The Poison Morality (28 page)

Oliver firmly set the miniature bottle on the tray table with a thud, waking her.  Mariella opened her eyes and squinted trying to focus.  As he rolled the table closer to her, her eyes widened in recognition and her shaking hand reached for it but stopped a few inches short of taking it.  He was glad she was doing better today.  He wanted answers and he would do what he had to in order to get them.

“What,” she gulped, looking at it suspiciously, “is this for?”

“For you,” Oliver hovered over the bed.

“I know who it’s for, I asked what.  Are you finally showing me some mercy,” she snapped, taking the bottle in her trembling hand, clutching it like a precious offering, struggling to open it.  “Sad day when I’ve become too weak to open a miniature liquor bottle.”

Oliver took it from her, twisted the cap off and handed it back to her abruptly, each move quick and borderline malicious, as malicious as he could be, anyway.  A small amount of the vodka spilled on her gown but she downed the rest in one gulp and collapsed back onto the pillows sighing satisfactorily, the corner of her mouth curved making the lines in her sunken face more obvious.

Oliver took the empty bottle, twisted the cap back on, and put it in his empty pocket of his coat and then took the photo of the twins out, unfolded it carefully and laid it on the table sliding it across to her.

Mariella glanced at it and then looked up at Oliver, her eyes sunken, squinting in defiance.  A look of speculation showed on her face.  It wasn’t the emotion he thought he would see.  One corner of her mouth tilted up slightly, sarcastically.

Mariella’s voice became low and shaky, “You were in my flat, you had no right to be in my flat,” anger flashing.  It’s possible she would have yelled at him if she had the will and she had every right to be angry but the knowledge of what she allowed to happen overcome all reason.

“How else would I know what your drink of choice was,” his tone matching hers, rattling the tiny bottles in his pocket, indicating he had more and the smile became more prominent as she struggled to sit up, her eyes widening like a child seeing a toy she coveted on Christmas Day.  He opened another bottle and handed it to her.  She downed it and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

Pulling another bottle out of his pocket, he dangled it in front of her, just out of reach.  Slowly, he twisted the cap, teasing.  Mariella licked her lips, the closures snapping open one by one until he handed it to her.  “I told you she wouldn’t want to see me.”

“I didn’t want you to die alone,” he pointed to the photo.  “I wanted to bring a loved one to you but no one loves anymore do they….Mariella,” placing emphasis on the name she despised, “And I found this photo in your flat.”

“I told you they didn’t,” Mariella downed the contents of the bottle and handed it back to him.  Leaning against the pillows, she took it and stared at it.  Her face softened, recollecting the sweet memories of the little girls she gave life to and then tossing it back on the table she said, “As I said before, she wouldn’t want to see me anyway so your efforts of breaking into my flat were futile,” she paused. 

“Are you talking about Sophie or Sydney?” Oliver asked.

“Sophie, of course and I told you I don’t know where she is,” she nipped.

“You see, it wasn’t futile after all because I found that photo,” Oliver slid the table to the side and sat on the bed, the bottles clanking in his pocket, “And I don’t believe you because I found this photo in your flat and this one,” he pulled the identical photo out of his inside jacket pocket and held it up for her to see, “was left at Sophie’s flat.”

“You,” she hesitated, grasping what he was saying, “You know my Sophie,” Mariella grasped his hand.  “Do you think she will want to see me, even after,” she faded and collapsed back on the pillows and Oliver pulled his hand away from her.  Her response was convincing, he believed she didn’t know where Sophie was.  He knew what she had done, what he wanted to know was why.

Oliver waited patiently while she composed herself again as much as she was able.  Opening another bottle, she took it greedily.  “You just told me she wouldn’t so why are you asking me that question?”

“Are you thinking you will get me pissed and then I will confess all to you,” again avoiding the question by asking one, something Mona had informed him that men do to self-preserve.

“Not at all, I expect it would take much more than that to get you drunk.  I’m exploiting your weakness because,” he leaned over closer to her face, “I want to know why
you
allowed your husband to molest your daughter.”

Mariella looked up at him through thin lashes, her teeth clenched, defiant, eyes narrowing, “Was that all you thought it would take to get me to tell you about the tragedy of Sophie’s past,” she sneered, “Is that what she told you?  That it was Declan,” she paused and then gave a knowing grin, “Oohhh, you love her don’t you,” the corners of her mouth went from up to distinctly down, “So why not ask her instead of me?  What’s the matter, does she not love you back?  You’re trying to be her hero after all?  I warned you against that.”

He sat upright, “And I heard your warning, took it to heart but that is neither here nor there.  If you want more vodka you will tell me what I want to know,” his voice was soft and handing her another bottle, hoping he wasn’t over playing his hand.

“And you become my confessor, do you?  There’s nothing you can do to repair the damage that’s been done to all of us.  Don’t think for one second that she is as innocent as she seems and that she was the only victim.  The advice I gave you before, whether or not you want to get into her pants or her heart is the same.  Take heed, once you open that door, the truth may not enlighten you in the way that you hope.  Do you want to take that risk,” Mariella’s defiance turned to questioning concern.

Oliver dropped his arms and stood again, opening another bottle for her and sitting in the chair.  Running his hands through his hair he answered, “Wasn’t it you that told me that caring is always a risk and I’ve already opened that door.”

“And walked through it, did you,” she closed down as Sophie did but he didn’t care about Mariella’s feelings, if breaking down Mariella meant helping Sophie he would do it.  Mariella shook her head no, “I can only imagine what she told you and I’m sure she made us both look mad.”

“Do you want to tell me different,” he pushed.

Mariella looked at him and then his pocket and she gave a nod to let him know the answer required payment.  Clutching the little bottle to her chest, she sipped occasionally from it, this time
savouring it, and cleared her throat to continue.

“She told me he,” she coughed again and Oliver finished her sentence.

“Molested her,” he stated.

“No, she was a teenager, she was fourteen, old enough to make her own choices,” her eyelids were getting heavy.

“What do you mean,” he paused, trying to find the right words, “it wasn’t against her will?”

“I never believed what she said or didn’t want to believe it because if it was true than it was a lot worse than anyone could ever know.” Mariella sighed.

“He took what he wanted and you allowed it!  Statutory rape is still rape, Mariella.” 

“I resented her because Sydney was taken and she was a constant reminder.” 

He understood that correlation, having felt the same where Sam was concerned.  “So something went on when the girls were young, not long after this photo was taken, something so horrible that Sydney was taken and Sophie was left behind?”  His spine stiffened as he looked down the bridge of his nose at her.  “Being an identical twin, young and lovely, attractive, those things weren’t Sophie’s fault.”

“
He told me
he
never touched her.  As long as she kept them happy, he was home and we had a roof over our heads.”

“So you believed him over your daughter?”

With the last amount of energy she had, Mariella spat out, “She chose to take the money and he chose to keep a roof over our heads.  He helped us survive, it was about security.”

Oliver stood again, looking down his nose at her, “Security?  Where was Sophie’s security when he fucked her the first time, where was it when she was living on the streets because it was better than her mother’s husband using her body as his personal playground and an alcoholic, delusional mother who wouldn’t know love if it was right in front of her face.”  He wanted to shout at her but his deep voice resonated low so that no one outside could hear him.

“No, it wasn’t him, that’s not how it was, and if you believe that, she hasn’t told you everything,” her eyes clenched shut, talking over him.  “I didn’t want her to leave; he kicked me out when she ran away,” her voice rose with her justification, “You can judge me if you want,” her speech gave way to another fit of coughing.  Falling back on the pillow, her anger had given her strength to sit up straight on her own but the coughing and constriction in her chest eliminated it.

Instinctively, he reached over to assist her but left her alone to fend for herself.  Hands tucked in his pockets he looked down at her coolly, waiting for the fit to be over.  The alcohol had hit her blood stream,
along with the coughing, it was the first time she had colour in months.  Her trembling hand reached for a tissue, wiping the dribble away; her breath came in heavy pants after she recovered.

“Do you think,” heaving, “you can make her happy,” she tapped the photo on the table.  “This was the last time any of us were happy.”  The whites of her eyes had yellowed again and her eyelids opened and closed slower and slower until sleep took over.

There was no more to be said the only thing to do was to decide; decide whether or not to tell Sophie of his discovery and what to do about Mariella.  But she had put the doubt in his mind.  He was inclined to believe Sophie over Mariella and Sophie was no good at lying but was she good at withholding? 

He stared down at Mariella with loathing.  Loathing for being a no good mother, loathing for allowing the abuse of her children, and loathing for placing the doubt and the only way to get the truth is to ask Sophie and that was not going to be a good conversation but he had to know. Mariella said it wasn’t Declan but she also said she didn’t want to believe it which is what Sophie already said.  There was nothing to do but get confirmation from Sophie before he revealed that Mariella was here.

The revelation of who Mariella was left a bitter taste in his mouth.  So much turmoil cluttered his feelings as they lead him in every direction, unable to make the decision whether or not to end Mariella’s life or not.  Who was he to judge?  But when he thought of what Sophie went through, his only thought was that Mariella deserved to suffer as Sophie did so he should let her linger.  Would Sophie want him to end her life once and for all?  Should he even tell Sophie the truth?  And what of the elusive Sydney, she had as much right to know but with her living in the shadows and making what he felt deep inside was mischief he didn’t care.

Oliver sat slumped in his favourite chair, clinging onto his glass of wine, forgotten as he contemplated the mess, the web of love and hatred through his own connection with these women.  He had liked Mariella, he couldn’t deny that and technically she was the same person with wise advise and poetic words but what she did to Sophie or allowed to happen to her was simply unforgivable even if it wasn’t his place to forgive her or not.

If he didn’t give Sophie the opportunity to do just that then he would be denying her peace that was crucial to their future together.  A future together, the thought made him smile at the possibility.  Maybe he would be the hero in her eyes by bringing them together.  At last she would release the past and look forward to a future with him.

What was it that Mariella said?  When he loved a woman and chose her over his career, she was the one.  There are many other avenues in medicine, but it had never occurred to him to be anywhere other than where he was.

He loved Sophie.  He loves her and he would tell her now if he thought for one second that she was ready to hear it, could comprehend it, and return it, even a fraction of what he wanted to give.  But since he had not heard from her, he really doubted it just like Mariella made him doubt what happened.

Maybe it was the difference between Sophie and Mariella’s perceptions of events that became the truth for each of them but the only way he could know is for one of them to tell him everything that happened.  It was a need that burned so fiercely that it took precedence over what to do with Mariella.

Mariella had planted the seed of doubt.  Did Sophie consent?  Even still statutory rape made Declan guilty.  What if Mariella was right?  Oliver would have to know more to make that decision.  He sighed not wanting to do that but he felt he had no choice and it was the biggest risk he would take with Sophie.  When it came down to the decision to tell Sophie about Mariella or not, finding out the whole truth would be the deciding factor.

Oliver tried to ring her again but she didn’t answer.  After a couple of hours contemplating, he ran up the stairs to her flat, knocking on the door.  It was quiet.  What if something happened to her?  After all they went through maybe something terrible had happened in her pursuit of Sydney.  He started to panic and pounded on the door.

He heard the lock click and he was so relieved he almost hugged her when she answered the door, yawning, standing in loungewear and his t-shirt, and her hair fell in large waves around her face.  “Oliver, what are you doing here, it’s four in the morning.”

“Why haven’t you answered my calls?”  He was breathless from the fear of his thoughts alone.

She moved out of his way so he could come in, she went to the kitchen and clicked the kettle on, “I lost my phone, I’m sorry I should have called.  I was going to go today and get another.  Is everything alright?  Why are you here?” 

He let out an exasperated groan.  “I’m sorry but I need to know what happened between you and Declan.”

“Declan,” she exclaimed, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she almost dropped the kettle on the floor.  “There…there was nothing
between
us.”

“What did he do to you?”

“You can deduct that, you know enough.”

“There has to be more,” he stood, his hands outstretched, almost pleading, “There’s a reason I’m asking.”

“And what reason would be so important that you have to dredge up the worst thing that ever happened to me,” she was getting annoyed with him.

“You have to trust me.  Just please, if you feel like you were the one that destroyed them, then there’s more.  They broke
you
down.  You told me how your mother reacted to the fact that he molested
you
, not the other way around.  She made you feel like the guilty party, didn’t she,” his fingertip pointed at her for emphasis.

“And then I cut myself.  There’s nothing more to tell,” she shrugged her shoulders, trying to make light of it.  “Where is this coming from?  Why the urgency?”

“Because you felt betrayed by the one who should have loved you most.  Your mother betrayed you to him but why?  What did he do, Sophie?”  He replied, not answering her question but he was pleading and there something he was holding back.

“Don’t,” she handed him a cup of tea.

“What did he do,” there was a look of concern and anger, the muscle in his jaw worked and he pursed his lips together, setting the cup of tea on the table without so much as a glance at it.

“Are you my therapist?  Why are we talking about this now?  What does this have to do with anything other than your need to know?” 

“I’ll tell you but you have to trust me first,” he said quietly, the back of his hand reached to caress her cheek but she turned away.  “It was more than molesting you, wasn’t it?”

She cringed, “Don’t use that word anymore and don’t try to force a confidence from me, Oliver.”

“Or you won’t forgive me?  I’ve already been told that bit of wisdom.  Was it more like some type of arrangement or relationship?”

“Relation…,” she was horrified and he knew again he went too far.  “No…but you won’t like what I tell you and you won’t look at me the same anymore,” she spat out, her voice turning into a squeak, clearing her throat she continued, “Because if you look at me with sympathy or pity or worse,” she shook her head, “I can’t take that.  Not from you,” her voice trembled slightly on the last.

The hard lines of his face softened into a comforting smile, he reached for her, his long fingers wrapping easily around her arms and his lips pressed against her forehead.  Leaning over so he was eye to eye with her he pronounced, “There’s nothing so horrible in your past that some happiness in your future can’t make you forget, if you let it.  I know it was traumatizing but I also know there is nothing you can tell me that will change how I think or feel about you.  I promise.”

Touched by his vow, she still shook her head, “I’ve dealt with it fine for years.  Besides a promise like that can’t be made.” 

“I am making that promise and I am your closest friend, am I not?  And what if I told you there are ways to make what happened to you fade away into the past and stay there?”

She paused; looking past him at the paintings she painted, wanting his proclamation to be truth.  Only when he said it did she feel hope in it but the thought of telling him details made her heart sink.  “How?  I’ve already told you more than I’ve ever told anyone.”

“I know, because you trust me, don’t you,” he wrapped his arms completely around her, her head rested easily on his chest.  His deep voice resonated through it when he spoke, “What did he do to you?”

Oh, that deep persuasive tone, the warmth of him, the rise and fall of his chest, she would miss that if he couldn’t keep his promise but she would not resent him if he couldn’t.  “You don’t understand as much as you think,” she buried her face into his shirt, “I…I allowed it.”  Oliver’s heart dropped.  “This makes me just as culpable.”  She couldn’t resist looking up at his face, monitoring for reaction.  “Culpable,” the crinkle between his eyes indicated his confusion, which was better than pity at least, “culpable, guilty,” she said, her arms still at her side.

“I know what culpable means.” It’s as Mariella said and it wasn’t what Sophie was saying that made him disappointed it was the proof that Mariella was right at least on some count and that thought grated on his nerves.  But he held Sophie’s face, “I don’t take the responsibility of being your friend lightly.  That’s my obligation to you, as your friend, your confidant.  I have to know before I can help you put it away once and for all.  This one last time to remember and that’s all, forever.”

“You don’t have that kind of power.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said repeating one of her favourite expressions, he smiled reassuringly at her.

She laughed nervously, chewing her lip worriedly, she debated the wisdom of it and even if she did, how could she say the actual words?

Oliver’s hand cradled her chin, his thumb pulling her lip from between her teeth, “It’s obvious to me that you want to tell me or you wouldn’t look so worried.”

Shoulders stooped, she sighed, “I’ll try but I don’t know how much.”  There was only one way she could think of to have the courage and that was liquid courage,
if
she was going to take that leap of faith, but the confidence he exuded in what he was telling her made her inclined to believe he could do what he said he could do.  “I’m going to need a drink first,” she looked down into the tea cups on the table, “A real drink, the words won’t come out if I’m completely sober,” recalling the previous episode.

Walking purposefully towards the kitchenette, he asked, “What do you have,” he stopped to be directed towards the
liquor.

“Nothing,” her hands went up in a helpless gesture.  

Checking his watch, “Oh, right,” remembering she usually only drank wine when they were together, “that only leaves one place doesn’t it?”

She groaned, “I don’t know if I can do this,” she was already nervous but then he added, “Pack a bag, you’re staying with me tonight and tomorrow, I have something important to show you.”

“Why do I have to stay the night?”  He sighed frustrated when she questioned things instead of just being cooperative.  She made him answer for everything.

“It’s already tomorrow, Sophie and it’s not like you haven’t stayed before.  And I have this for you,” he held a key up on a ring, dangling it in front of her.  She just stared at it, not taking it, having mixed emotions about it but she allowed him to put the key to his flat on her key ring and waited patiently by the door.

Sophie grabbed a bag and started throwing things in it.  A couple of months ago she would have looked at him like he lost all his faculties at just mentioning packing a bag to stay at his flat but now, it just seemed the best thing to do.  She was about to embark on a journey that would be an end to the past haunting her and she was willing to try it.  If he had told her that when they first met she would have told him to sod off but she had no reason to doubt him now.  She had more faith in his enthusiasm to try than what the actual result but if what he said had even a slight truth then how could she not share that enthusiasm.

“Later, I…might have something to show you.”

“You
might
have something to show me?  Why are you being so cryptic?”

“Something related to what you’re about to tell me.  A denouement….you know, an end or finish.  But it depends on what you tell me.”

She had to admit, he had her intrigued.  He obviously had acquired some type of knowledge or opinion or possibly even a theory.  Holding her coat, she slipped her arms through and as was his custom, pulling her hair out of the coat for her.  “My flat is your safe haven now.  It’s better that we’re there, you can leave if you want, I won’t stop you.  But I’ve told you that before, it always stands.”

The taxi ride was in silence.  While her leg shook nervously, he held one hand while she chewed the nails of the other.  He knew what he was asking for was a strain on her but it was important that he knew.  She was already thinking about it when she gripped his hand so tightly, he caressed it with his thumb to get her to ease up.

After the fire started in the fireplace and the few ounces of whiskey burned her throat she began, “Where do I start?”

Oliver downed his own whiskey, pouring another, sitting on the opposite end of the sofa.  He might need to be a little pissed too to hear the story she was about to tell.  Her shoulders relaxed, her face flushed, he knew that little bit of whiskey would work quicker than the wine.   “The beginning.”

“That’s a long story.”  The cushions seemed to collapse under her, her leg slid off the edge of the couch when she propped it up and finally getting comfortable, she looked the only direction she could look in that position.  Oliver, leaned back, arm splayed on the back of the sofa, the whiskey in the other hand, legs stretched out beside hers.  His face revealed nothing and she opened her mouth to speak but the sound wouldn’t come out.  Looking at his shirt, and then looking at the floor, there was nowhere she could look that his face wasn’t in view.

Oliver picked up on her discomfort.  She couldn’t look at him and reveal herself comfortably.  All of a sudden he did feel like the therapist, the patient needing a temporary anonymity, sitting behind so as the patient is not distracted.  Setting the whiskey on the table, one leg dropped to the floor and he shifted, opening his arms to her.  Sliding to him, he cradled her.  Her head rested on his shoulder and she stared at the fire reflecting in his glass.  She was so comfortable there, she could have fallen asleep but she started by telling her age: