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Olivia

Along with the damn near manic reruns of Ancients Behaving Badly , BoJack Horseman , and Rick and Morty that had been on repeat in the background, my personal research has been the only thing keeping me sane the past few weeks as I took care of my mother. She's on one of her downward spirals.

All she let loose was that small little hint, and then left me to obsess about it. So typical.

Had I known she was going to drug herself into oblivion maybe I could have wrested more clues from her as to the second half of who I was. Not that I saw her much in between the boarding schools and all of the failed attempts to fix me.

She completely refused to explain, aside from not denying the truth of it. Now she has so many things in her system to help with her mental anguish she's rarely conscious.

It's a struggle to hold back the keening whine of frustration I want to let out.

She lies drugged in the next room, one step away from mentally checking out forever. I don't want her to leave, but that other part of me… the part that longs to be free? To explore the other half of what should have always been mine?

She's ready.

I might not be ready, but she is.

It’s a thought that doesn’t exactly fill me with the best of confidence. I can’t seem to make myself leave this room, let alone go out into the world. Soon I probably won’t even have a job anymore, so how would I support myself?

I should go, but I can’t. Not until I know. I ignore that small voice saying I won’t leave even if I knew. I’ve had enough change in my life. The thought of more makes me feel paralyzed.

But I should go. I should.

I can't help but feel a surge of guilt at my hesitation. My mother is lying there and here I am, torn between my desire to know more about my heritage and the sheer weight of the resentment I carry toward her for hiding it from me all these years. This guilt gnaws at me, twisting my insides as I force myself to shift my focus back to my research.

I turn back to my laptop, fingers hovering above the keys as I delve into the world of tā moko , the traditional māori tattoos. The intricate designs and their profound meanings captivate me. They're not just art; they're a declaration of identity, heritage, and belonging. The moko kauae , the chin tattoos of māori women, hold particular significance. Each line, each curve, tells a story, a history that stretches back generations.

I begin sketching, my fingers moving almost of their own accord. Since she hinted at my māori heritage, I've spent countless hours perfecting my drawings. It's become a way to connect with a part of myself I never knew existed. Each design is a step closer to understanding who I am.

I've memorized almost every design I've come across. The koru , with its spiral shape, symbolizes new life and growth. The manaia , a mythical creature with a bird's head, a human body, and a fish's tail, represents balance between the sky, earth, and sea. The puhoro , a pattern of curved lines, symbolizes speed and strength. I've learned their meanings, their origins, and the variations within each design. Yet, I know it wouldn't be respectful to create my own variants. Not until I'm accepted as māori.

I ignore the prickles of unease and the fear of not being welcomed. Drawing these designs has become second nature, a meditative process that grounds me as I wait for the inevitable end. They will kick me out soon. Once she is no longer mentally fit.

All they care about is the money. They… I stop myself before I start a mental tirade about materialism. I don’t have the energy for it after all the conflict today.

I should leave.

I wonder… would a māori community accept me? After so many years lost, being outside my birthright, could I ever find a place among them?

A sharp, jarring sound breaks my concentration. The bell from my mother's room. She's summoning me again.

Reluctantly, I close my laptop and make my way to her room. The smell of alcohol is overpowering, a constant reminder of her condition. She lies on the bed, her once vibrant eyes now dull and unfocused. She mutters to herself, nonsensical gibberish that echoes around the room.

"Mum?" I say softly, stepping closer. Her eyes flicker, finally focusing on me.

"Ariki," she whispers. Her voice is a mere breath, but the name is like a lightning bolt, "His name was Ariki."

There's a moment of cluelessness as I blink stupidly before my heart begins to race.

Ariki. Is this my father's name?

"Mom, who is Ariki?" I ask, my voice trembling with excitement. "Is he my father?”

She doesn’t respond. “Tell me more. Please.” I draw out the last word like a petulant child, desperate to know.

But she only mutters incoherently, slipping back into her half-mad state. Frustration and desperation well up inside me. Just as I'm about to press her for more, the door bursts open, and my older siblings storm in.

"What are you doing in here?" my brother Timothy demands, grabbing my arm and pulling me away from the bed.

My brain fizzles with the contact, but I’m too distracted by what my mum just said to lash out.

"I was just—" I begin, but he cuts me off with another yank.

"She needs rest. You're upsetting her," my sister Bethany snaps. "Get out."

"But she said—" I try to explain, but they're not listening. My brother pushes me out of the room and slams the door in my face.

I stand there, heart pounding, the name Ariki echoing in my mind. It's the first real clue I've had about my father, and they've shut me out. Anger and frustration boil over, but I know there's nothing I can do. Not now, at least.

The corridor feels colder than usual, the dim light casting eerie shadows on the walls, electricity from the light buzzing even louder than usual, overloading my senses.

Shut door or not, I can still hear my mother's raspy breaths and incoherent mumbling through the shut door, each one a stark reminder that her time is running out. She's slipping away, and with her, the answers I so desperately need about my father.

I shut my eyes and lean against the door only for her frail form to flash in my eyes.

Like it or not, I am torn between a sense of familial loyalty and the bitterness that she's taking her secrets with her as she shuts us out. It’ll only make it worse that she’ll still be here in body for who knows how many years.

Suddenly, raised voices break the stillness. My siblings are fighting again, their voices clearly heard through the door. I begin to beat a slow-paced retreat once I realize where their conversation is going, disgust curling in my stomach as I hear them bickering over the will. Don't they realize she can still hear them?

"What about the house? It should be mine; I've done the most for her!" My brother’s voice is sharp, filled with entitlement.

My sister's voice cuts through his, equally venomous. "You? Don't make me laugh. I've been the one taking care of her every day!"

She hasn’t. It’s been me.

I can't stand to hear anymore. Picking up the pace, I head to my room, their voices growing faint behind me. I need to distract myself, to find some sense of clarity. I lock the door before taking in the familiar, comforting sights and smells. The soft light filtering through the thin curtains, the desk with drawings scattered across it, and the distinct scent of old coffee that has long since gone cold.

Dune , a well-worn copy I fell asleep reading the night before, is on the floor. It's one of my favorites. Along with my shows, it's one of the many ways I escape while staying right here where it's safe. Although even that safety is an illusion, judging by what my siblings are yelling now.

I ignore the screeching of my siblings—vultures circling a carcass, both of them.

Sitting at my desk, I type Ariki into the search engine. The name my mother whispered clings to my thoughts like a lifeline.

Ariki. The results flood my screen, but they're next to useless. It’s a common name, meaning “chief” or “leader” in Māori. It's impossible. Frustration gnaws at me. I was hoping for something more, some clue that would lead me to him, but it seems fate is playing a cruel joke.

I try for hours, but nothing changes. I start to calculate the percentage of success, but it is negligible. Far too many decimals. It’s pointless.

I listen to make sure the vultures are done, then stop ignoring the protesting of my bladder. When was the last time I drank something? Ate? I don't remember. It doesn't matter, the best thing to do now is to go to sleep so this day can be over.

My limbs move mechanically as I shuffle toward the bathroom. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, my reflection hazy. My dark hair is tousled and my skin pale.

My hand picks up the toothbrush and begins scrubbing my teeth, my movements brisk and routine. Then there's a knock. Loud, insistent, and growing more obnoxious by the second, pounding into my skull. The bathroom door rattles under the force of it.

God, I wish my brain would just let me leave. Not be warring with itself. Too anxiety ridden to leave while obsessed with the idea of being completely alone.

I feel my lips twitch, wanting to turn into a scowl, but it's not reflected in my expression.

"Come on, Olivia! Open up already!" Bethany's voice, sharp and grating, cuts through the door. My hand twists the knob, and as the door swings open, Bethany barges in, as impatient and domineering as ever. She's already in her pajamas, hair perfectly groomed, and the predatory gleam in her eyes is unmistakable.

Without waiting for me to speak, she thrusts a crumpled piece of paper into my face.

"Here," she says with that obnoxious sneer of hers. "I need this done by tomorrow before I head back."

I glance down at the paper. Research on the thermodynamic principles of non-ideal solutions. It's a chemistry assignment. Graduate-level, of course—because Bethany never asked me for anything simple. Why is she even taking this course? I thought she was going to be a barrister.

My mind races, skimming through the words, and I'm only paying twenty-three percent attention as Bethany drones on. This will take at least four hours and twenty-five minutes to complete. If I’m quick, maybe I can shave that down twelve percent.

Bethany waves her hand between me and the paper.

"What?" I hear myself ask, my tone flat, emotionless, though inside, I'm seething. I want to tell her to go to hell, to shove her assignment somewhere dark, but I know what's coming.

Bethany rolls her eyes dramatically. "Oh, come on, don't act like you've got anything better to do. I heard you hit someone again, so I figured you're free. Plus, you're good at this stuff, so it shouldn't take you long."

I feel the burn of anger rise in my chest, but I keep my face expressionless. No matter how angry I get, no matter how many mental cusses I throw her way, nothing escapes my lips.

Instead, my body moves like it's on autopilot. I take the paper from her hands without protest, scanning the assignment quickly, a routine I know all too well. This is Bethany at her worst—entitled, arrogant, and completely sure I'll do as she asks.

"What, no complaints?" she asks with a needling tone. "I don't even have to threaten to touch you?"

She's testing me, prodding for a reaction, but I don't give her one.

I open my mouth, trying to warn her about the assignment's complexity, about how she'll need to defend her work, but as soon as I begin, Bethany cuts me off, waving her hand dismissively.

"Oh, and once you're done with that," she adds, "Timothy left the invoices and receipts for you on the dining table. You'll need to sort those out and handle the tax stuff."

I don't even have the energy to respond. It's always like this with them. Bethany and Timothy, always taking, never giving. At least Tony leaves me alone. He hasn’t said much of anything to me in years.

I never imagined my life would turn out like this.

I just want to be left alone to draw. The resentment in my chest grows, swelling to the point where it feels like I might burst, but my body doesn't show it. Numb and disconnected, that’s the best way. My head just nods on its own accord, as if this were the most normal request in the world.

Bethany narrows her eyes at me, sensing the shift in my mood. Her lips twist into a smile. I assume a cruel one, since that’s her natural state.

"Oh, and don't think you're fooling anyone," she says, her voice dripping with condescension. "We all know you're only good for this kind of thing. I mean, come on. Twenty-six and still at home. Half white, half nobody. One hundred percent crazy. You should be thankful we keep you busy."

I flinch at her use of a percentage, knowing it’s meant to mock me, not just insult me. That stings. A sharp, burning pain that lances through me. I want to scream at her, to tell her how vile and wrong she is, but the words stay locked inside my head. My body just stands there, silent. Reminding me, once again, that I don't have much evidence to say otherwise.

Bethany's smile grows wider, satisfied with the impact of her words. "Anyway, get to work. I'll check in later."

She turns on her heel and leaves, slamming the door behind her. I'm left standing in the room, staring at the piece of paper in my hand. Anger bubbles inside me, hot and relentless, but there's nowhere for it to go. No one to lash out at.

I crumple the paper tighter in my hand. There is no refusing, at least not without repercussions, that much is clear, but I can make this as painful for her as possible. I'll bury her under complex theories and advanced chemistry concepts. If she's going to be lazy, I'm going to make sure she looks like a fool when asked to defend her work.

I move to the desk, pulling out my notebook and a few reference textbooks I've kept handy. My fingers fly across the page, drafting an outline for the paper. Concepts like Raoult's Law, activity coefficients, and Van't Hoff factors fill the page, with enough subtle errors in application that there will be follow-up questions.

I feel the pressure building in my chest, the anger simmering just below the surface, threatening to spill over as I work. Tears prick at my eyes, hot and angry, but I force them back. Crying won't help. It never has.