgery. It states that ‘The Heart Surgeons at Columbia University Medical Center Division of Cardiothoracic Surgery are ranked among the best in the world. At the Division of Cardiothoracic Surgery at CUMC, in Manhattan, they perform over 1,600 procedures each year and are continuously developing new and innovative surgical procedures, especially in the field of minimally invasive and robotic surgery. Their pioneering work in cardiac surgery is grounded in CUMC’s tradition of attention to patients care, and focus on post-operative rehabilitation. The Division of Cardiothoracic Surgery stands alone in the northeast and ranks among the finest cardiac surgery programs in the world. They consistently make
U.S. News and World Report
’s top ten cardiac surgery program list, and are able to attract some of the finest surgeons in the world. These surgeons focus on developing clinical specialties, then work together to ensure the best options for their patients.’
“What do you think, Gabriel?”
“What? Sorry, think about what?” I answer irritatedly, staring at my mobile.
“You seem very distracted, Dr. Carmichael, anything we can help with?”
Chuckles in the background from some of the others around the table.
“Son, is a patient troubling you?” asks one of the older surgeons patronizingly. Surely he must be up for retirement soon.
Suddenly my phone flashes and it’s Olivia’s number. I answer immediately, nearly dropping the phone in my scramble to pick it up. I’m already running out of the boardroom when I hear her screaming, “I’m at Lucien Borgia’s. We need help, please,” before the line goes completely dead.
I run, my heart thumping, my mouth so dry I can’t even swallow. It’s the same feeling we get when a cardiac arrest call goes out. I almost expect to hear the dreaded monotone voice telling me “cardiac arrest … ward 666.”
My thoughts are all over the place. Isn’t Lucien Borgia the kid that raped her? Fuck. Surely he couldn’t have called her? No, that wouldn’t make sense. She wouldn’t answer it. Would she? It would certainly account for her looking like she’d seen a ghost. She wouldn’t go back to his actual house of her own accord, would she? I just can’t understand. She’s in trouble. Big trouble.
So much for all my medical training. It seems to have all gone out of the window. The person I love is in some kind of grave danger and I can’t cope. I stick in my earplugs and press play whilst
The Uninvited
by Alannis Morissette plays at full blast.
Okay Gabriel, breathe, take a deep breath. That’s it. That’s better. Now think. Call Preston Carter and get this Borgia boy’s address. Good. Now stop running. I can feel my lungs burning.
I feel myself slipping into medical mode as I tell myself to slow down and walk, otherwise I will slip and go hurtling full speed into a very solidly constructed clinical waste bin. Also I’ll be so out of breath that I won’t be able to communicate effectively with the nursing staff. That’s it, Gabriel. Just think it’s a patient.
I jump into a cab and direct it to Lucien’s address and close my eyes and pray as we stop at every traffic light in Manhattan on the way to Fifth Avenue and 59th Street.
The cab screeches to a halt. The taxi driver says, “Sir, we no go drive any more. Look fire is there.”
I shove him a wad of twenties and slam the door shut, and jump out of the cab only to be greeted by the chaotic sight of blown-out windows, fire trucks lining the street, yellow police tape cordoning off the building and the sounds of despair.
Two police officers walk towards me as I head straight for the yellow tape,
“Sir, please step back.”
“No, you don’t understand, my … Listen there are people trapped up there. I need to get up there.”
“Sir, the firefighters are handling it.”
I call Preston Carter, shouting at his voicemail before lunging forward only to be held in some kind of vice grip by the officers. Shit, this is what the kids at Wilderness Therapy must feel like when they are being restrained. Hands on me, holding me down only make me thrash around more, kicking out in anger.
Suddenly a gasp passes through the gathering crowd before someone shouts, “There’s a girl up at the window. Jump.”
I look up and see Olivia’s tiny face peering out of the window, which has thick, black smoke fuming out of it. “Olivia, jump!” My heart lurches and I feel like I’m going to pass out when I see her disappear from the window and feel my knees hit the concrete ground as my legs give way.
Firefighters nearby are discussing strategy. “Once ignition occurs, a fire will continue to burn and spread as long as it has a continuous supply of fuel and oxygen. It will always spread into cooler areas following the flow of heat, and it doesn’t take long for heat to spread. On average, a house fire can raise the interior temperature to over 1100 degrees Fahrenheit in just three-and-a-half minutes; note that your goose is cooked, quite literally, at 350 Fahrenheit. And in five minutes, the air in a room can get so hot that everything in it spontaneously combusts, a phenomenon known as flashover, even if actual flames are not present. That means you and yours are working with roughly a 210 second window of opportunity.”
I ricochet back in time to a lecture back at med school, and remember being told that fires and people compete for the same vital resource: oxygen. But that people are at a disadvantage because a lack of oxygen makes them dumb and sleepy—two qualities you really don’t need when escaping the flames.
I feel vomit making its way upwards inside of me.
Felipe Borgia
It’s 4:59 precisely on my Patek Philippe Calatrava watch as I walk up the steps to the Four Seasons bar in midtown Manhattan.
I order my usual, a screwdriver in a tall glass.
I’m juggling ten million things. I need to return a famous politician’s voicemail, but he can wait.
I rub my wrist around where the hand-stitched, shiny black alligator strap sits. Bloody Francesca is getting to be more trouble than she’s worth. I feel anger well up inside of me as I picture her screaming at me earlier on when I explained where her stupid, precious dogs were. She still lacks the same basic respect that she did when I married her twenty years ago. No appreciation that I had just returned from a trial involving a 500 million dollar real estate foreclosure, settled an internet company case for 403 million dollars, and I am taking on the federal government for wrongfully taking over a bank during the financial crisis. Oh, and we’re preparing to celebrate my firm’s 16th anniversary and its record ascent to the most elite ranks of U.S. law firms.
Best thing I did was to have those stupid dogs put to sleep. That’ll teach Francesca to go and see her horses without asking me first. Next time, she’ll find them shot or the stables knocked down. I’ll call and find out about having her sent away for a rest for a few weeks.
I wish my phone would stop buzzing. I’m sure it’ll be my dear wife, who by now will have had some valium and alcohol, no doubt, and be leaving her ususal messages about how she’s leaving me. She repulses me.
I ignore the phone, thinking of the young blonde intern who I bedded last night as I order another screwdriver.
Olivia Carter
My eyes are trying to focus on the hospital TV set, where each channel that I have flicked through is reporting the same story. I settle on the red-haired, middle aged newsreader.
“Francesca Borgia was taken to an area hospital where she is being treated for closed head trauma and a laceration to her scalp. There are rumors of prescription drug abuse, but the family has declined to comment.”
I flick to another channel.
“A raging fire destroyed a luxurious, multimillion-dollar penthouse on the Upper East Side last night, authorities said. The blaze started yesterday afternoon, quickly engulfing the three-floor penthouse in flames. It took firefighters more than an hour to get the inferno under control, the FDNY said.”
Flicking channels again, this time a male newsreader with black glasses.
“The 6,700 square-foot condo has nine bedrooms, four bathrooms and a grand staircase. The FDNY said the cause of the fire was still under investigation. Seven firefighters were treated for minor injuries.”
“Turn it off, Olivia, you need to rest up.”
I smile, relieved that Gabriel’s back from getting a coffee.
He pulls his chair up beside my bed, stroking my fingers, “I’ve sent your uncle and aunt home. They’re exhausted and I’ll stay and keep watch.”
I nod gratefully.
“Can you remember what happened?”
I find myself drifting until I hear Gabriel call my name gently.
“Olivia. I’m here, and you are so, so safe, I will never let anythng happen to you again. I promise you.”
“I remember everything,” I say, my eyes starting to well up. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Just take your time and start wherever you feel comfortable. There’s no rush, okay?”
I open my mouth and let out a huge sigh. “After I hit the ground, the balcony burst into flames. My entire body hurt, and I could barely move. My feet were swollen, my left arm felt broken—I landed on it to break the fall—and my back was completely racked with pain.”
“That’s right, Olivia and I could hear you crying and I kept shouting, ‘I’m here.’ Did you hear me?”
“Yes, and then you shouted to where the paramedics were. You said, ‘I’ve got one here. She’s hurt real bad!’”
“Good girl, well done. I think you should rest now. Want me to read to you?”
I shake my head signaling no.
Gabriel is studying my face seriously, before saying, “Olivia, look at me.”
I look down, avoiding his gaze. I feel like he can see right through my soul.
“Hey, come on, we said we would be honest with each other, right? Tell me whatever it is on your mind. Please?”
Gabriel cups my face with both of his hands, gently stroking my cheeks.
I look up and into the azure eyes that first mesmerized me and break down into sobs. He bends down, kissing the crown of my head, comforting me until I fall into a deep sleep.
Dr. Nathaniel Carmichael arrives to take over my rehabilitation and medical care in terms of pain relief and monitors me with therapy, so I don’t fall into the same trap I had originally fallen into. I spend the next few weeks in the hospital with two broken ankles, and a sprained wrist. My left foot was scraped so deeply, the bone was visible after I hit the ground.
*
I wake up one day, having dreamt about a field of sunflowers. Gabriel is reading a medical journal and stroking my hair.
“Gabriel, have you seen him?”
“No, but you can ask me anything and if I don’t have the answer, I’ll try and find out what it is.” His eyes are concerned.
“Is it bad?”
He shifts uncomfortably, before ruffling his hair with his hand. I’ve learned that he does this when he wants to soften the blow.
“Please tell me. I need to know.”
“Well, you both got Francesca out first and she landed on the tarpaulin the firefighters had set up for you guys to jump into. I saw you both arguing up there and he pushed you out the window. He most probably saved your life, but you don’t like to make things easy, so you landed on the concrete, hence the broken ankles.”
“And Lucien?”
He holds my hand tight. “They’ve put him into a medically induced coma, in ICU at the moment. That means they’re keeping him asleep 24/7. He’s breathing with help from a machine, but each day breathing a little on his own.”
“Oh God, that’s really bad.”
“He is critical but stable.”
“Gabe, he kept telling me to jump, but I was so scared and I was choking and feeling sleepy and I didn’t want to, so he grabbed me and basically pushed me out of the window.”
“The room pretty much exploded after that, Olivia, so he saved you from getting burned like he did.”
A nurse comes into the room and I make a face as she gets out my medicines.