Birthdays of a Princess (20 page)

Chapter
44

The clocks had already been turned back to standard time. It got
dark way too early. Melissa walked from the bus stop to her apartment building,
thinking how the dreary twilight matched her mood. Colored light bulbs began to
pop up over store fronts and on neon signs, barely fighting the dull grey dusk.
Serious storm clouds pushed in from the Pacific, darkening the sky even more.
And it wasn’t even five yet.

She didn’t have to walk far, but she needed more time than usual and
had to breathe deep to manage her already slow pace. Her weight had been
climbing constantly since she was back in Canada—well, to be honest, that had
started a few years before—but it had totally spiraled out of control in the
past few weeks. She could feel the extra pounds piling on her waist, and there
wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

It was the stress. All the magazine articles giving diet advice said
so. Avoid stress if you want to lose weight. How on earth should she do that?
With her making only minimum wages at the 7-Eleven, and her meager savings
dwindling rapidly. She wished her excess weight would vanish like that.

What was she going to do? Her wages never fully covered her living
expenses, as careful as she was. Already she was buying groceries with close
expiration date at reduced prices from the store.

Her biggest fear was that they would cancel her Shaw account. What
should she do without her TV shows on all those lonely evenings? Tiara wasn’t
coming back, not ever. Once they released her, and that could be years away,
she wouldn’t move back in with her. Tears welled up inside Melissa, but she
couldn’t weep. There were no actual tears left in her, it was just a figment of
her misery that her eyes burnt so badly.

When she finally reached her flat, she put her plastic shopping bags
full of tins and packets on the kitchen counter, sat down and slipped her shoes
off her swollen feet. Outside, darkness had settled, interspersed with the
inevitable city lights. Mostly traffic and street illumination, though. In her
part of town advertising lights didn’t shine too brightly.

The phone rang. She got up with a heavy sigh and walked barefoot to
where she had left the phone. It was Louise.

“Thank God you are home.” Louise sounded excited. “I tried a few
times already. I thought you finished work at three.”

Melissa shook her head and grimaced.

“Well, anyway. Guess what, the police called me this morning.”
Louise let the statement hang in the air.

“Why? What did they want from you?”

“I wish I knew. Detective Macintosh called. He asked me to come to
their station at Graveley Street for an interview. Tomorrow. He sounded
serious. Is there anything going on I don’t know about?”

“Like what?”

“Like I don’t know! That’s why I’m asking you.”

“What exactly did he say?”

Louise thought for a moment. Melissa could imagine her mother
squinting her eyes in an effort to recall the conversation.

“He said there’ve been new developments and he has some questions.
That’s all.” Squinting again. “Oh, and yes, he said, I should come alone and
shouldn’t talk to you about it.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“What new developments is he talking about?”

There was a brief silence. Mother and daughter, squinting in unison.

“I had a visit from the shrink who’s treating Tiara, and I think I
made a mistake. I mentioned Tony’s name, and when he asked me for his surname,
I just blurted it out.”

“I thought we didn’t want to talk about the past?”

“Dr. Eaton tricked me. But that’s the only thing I can think of.
There was nothing else that could be classified as a new development, at least
not from my side.”

“Then we got nothing to worry about. Tiara knows nothing, and Tony
is irrelevant to what’s happened here. Don’t worry, I’ll handle them.”

If you’d only know how relevant Tony is, you stupid, meddling woman.

Melissa said goodbye, hung up and slumped back on her chair, keeping
the phone in her hand. She fully expected Macintosh to call her as well about
the so-called new development.

Nothing happened. The darkness outside went deeper into the night,
and her mood sunk to a new low. Tony, always Tony. Everything was connected to
him.

He was the one who made her do what she had done. She would have
done anything for him, if it would have given her the life she so desperately
craved. A life with him by her side, a normal life, without Gracie and her
increasingly erratic behavior. With Tiara of course, if she pulled herself
together and became normal again.

Sometimes Melissa had felt like she was stuck in an asylum for crazy
people. Tiara had turned into a sullen, silent pumpkin, and Gracie was always
carting her off to somewhere. If it wasn’t for the photo sessions, it was for
doctor’s appointments or therapy sessions she said, but Melissa doubted this.
Tiara had no medical insurance and Gracie was far too frugal to pay for
anything unnecessary. Let’s face it, Tiara’s behavior only stemmed from her
fear of storms. She hadn’t been the same since she’d been lost during Ike, but she’d
outgrow it.

Louise had always said, indulgence in childish conduct only
encouraged more of it. Best to ignore it. Whenever Melissa had been sulking as
a child, she had been ignored by Louise and had soon learned that it didn’t get
her anywhere. Tiara would learn it too. To treat it with expensive treatment
like Gracie mentioned was out of the question. She was sure Gracie only said this
to make her believe that was how the money Tiara earned was spent. Their previous
sponsor Inez, who had become Gracie’s best friend, had taken over to organize
all of Tiara’s photo sessions.

Melissa was convinced, all those appointments were for sessions—Gracie
and the sponsor just didn’t admit it because they didn’t want to share the
earnings with her. Melissa checked Gracie’s room periodically but never found
more than a few hundred dollars.

Until that fateful week three years ago.

Melissa tried to shrug it off, tried to think about something else,
about how she would make do on her salary. There she was, thinking about money
again, full circle. It just didn’t want to go away. Money. Tony. Tony. Always
Tony. He didn’t want to go away. He beckoned her. Oh Tony, why did you deceive
me?

Chapter 45

Stanley is back. He is sitting next to my bed, keeping his distance,
not invading my private space. I’m so grateful for that. He never pushes me,
not even now. When the Center staff realized I didn’t have anger issues but a
plain and simple nervous breakdown, they transferred me to the IAU.

I begged them not to give me a sedative but to call Dr. Eaton
because I remembered something that could be important to my case. An hour
later he was there. He must have flown here with his dove-wings.

Outside, the storm clouds have gathered right above Burnaby and, as
if to mock me, lightning illuminates the sky at regular intervals, followed
shortly after by angry thunder. I embryo-curl up under my blanket, as I always
do in an effort to minimize myself to my surroundings. But it makes no
difference. It doesn’t take the fear away because, as I realize in amazement,
I’m not fearful. The storm has lost its grip on my soul.
Mysoul
is safe.
Haltingly, groping for the dangerous words that describe what had happened, I
begin to tell Stanley.

He immediately takes out his notebook.

“Please don’t write anything down. I’m not sure I can handle the
idea of anybody else but you knowing what happened then.”

 I bring him back to the time when Hurricane Ike was approaching, so
I can step into the horror I now fully recall, with him—metaphorically—holding my
hand.

“Remember, Mom and me were stuck in the house, Mom beside herself
with worries, making me even more scared. All I wanted was to creep under the
table, under a blanket, and hide from Ike, from Mom, and from Gracie.”

I hesitate, Stanley helps me along. “And then Gracie came back…”

“… and bundled me into her car, leaving Mom alone at home. Gracie
had put me on the back seat and buckled me up to make sure I wouldn’t freak out
from seeing loose branches and objects flying past the windscreen. I pressed my
eyes shut, but the noise of the storm was everywhere. It made not seeing worse.”

I tell Stanley how Gracie groped in her handbag on the passenger
seat, took out the usual bottle and handed it back to me without looking. She
was fully focused on driving. Traffic was heavy, everybody trying to get from
one place to another in time, so it was stop and go.

“Here, drink, all of it,” she said, and I took the bottle and unscrewed
its cap. Now, here comes an important detail that had totally slipped my mind.
Just when I put the bottle on my mouth, she had to break. I lost my grip, the
bottle slipped to the floor and spilled its content. Gracie was so absorbed in
driving, she didn’t notice. I picked up the bottle as soon as the car was
stable again. There was still some dream-juice left in the bottle, but I didn’t
want to put it on my lips, not after it had rolled on the filthy carpet. Gracie
had never been very clean. So I let the rest drip on the floor as well and
screwed the top on again when it was empty.

I had not drunk any of the sweet fluid. If Gracie had caught on,
everything might have turned out different, I understand this now. Last year
Connie made me go to a dentist because one of my teeth, a wisdom tooth, was
infected, and the dentist had given me an injection to pull it out. Not only
had it been painless, I didn’t even remember it. One second he had given me the
needle, and the next he said I could get up now, it was all done. Guess I’m
exceptionably susceptible to mind-altering drugs.

Gracie’s drinks didn’t work quite so fast, it usually took five to
ten minutes.

When she stopped the car in front of a motel, she got out and opened
the back door to help me out. In those days, I had not made the connection
between the drink and the slackness it put me in, all I knew was that she would
get angry with me if I was too alert.

She studied me intently and snapped at me, nervous and hurried: “Did
you drink it all?”

I nodded and let my head go all limp and slow while doing so.

Thinking back to it last night had been tormenting enough, but
saying it out loud now is excruciatingly painful. My mouth gets dry, my lungs
tighten, my heart palpitates.

“And then she took you inside and made you up.” Stanley assists, probably
worried I might withdraw. But I won’t, not this time, I need to get it out.

“And dressed me in a ruffled nylon creation which looked soft and
felt scratchy. Straight from my princess days. She never explained what would
happen, didn’t say a word except mumble orders like ‘turn’ and ‘lift your face’
and ‘up with your arms’, more to herself than to me. I pretended to be sleepy.
That was expected of me, and in those day I did what was expected. When she was
done, or I was done, she…she…packed her bag and did address me. I was sitting
on the bed, the ruffled nylon skirt arranged around me so I didn’t have to sit
on it, looking at the golden vines woven into the carpet, as if I wasn’t
interested in anything.”

Stanley assists again.  “I remember, she told you to be a good
girl.”

“Yes, she said
be a good girl
it will be over before you
know it
, and then she said
we all got to do our duty
, and then she
left me. There I was, alone in the room, and I waited…”

My heart is beating faster and my breathing is shallow. “Oh God—”

“Take your time,” he says. “Breathe. Slowly … deeply. Now … there
you go. Don’t rush it.”

“I’m scared. I need to tell you what happened, now, before it slips
away again.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t go away, and once you’ve told me, it’ll feel
much lighter.”

I know he’s right. The picture doesn’t disappear just because I
don’t want to see it, even if it’s engulfed by temporary darkness.

I tell him how the dim light went out with a bang, throwing me into
pitch black terror. It’s so dark, I can hear my ears hum. I can hear my labored
breath—then and now. The terror comes back, it swallows Stanley, and the cell
I’m in, and the whole world. Darkness with me in its center, not able to run
and hide because there’s nowhere to go.

And suddenly, the door opens … the double door to the next room … a
person stands in the frame, outlined by a faint lamp in the room behind him …
it’s a man, holding a flashlight … the light blinds me … all I can think of is
light, light, light.

Where did the light behind him come from? An emergency lamp, one of
those portable battery operated lights people have in their cars, I guess. It
gives off a blue-ish shine, cold and distant.

Still, it’s a light. I can’t look into the beam of the flashlight,
I’m half blind and still shaking, too confused to utter a word. But he does. He
says ... he says … he says …”

I take a deep breath and make myself say it out loud: “Let’s fuck.”

I finally managed the eff-word! The word I could never say. It’s
liberating. I say it again. I want to shout it out again and again, but stop
myself. Stanley would understand, no question, but being free of it doesn’t
mean I like the word. It’s ugly, it’s disgusting, and I don’t want it to become
a part of me.

The man threw himself on me, still holding the flashlight. I’m ten,
small, a child, and this bulky guy pins me down and starts pulling at my frilly
dress. Finally my tongue loosens enough to let the screams out of my throat.

He freezes.

“Hell, what’s the matter with you? Shut up!”

I don’t, and he muffles my screechy, scared sounds with his big
hand. The flashlight slips out and rolls off the bed. We are both in near
darkness again. He gropes and fumbles with the other hand underneath my nylon
dress. The stiff material rubs against my skin every time I pull it down again.
I wriggle and pull with all I got. But I’m only ten.

His hand hurts me in places it should never touch, but I can’t
scream because of his other hand on my mouth and because he buries me with his
weight. Suddenly both his hands hold my head, but I can still feel something
hurting me where his hand had been. The pain moves deeper inside me. I faint.

Later, I am lying on the plastic bedspread feeling cold. And
scratchy inside-out, outside-in. He gets up again. He’s still in the room, I
can hear him. Getting his clothes in order, picking up the flashlight. He comes
back to me.

“Come on, sugar,” he mumbles, “that wasn’t too bad, was it?” He
sighs. “I just couldn’t wait. This goddamn storm is messing up everything. Your
auntie will be back soon and we’ll do it again, real proper, like a little
princess deserves.”

He comes closer, actually lies down next to me, touches me again,
not down there, but stroking my face.

“We’ll get the whole thing on tape then. Look, it’s all set up there
in the next room, all ready to go. As soon as we got the power back on, we’ll
move over there and make you all pretty again and then …well, you make me come
again just thinking about it. My pretty little Princess Tia. I’ve seen all your
videos. I’m your biggest fan, ever since your first contest. You ask your
auntie how much money I’ve spent on you. Years of waiting, years of paying, but
now, I get my reward. I’ve been your first and you’ll never forget me. You’re
mine. My pretty princess, I must have you on tape. I’ll have you for the rest
of my life then. When you move on to other men, you’ll still be with me.”

I can recall most of his monolog. He repeated it for what seemed
like an eternity while we were lying on the bed, waiting for the power to come
back on. I was too numb to feel anything, but I was listening into the dark. He
must have carved most of his words into me, into
mysoul,
because they
are all there now, clear as warning bells.

Eventually though, he grew tired of waiting. He got up and told me
to stay put while he checked out what was going on.

“This power outage is taking way too long,” he said, “don’t those
idiots here have a generator?”

He expected me to follow his orders and wait for him to come back. I
still didn’t understand what had happened but I knew if the lights went on
again, he would come back and hurt me again. I was still terrified of the
darkness, but I was even more terrified of him in the light.

The blue-ish glow from the next room fell on my street clothes.
Without thinking, I slipped the scratchy nylon thing over my head and got into
my cotton dress. I couldn’t find my shoes and didn’t have time to look for them.
I grabbed the portable lamp and saw that the next room had a door too. I opened
it quickly and looked down the corridor. Too scared that the man would come
back from the reception, I stumbled in the other direction. It led to an
outside door, the back entrance of the motel. When I opened it, the outside
light hit me, it was still afternoon. I dropped the emergency lamp and ran and
ran and ran into the storm, ignoring all pain.

For a while Stanley doesn’t react. I wait for him to comment, fully
expecting him to try and comfort me. After the silence had exhausted itself, he
claps his hands together and says: “Excellent. You made it.”

“I guess so,” I say, a bit bewildered. “They found me nearly a week
later, and I’m not sure how I survived the storm. I must have hidden somewhere,
I had scratches on my arms and remember climbing over a fence and through
bushes into a garden shed. I couldn’t have stayed there all week but yes, I
made it.”

“Oh dear, of course you did. But that’s not what I meant when I said,
you made it. You have managed to open the lock to stored memories; that is
excellent. I’m so pleased with you.”

I am pleased with him too. Trust him not to feel sorry for me.

“Do you want to continue?”

Suddenly I feel exhausted. Letting go can be very draining. All I
want to do is sleep.