Birthdays of a Princess (11 page)

Chapter
26

Melissa arranged the Danish pastries Louise had brought over. Seven sugar-coated
blueberry apologies on a cake platter, one for each day they hadn’t seen each
other.

Louise wanted to talk about the interview aired last week on her
favorite talk-show. Melissa didn’t.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Louise said, “it was a good interview. You
came across well, I must say. People liked you and felt for you, but I don’t
think it was a good idea to talk to the press. It’s dangerous to wake sleeping
dogs.”

“I had to do something.” Melissa poured two cups of tea. “Tiara
doesn’t understand that people will judge me on what they see on TV, and if I
don’t speak up now, they’ll just make something up.”

“But there’s nothing you can tell them. You don’t know anything. Nobody
does.”

Melissa rubbed her forehead with three fingers, keeping them there
with bunched up eyes, as if that would help her focus.

“Melissa, you don’t know why she did it, do you?”

Melissa lowered her hand and opened her eyes again. “Are you
questioning me?”

Louise drank her tea.

“I don’t know what to think,” she finally said. “I haven’t seen you
for so long and I’ve only known Tiara for, what, barely three years.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Melissa, please, don’t start again! What’s done is done. We need to
look forward.”

“That was exactly what I did when I gave Andy that interview. And by
the way, it won’t be the last. He’ll be over later today again.”

“Oh dear, don’t do that.”

“And why not?”

Melissa had no intentions to give another interview. She bit into a
Danish.

“Are you worried they’ll ask me where my mother was when I was all
alone in a foreign country, with a new baby and no husband? Are you worried I
might tell them the truth?”

The Danish was gone, leaving drops of berry-blood on Melissa's chin.
Louise picked up a paper napkin and handed it to her.

“Don’t be silly. I came when you called me, didn’t I?”

“You dragged us back here before I had a chance to think.”

“You begged me to come. Have you forgotten that?” Louise frowned. “Besides,
Tiara may have done something radical anyway. Don’t forget, her father was a
soldier. It’s not in
our
family to be violent. His sister was a piece of
work too—”

“Don’t you dare mention Gracie!” Melissa bristled. “I told you, I
never want to talk about her again.”

Louise placed another Danish on Melissa’s plate. “I’m only saying
this because your judgment isn’t always perfect. Look how you were leaning on
that woman, how much you relied on her and trusted her. I’m sure what happened never
would have happened if you hadn’t let her run your life.”

“That’s not true! I stood my ground.”

Melissa could see disbelief in Louise’s eyes.

“I’m not the push-over you think,” she said. “I can tell you that.”

And then she did tell Louise what she had done.

It had been a sunny day in February with a mild 15 degrees—Celsius,
she couldn’t bring herself to think in Fahrenheit, it still didn’t make sense
to her—with a gentle breeze carrying blooming scent through the open windows.

Little Tiara was practicing with Tony, and Gracie was out somewhere,
meeting people she didn’t know and didn’t care for. Her sister-in-law was
running with a strange crowd. They were polite in a haughty way, expensively
dressed but with cheap tastes—white shirts with purple jackets, two-tone shoes,
gold watches with sparkling rings around the dials. She had asked Gracie what
her business with those people was, and Gracie had simply said: “None of
yours!”

On that particular day, while Gracie was having a meeting with her
flimsy friends, Melissa was doing a real Canadian job of spring cleaning, the
way her mother had taught her when she grew up. You move every obstacle and
clean behind and under it! You turn the mattress from winter-side to summer-side.

Melissa flipped the mattress in Gracie’s room and saw a green
plastic bag on the coils. She balanced the mattress against the wall so she
could turn it easily, took the bag and opened it. Curiosity, nothing else. If Gracie
had private stuff in there, she shouldn’t make it so accessible.

The bag held a tight, fat bunch of bills, rolled up and secured by a
rubber band. She slipped the rubber band off and counted them.
Forty-six-thousand dollars! Melissa gasped. So much money! They had plenty to eat,
could travel to all the pageants, could pay their rent and all expenses, and
she usually had a few hundred dollars left over every month (which she tucked
away under
her
mattress for a rainy day), but they had no bank account,
paid everything in cash—Gracie felt more comfortable that way. Melissa had
never seen that much money in one heap.

She was still shaking when Gracie came home. Deep inside, she knew
the money belonged to Tiara. It couldn’t be from the pageants, but all the
pictures must be bringing in a lot more than Gracie said.

“You’re stealing from us,” she accused her. “From me, and from
Tiara.”

“Leave me alone,” Gracie said. “You don’t understand a goddamn
thing. You really think all this is paid for by a few pictures? One day maybe,
when she is famous, then it’ll be rolling in, but right now we’d be starving if
I didn’t supplement our income.”

“Supplement it doing what?”

“See what I mean? God, you’re such an ignorant bitch. I’m doing
business with my friends—this money is investment money! But if you think I’m
short-changing you, just say the word!”

She’d pushed too far, she saw that now.

“I’m sorry,” Melissa said. “You know I don’t understand all that
stuff. Cleaning up, that’s all I’m good for around here.”

Gracie broke into a big forgiving tease-grin. “You’re a pretty good
cook too. Even if your Chili tastes like Canadian socks.”

They laughed together, but from that day on a tinge of suspicion had
crept between them.

“…and I never trusted her after that fight. I knew she cheated.”

“Whatever,” Louise said. “But you’re walking on very thin ice if you
give interviews. One tiny crack and you land in cold water, believe me. It’s
best if we both keep our mouths shut about what happened down there. No need to
dwell on stolen money or drugs or stuff like that. That’ll help Tiara more than
anything. She’s underage; they’ll be lenient with her. But if the press or the
police dig into her past and into your past, it’ll only make matters worse.”

“A past that could’ve been avoided.” Melissa was not aware that she had
eaten the second Danish pastry. “If for once you’d have acted like a mother.”

Louise sighed. “You shouldn’t eat so many sweet things.”

Melissa picked up a third Danish and smiled at her. Small victories.

Chapter
27

 Josh had finally replied. Harding forwarded the email right away to
Macintosh.

“I believe I found your Tiara Rodriguez,” the email read. “She was
registered for a Child Beauty Pageant in 2003. She won the Miss Texas Princess title,
that’s how I found her. I ran her name through the Google search engine, and
Tia Rodriguez came up as the winner of this contest. Registered under this
name, but crowned as Princess Tia. She was five then, so the age should be
about right. I have attached the winner’s picture. Have a look, she might be
your alleged suspect—if she still looks remotely like that, which I doubt,
lol.”

Macintosh shook his head. A Google search? Why hadn’t he thought of
that? The future was overtaking him, that’s why. Well, he only needed to get
through the next few months, then Harding could shine. He was still young
enough to enjoy the learning process.

Macintosh looked at the attachment banner of Josh’s email titled
Princess Tia, relishing the moment when he would open it and see what Josh had
gifted them.

One click, and there she was. A little girl, head proportionally
larger than her body, reminding Macintosh of the famous Disney directive on how
to draw proportions:
Comparatively larger heads appeal to our inborn desire
to protect the weaker members of our species. That way the characters become
instantly more lovable.

He had to admit, it worked.

The girl was pretty. Big round face with a mass of curly dark hair,
wide eyes, dark and shiny, with long lashes. The smile was a bit timid, which
increased her loveliness. But there was something disturbing about it. She wore
a midnight blue velvet dress with sparkling rhinestones along a low neck line.
An evening dress, made for a grown woman with cleavage. Her eyes were heavy
with matching blue eye shadow, her lips were bright red, and she wore dangling
earrings. She looked like a very beautiful miniature adult.

 Harding walked over to his partner’s desk. “Pete, I just sent you a
picture. Did you get it?”

Macintosh’s eyes were still glued to the screen. “I’ll be damned.”

 “I know. It’s a little freaky.”

“And that’s an official…what?”

“Child beauty pageant winner!”

“I’ll be damned again!”

“Well, at least we know she was a child model of sorts, just like
her mother said.”

“Like hell!” Macintosh fumed. “Call the mother and tell her to get
her fat ass over here, pronto. She withheld important information, and I don’t
like that one little bit.”

Harding nodded.

“I was already pissed off with her, but this here takes the cake.
How can anybody in their right mind dress up a child like this?” Finally
Macintosh pressed a key and made the picture disappear.

“And get hold of the shrink—what’s his name, Dr. Eaton? Ask him if
we can have a word with him. We need some help here if we’re supposed to deal
with this kind of shit.”

He downloaded the picture on to his case file and renamed it the Princess
file.

Chapter
28

It seems my journal is becoming my lifeline. While I’m awake, half
awake and not awake, I think what I will write down. On the bike, my mind races
with the turn of the pedals. When I’m studying the jail house curriculum, it
lingers between sentences I read or equations I calculate. When I’m in the
shower, eating breakfast, cleaning my cell, it sits on my shoulder and whispers
in my ear. When I’m falling asleep, it threatens to turn into nightmares to
keep me awake.

My whole life is devoted to trying to remember my whole life.
Honestly, that’s one hell of a job. Just now, I’m going over my notes and
realize I haven’t even mentioned my seventh birthday. Here I am already in the
year leading to my eighth. Well, it couldn’t have been very memorable, my

No-Birthday-Year.

What happened that year?  I could think and talk, so I should
remember at least parts of the domestic life Gracie, Mom and I had settled
into.

Gracie was the center of our world—everything revolved around her.
Mom was supposed to look after my physical needs and homeschool me. She had to make
sure I wouldn’t adapt the more colloquial expressions Gracie or The Stick used,
the only Texans I was close to.

Mom made me recite long passages from some of her library reading
material, in preparation for my future beauty queen career. It would be an
advantage, she said, when the movie moguls wanted to make an actress out of me.
I would be able to memorize scripts much faster, and they would like that.

Gracie did whatever was necessary to make me into a big star, that’s
how much she loved me. I was her girl. She kept telling me how proud she was of
me.

I never complained, although I didn’t like a lot of the things
Gracie made me do. Like the endless make-up sessions! When I was seven, she
began to paste false eyelashes on my lids. Or experiment with hair-pieces, she
pinned them in my hair nearly every day before my dancing lessons. She parted
my real hair, pulled a section tight over my skull and used long clips to
fasten the piece. Sometimes I cried because it hurt too much, then she loosened
the clips a bit. Most times I endured it and finished the dance lesson with a
headache. Yes, this definitely started with seven, and, just like the lashes,
it became a procedure I had to endure.

One of the first things I did when I came here was chop off my hair.
I wear it really short now, no more than an inch, and I don’t wear make-up
these days, none whatsoever. Can’t stand the feel of cream or paint on my skin.

What did Mom do when she didn’t homeschool me? No idea. She was in
charge of taking my soiled bed-sheets away, so I guess she handled all the
cleaning.

Gracie was noisy and opinionated and was everywhere at the same time,
while Mom acted like a servant to both of us. Gracie told me countless times
how beautiful and special I was. I was her whole world, her reason for being,
Gracie said often. And if I ever stopped being good, horrible things would
happen to us. The angels would turn into devils and punish us all. I never
questioned that possibility when I was seven. Every word Gracie directed
towards me, be it praise or reproach, counsel or condemnation, was axiomatic. My
childhood baggage was the knowledge that I held the power to destroy my two
grown-ups. Gracie had handed me that power, together with its imbedded guilt.

That made me worried and angry all at the same time, just like I am
now. I must ask dove-doc if it’s possible to love someone and want to hurt them
at the same time.

I do, today. I don’t want to wait until he reads about it.

“Listen, doc, I’ve got a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“When I was young I remember being worried that something bad would
happen to my mother and my aunt.”

I almost don’t tell him the next part, but so far he’s never been
judgmental.

“I had fantasies of Mom slipping and falling down the stairs,” I
say, “and Gracie being run over by a car. It felt good. Yet at the same time I
was terrified it would really happen and I’d be all alone.”

Psycho-doc is evasive, which is peculiar. Normally he is
straightforward to a fault.

“I would need to evaluate this more in depth, to figure out where
the feeling originated.” What he knows so far, he says, is not enough to fully
understand me. It’s a trap of course, he is trying to make me talk or hand over
more journal pages.

“There isn’t much more to understand,” I say. “I had a fairly normal
childhood and it isn’t their fault I burnt a fuse.”

“What about the other people in your life?” he asks, harmless as a
ton of bricks.

“What other people?”

“No friends?”

I shake my head.

He rubs his eyes underneath his glasses. “Hmm.”

“I didn’t need friends.”

He stops rubbing. “What about the other kids at those pageants?”

“What about them?” I can’t figure out where he’s going with this,
which makes me edgy.

“Didn’t they have playgroups where the kids could play together
while they were waiting until it was time for their performance?”

I laugh. “Jeez, you’re funny. I would never have played with any of
them. And they not with me.”

“Why not?”

He can’t be that stupid. He’s trying to make me lose my cool. I
collect myself again, put on my best Gracie imitation.

“You can never trust any of those children. They want the Grand
Supreme crown real bad and they’ll do anything to get it. They, and their
mothers, the lot of them. They’re your enemies. Do you understand, Doctor
Psycho, those kids were my enemies, they’d have stopped at nothing to hurt me.”

He smiles. “Do you realize you never call me by my name? You know it
is Dr. Stanley Eaton, and by the way, you have my permission to call me Stanley
if it makes it easier for you, but you don’t seem to be able to address me by
my name. Same with all the others who are not your direct family. It’s ‘the
photographer friend’ or ‘the Sponsor’ or ‘The Stick’, none of those people seem
to have names.”

And then he leaves again. I’m stew in a slow cooker. The anger
doesn’t go away, and now I have to deal with a troubling question on top of it:
Why don’t they have names?

For three days I have not moved from my cot. My anger rotates in a
room full of balloons. When I try to grasp one with a firm grip, it bursts.
Every eff-ing time. When I don’t touch them, they circumfluent, bounce off my
existing anger, disturbing and distracting me. I don’t want that. I want to
concentrate on one feeling only.

The Anger.

It started when I was seven. The anger I developed at that age was
nothing like the childish tantrums I had thrown until then. It was nothing
outward. All the anger went inward and settled like mold, greenish-black
speckles on the mortar that held the bricks of my seven year old wall together.
My wall was still shaky. Every now and then my fearless self peeped over it and
demanded to change the world. But what can a seven year old do?

Once I rebelled openly—oh, look at this, I just got hold of one of
those elusive balloons, a bright orange one. It’s there, in front of me, and it
didn’t burst. I must be careful now, let the air out ever so gently—there it
is, I can see myself, in the photo studio. There is Gracie, always Gracie. Then
there is her photographer friend and another, one that takes over when Gracie
leaves me.  Who is it? The Stick? No … it’s not The Stick … is it? It’s somebody
clouded in a haze … I can’t make it out … it’s nothing but a purple shadow,
faceless and voiceless.

The photographer friend says Gracie should go now. I don’t want her
to, but she always does. It always feels wrong, with Gracie not being there,
fussing over me and explaining why I have to do what I have to do.

I hold the nozzle of the balloon between my fingers and make sure
the air escapes very slowly. I need to go with the flow, don’t disturb me now.

The Purple Shadow tries to take my panties off. It has happened
before, but this time, I really don’t want to. I wriggle and pout. When that
doesn’t help, I rebel openly.

“No! No! Leave me alone! I won’t! I don’t want to!” I want Gracie
back.

Gracie.
GracieGracieGracie
.

The photographer friend rolls his eyes and goes on about me being a
silly little girl, and then he tells the Purple Shadow to go and get Gracie.  Gracie
comes back and says I must do it there is nothing to it and it’ll be over
quickly and I mustn’t be a silly little girl, all in one breathless sentence.

I go on my toes and peek over the wall surrounding me. I start yelling
I don’t want to, I don’t want to, I don’t want to
…

Gracie yells back at me, but there is no way she can make me do what
they want. Jeez, I’m proud of myself now, just watching what escapes from this
balloon. She slips the dress back over my head, muffling my
I don’t want to
and
takes me by her hand and drags me out of the studio.

On the way home, I’m still defiant, and confused. Gracie keeps her
eyes on the road for a long while, not saying anything, just staring ahead, but
eventually she starts sniffling and I see that she cries.

“I don’t understand why you have to be such a bad girl,” she sobs,
“after all I do for you. Now something bad will happen, I just know it! The
angels in heaven will weep and the dear Lord will punish all of us. And that’ll
be all your fault. Little girls should do what the grown-ups want, or terrible,
terrible things might happen. We’re all in danger now because of you.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

A quick look at me, then back to the road. “Maybe we can still avoid
the wrath of the angels in heaven. Do you want to avoid the danger you put me
and your mom and everybody else in this town into?”

Yes. Yes. Yes. Of course I do.

“First thing, you say nothing, to nobody, you understand?”

I never had, but then again, I had never rebelled before.

“Not a word, that’s very important. You tell your mom nothing,
nothing whatsoever, got it? If you’re a good girl again and do as I tell you, then
maybe, just maybe, the angels will forgive you.”

Yes. Yes. I will.

“And then, next time, you do as you are told.”

The air is nearly out, the deflated rubber balloon hangs limp over
my hand. There is a little bit left. I put my other hand over it and press very
gently.

Of course, I remember now.

My seventh birthday didn’t happen, because there was a hurricane
rolling in from the Atlantic. We had planned to go to a seaside restaurant, for
cakes and ice cream, but all the restaurants were boarded up already, Hurricane
Katrina was coming.

When Gracie and I came home, Mom was frantic. The forecast was for
dangerous weather, and she’d been trying to reach us, not knowing where we
were.

I remember thinking, good, she doesn’t know. She must never know,
then the angels won’t be angry and nothing bad will happen to me and Gracie and
all the others.

A few days later, soon after my seventh birthday, we were all
huddled together in an underground shelter when Katrina finally hit. It was a
majestic storm, one the world would acknowledge later on as the biggest, most
devastating hurricane of all times. Galveston was not flooded as badly as New
Orleans, but the storm did a lot of damage in my hometown too.

Everybody in the shelter held on to each other, grown-ups and
children alike, knowing our lives were in danger. I was terrified by the
furious sounds Katrina made outside, and even more so by the infectious angst
wafting through the shelter like poisonous gas. Gracie held me real tight when she
saw me shivering with fear.

She brought her mouth close to my ear and whispered into it: “See.
See what you have brought upon us.”