Time Heals All

The memory of her miserable adolescence haunted Olivia Metzger. She could not forget the braces, the acne, the ineptitude that plagues those unfortunates who inhabit the lowest levels of every high school’s rigid social hierarchy. Worse still, she had no mother, no loving arms to enfold her, no warm cookies at the end of a trying day, no model of American womanhood to which she could aspire. She had only her father, a vintner by vocation, a surly man who spent his days sequestered with his grapes in an attempt to avoid the suspicious eyes that still followed him when he appeared in public, a result of his wife’s untimely demise.

Shortly after Olivia’s birth, Mrs. Metzger’s lifeless body was discovered on the kitchen floor, a bottle of her husband’s wine in one hand, an empty glass in the other. The autopsy results were inconclusive and the question remained. Was her death by accident or by design?

So Olivia slogged through high school, isolated and forlorn, until Whitney, Ashley and Lindsey, three among that rancorous gaggle of popular girls chose her as their victim. Poor Olivia, naïve and hungry for friendship, endured their persecution with unflinching gullibility, like the time they hid her street clothes after PE and persuaded her to seek help. Clad only in her panties and bra, Olivia tiptoed into the gym only to find the varsity basketball team beginning their practice. Later, the loathsome trio convinced Olivia that the most popular boy in school liked her. His derisive laughter when she asked him to the Sadie Hawkins Dance still rang in her ears. Prom night was the worst. At seven, Olivia anxiously awaited the limo they had promised. But by nine, she took to her bed, stifled her anguished sobs and prayed that God would take her before Monday came.

Immediately after graduation, Olivia fled that small town in California’s Napa Valley. But now, twenty years later, she had flown Whitney, Ashley and Lindsay to her magnificent home on the East Coast, purchased with the money from her father’s substantial estate, because, she told them, a little reunion was long overdue.

Before greeting her guests, Olivia paused in a hidden alcove and appraised the three women. They hadn’t changed much, but she had. Hoping to obliterate the wretched teenager she had once been, Olivia had employed the best cosmetic surgeon money could buy who had reconfigured her from head to toe. She was stunning.

“Welcome, ladies,” purred Olivia, but her words were lost amidst the stuttering and stammering and strident intakes of breath. “Oh, relax,” she continued and poured wine from a very old bottle. “Let’s have a toast.” She held her glass aloft. “To old times,” said Olivia, and merely watched as the others sipped the deep ruby liquid. “This is from a very special grape grown by my father many years ago. I’ve been saving it for just such an occasion. I hope you’ll find it to die for, ladies, to die for.” 

Sue Buckwell has had a few stories published in online periodicals including Every Writer's Resource and The East Jasmine Review. She has also received an award from the California Writer's Club, Sacramento Chapter.