Two Islands

Chapter Two

Olivia emerged from a beautiful, happy dream. She was walking down the street in Montreal, looking for something to eat in Chinatown. The juxtaposition of the French language against Chinese street signs and graffiti surrounded her, and she ducked into a dingy hole-in-the-wall restaurant with the best dumplings and lemon chicken around. She knew the location of the restaurant but not the name, and as her steaming hot meal was delivered to her table, she awoke.

When was the last time she had had such a dream or felt unbridled happiness in some capacity? She knew but promised to never unleash it from her memory, as though she was protecting the skeleton of a tiny bird. She wriggled her legs out from under the heavy down quilt, feeling suffocated. Olivia wanted summer to end, but Chicago was dipped in the same oppressive humidity that had entered at the beginning of August, even now September's end. Olivia longed for heavy wool scarves and a steaming cup of hot apple cider with a cinnamon stick to balance out the sweetness.

Although humid, the day was overcast with a storm waiting to spring a leak and unfold over the city. Olivia wanted the sound of rain, the rhythmic tapping preferable to city noise. She had spent the night before with girlfriends at a sophisticated, little black dress-required bachelorette dinner where the eight friends gifted the bride, Sabrina, with exquisite La Perla lingerie, crystal champagne flutes, and pottery thrown by artists residing in the deep woods of Tennessee. Olivia had observed Sabrina with happiness and envy. Sabrina was one of those people who had never experienced hardship during her life, at least not real hardship. She grew up on the North Shore and was an only child. Sabrina had never gone through any messy breakups because she dumped all of her boyfriends before they had the chance to do it themselves and had enjoyed one more seamless transition into her relationship with Greg, a successful opthamologist.

Sabrina was vivacious, too, one of those women that exuded seduction at all times because she simply could not help it with her wild curly hair, deep set dimples, and gentle curves. If someone had to describe Sabrina in one word, it would be "syrup." Olivia wondered if she would ever be able to handle an actual tragedy or if life would simply march on in ease for Sabrina. Would Sabrina change her mind about wanting children only to find out she was infertile or that Greg's sperm had low motility? Would she cheat on Greg and lose everything after not bothering to pursue a career of her own (because she only planned on volunteering time to committees and decorating their home)? Would Sabrina die of cancer just shy of 45? It was horrible to position her best friend with such a thought, but both the party and the past made Olivia weigh the possibilities and never cast aside the impossibilities. Maybe Sabrina would live happily ever after, something Olivia had stopped believing in. Maybe she never really believed it in the first place.

After the maid of honor, Alicia, gave a very long toast, the gifts were magically taken away to be delivered to Sabrina and Greg's trendy penthouse on the 58th floor of the Marina Towers, and the party piled into a limo and were escorted to a wine and chocolate bar. Sabrina was mysteriously gifted with an open tab upon arrival, all taken care of, naturally. Moments like this filled Olivia with enormous guilt and the deep reflection that she didn't belong in this life or with these people. What she lacked in wine knowledge and sophistication, she made up for in dress and style, which she kept simple. Olivia believed that maintaining a tan and moisturized skin helped her outrun any potential stereotype that trailed behind her. She had tried to burn her book or at least tried to write it in invisible ink, but some things are and always are. And she was always adding to that book no matter how hard she tried not to.

Olivia recalled the moment she pushed identity onto the people she socialized with. Sabrina's party was handpicked by her to receive delicate, pressed linen invitations that were not printed but instead handwritten by an artist's calligraphy. Olivia had sipped her pinot grigio (the safe choice) and assigned the group identities, as though doing so made her invincible to their superiority. Sabrina, the pampered North Shore socialite. Alice, the boring, cheerful Iowan. Celeste, perpetually the woman who moved to Chicago from Florida when she was 11 and never stopped complaining about winter. Bernadette, a former cheerleader from Des Plaines, or somewhere that sounded like that. Margie, Sabrina's North Shore neighbor whose father landed her a local television anchor gig without Margie even having to interview. Margie had big hair and showy white teeth that were a little too big for her face. After the first glass of champagne went down, Olivia was too hazy to bother with the rest, but she wondered if they thought of her as a poor, Pine Ridge Indian. It was an image she carried as a badge of both pride and shame, like a regretful tattoo.