“Listen, does the name Olivia Murray mean anything to you?”
Mrs Van Sant stops in her tracks. A tea cup falls to the floor, shattering to pieces. “N–no, I don’t think so,” she says, her hands trembling. “Does she l–live nearby?”
——————
——————
Olivia, The Daughter
Mrs Van Sant has just finished dusting the knick-knacks in the living room of her husband’s childhood home when the doorbell rings. It’s awfully late and she hasn’t seen him in a few hours, so she hasn’t been expecting visitors. Her curiosity getting the better of her, she opens the door to a familiar face.
“Oh! Mrs Everett,” she gasps. “I didn’t know you were in the neighbourhood!”
Mrs Everett looks different, her face free of makeup, hair chopped and dyed red, her curvy frame covered up with a large coat and loose-fitting clothing, but she knows those big green eyes as well as anybody’s. “Call me Rachel,” she says, her voice no longer high and breathy as she slips past Mrs Van Sant and into the hall. “It’s a long story. I’ll explain everything.”
For as long as she’s known her, Rosie Everett’s marriage and family has been the envy of all of Stepford. She’s young, pretty, obedient, and constantly cheerful. Her husband William is a respectable man with a well-paying job – and the closest confidant of Men’s Association president Dale Coba Jr. – and they have two young sons together. She keeps an excellent home, and her recipes for meatloaf and chocolate chip cookies are sure to go down in history. Mrs Van Sant has tried desperately to live up to that standard for years, not to mention that of her late mother-in-law. But something in her has obviously changed, and the girl muscling her way into Mrs Van Sant’s home clearly means business.
“Would you like some tea, Mrs Ev– sorry, Rachel?” Mrs Van Sant asks as she heads toward the kitchen, almost automatically.
“No thanks, I’m good,” Rachel replies from the doorway. “Listen, does the name Olivia Murray mean anything to you?”
Mrs Van Sant stops in her tracks. A tea cup falls to the floor, shattering to pieces. “N–no, I don’t think so,” she says, her hands trembling. “Does she l–live nearby?”
Rachel carefully wraps an arm around Mrs Van Sant’s shoulder, guides her toward the living room, and gently sits her down on the couch. In her hand is a piece of paper, a printout of a missing poster of some kind, with an image of a chubby-faced girl beaming from ear to ear. Mrs Van Sant can’t help but think the girl looks a little bit like herself.
“That’s you,” Rachel says, taking Mrs Van Sant’s hands in her own. “You’re Olivia Murray.”
Olivia's tried so many times to claw her way back into her own body through the screen, sometimes successfully, sometimes not, but this time she just might make it out for good.
“Oh God,” Olivia gasps, her eyes fixed on the image of herself, younger with fuller cheeks, grinning back at her from a missing poster… what the fuck happened? Rachel stays seated beside her, holding her hand, anchoring her to something vaguely familiar, as every memory that the Men’s Association has tried to suppress floods back to her at once. Before Olivia knows it, she’s hyperventilating, breaking down into uncontrollable sobs and wails.
“I need to get back to Boston,” Olivia pleads, the handcuffs biting into her wrists, feeling as if she might choke to death on her own tears. “My mom is sick, I’m the only one who can take care of her, please let me go–”
“Shut your mouth, cunt,” William Everett snaps at her cruelly from the passenger seat of the squad car, before he returns to his conversation with Chief Darren Coba. He doesn’t even look at her.
Later the car pulls up outside the old Van Sant place. Coba hauls Olivia out of the car by her upper arm, marching her up to the front door as she struggles in his bruising grasp, and he smirks as he hands her back over to her captor, who roughly pulls her inside and shuts the door. As Mr Van Sant takes her upstairs and sedates her again, she tries to grasp at the memory of her mom, but she’s so far out of reach, and Olivia plummets back into the theater again. Back into the dark.
“I know,” says Rachel, her voice softening. “Take as long as you need. You’re okay. You’re gonna get out of here.”
“My mom, she’s– she’s sick,” Olivia tries to choke out through her tears. “I need to know if she’s okay, I—”
Rachel just holds Olivia close to her, cradling her in her arms, rocking her back and forth. “Kim Eberhart made some calls,” she soothes, stroking Olivia’s hair. “Your mom’s alive. She’s still sick, but she’s alive. Your uncle’s been taking care of her while you’ve been gone.”
Olivia pulls back to gaze at Rachel in disbelief. “You’re sure?” she asks hesitantly.
Rachel smiles, wiping away a tear from Olivia’s cheek with her thumb. “I’m sure. I saw her on the phone to your dad. And your uncle. And your brother, your sister, your cousin–”
“Alright, alright, I get it, I have a big-ass family,” Olivia allows herself to laugh, leaning her forehead against Rachel’s. “I should… I should probably start packing my shit.”
“Don’t let me stop you,” Rachel chuckles softly, before she stands up and makes her way to the door. “Head for the train station. There’s a train going to New York, you should be able to get back to Boston from there.”
Suddenly, Olivia finds herself getting to her feet, running after Rachel urgently. “Rachel, wait!” she cries, and Rachel stops in her tracks and looks back at her over her shoulder, her eyebrows raised slightly.
“Thank you, Rachel,” Olivia finally says.
Rachel smiles back at her, then slips off into the night.
———
Later, Mr Van Sant stumbles drunkenly through the door of his childhood home, expecting his wife to greet him with a delicious pot roast. To his confusion, he finds the house is pitch black. He calls out for her a few times on his way to the kitchen, until he sees a note on the counter. He picks it up with unsteady hands, slips on his glasses, and starts to read:
“MY NAME IS OLIVIA MURRAY. GO FUCK YOURSELF.”
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