I first learned that her father was still alive when Olivia fell ill. Shed been feeling poorly for weeks, even visited the school nurse, who gave her a note to see a neurologist. Olivia asked her mum, Margaret, to make the appointment, but Margaret forgot and later beat herself up, wondering how things might have turned out if theyd known about the illness sooner.
Is he alive? Olivia asked again.
Margaret stared at her sock, a hole glaring on the big toe.
Yes, she said softly. Im sorry.
Olivia never pressed much about her biological father. She didnt remember him, though she knew he existed. From the age of two, her stepfather Peter raised her, the man she called dad and who had legally adopted her. When Olivia turned thirteen their relationship cracked: she felt Peter demanded too much, scolded her constantly, and left her no room to breathe. She then started begging Margaret for any hint of her real fathername, address, a phone numberanything. Margaret stayed as silent as a statue, saying nothing. Olivia could hear her and Peter whispering, apparently debating whether to tell her the truth. No matter how she argued with Peter, Olivia was convinced it was he who had pushed Margaret to finally admit something.
He died, Margaret finally said. He was killed in a mountain accident.
Strangely, Olivia believed her then, without asking for any proof or trying to trace relatives. She never found any.
I called him, Margaret continued. He agreed to have a test. If it matches, theyll arrange a bonemarrow transplant for you. Everything will be fine.
In that instant Olivia realised things would never be fine again. Her mother had lied, her father had vanished, Peter had withdrawn, saying you cant force love. Who needed her now? Nature, it seemed, was discarding the superfluous.
I dont want this! she shouted. No operation. I hate you all. I dont want to live!
Margaret reached out, but Olivia tore herself away and fled to her room.
The sky merged with a lowlying mist, erasing the horizon. Olivia liked that her windows looked out onto a barren field, even though Margaret had sighed when they moved, thinking it unlucky that the other windows faced the courtyard, which Olivia found dull. From the field she could see the sunset, while the courtyard was only children and old ladies. Yet that evening there was no sunset; a grey gloom settled and refused to lift, even in the brief twilight between day and night. The world dimmed and blurred, just like Olivias life.
When she heard footsteps she thought it might be Margaret seeking forgiveness, but it was Peter. He lingered in the doorway, as if fearing Olivia would push him away.
Dont be angry with Mum, he said. She did what she thought was best.
Best, right! How would you like it if they buried you like this?
She wrote to him, saying you wanted to meet. He didnt reply. Mum thought silence was kinder, Peter repeated.
Olivia bit her lip. He hadnt answered then, and now, learning he was dying, he finally spoke.
Peter shuffled to the kitchen without waiting for Olivias reply.
It was an hour before Olivia went to Margaret. She had already made up her mind, but gave everyone a chance to cool down.
Margarets bedroom smelled of vanilla perfume, a scent that always overpowered everything else, yet Olivia still detected the powdery makeup she used, the strawberryscented hand cream, and the musty smell of library books. Margaret loved borrowing books, proud of the genteel hobby. The lamp was off, her silhouette merging with the armchair, a long dressing gown covering her white feet. She despised artificial tan and spent the winter yearning for summer sunshine.
Fine, Olivia said. Let him do his test.
She learned at the hospital that her father was coming. Her condition worsened, despite the doctors promise that there was still time. There was no time left. She was fading, almost nonexistent.
Olivia lay with her back to the wall, picking at a flaking patch of paint with her nail. She stared at the cracks, feeling unreal. Everything happening to her seemed unreal. She forced a bit of paint under a nail, drawing blood, as if that could prove she was still alive. The compressed bed springs, the distant nurses chatter, the antiseptic smellall felt like a lingering dream.
Before she could open her eyes, she caught his smell and knew it. She flared her nostrils, inhaling tobacco mixed with engine oil, then exhaled sharply and opened her eyes.
A man in a white coat draped over his shoulders stood by the bed. He had a suntanned, creased face, thick brows, and brown eyes set wide apart, just like Olivias.
Hello, daughter, he said, his voice low and familiar.
Hello, Olivia croaked, coughing, then repeated. Hello.
The father she imagined was nothing like this man. He had a wife and three sons, worked as a trolleybus mechanica trade Olivia had never known existed. She told him she wanted to become a canine handler, but her mother objected, so shed study veterinary science first, then pursue her dream anyway.
Dogs are better than people, he remarked.
The operation succeeded. Olivia waited for her father to visit or at least call, but he never appeared. Margaret and Peter turned up alternately every other day: Margaret left a trace of vanilla and fresh books, oblivious that Olivia never opened the old ones. Peter simply sat beside her, babbling nonsense even as she turned her back to the wall.
On the day of discharge Olivia still hoped her father would arrive. Believing he would, she rose, looked at the halfopen window smudged with tiny handprints, stepped toward it, inhaled the cool damp air, and felt the floor sway beneath her like a boat on a swift river. The ward was empty; she flung the window wide. The wind struck her face, bringing the scent of wet earth, dustladen asphalt, and the faint perfume of blooming lilacs. Cars roared past, startling flocks of sparrows. The bright blue of the spring sky sliced her eyes.
She thought of her fatherhis rough, oilstained hands, thinning hair brushed to one side to hide a yellowing bald spot, the way he spent each day repairing trolleybuses. Now, whenever she saw those iron beasts with their quirky, antlerlike horns, she would think of him. Of the wrinkles pulled across his nose, the words he would never say.
Below, Peter and Margaret clung to each other as if a storm still raged, their legs unsteady, like Olivias after long illness. They were about to leave when the door burst open, sunlight and the scent of water flooding in. James, in his work jacket, held the door. He carried a small bunch of tulips. Olivia wiped her eyes with her palm, smiled, and stepped forward.
