Broken Beauty: Part One, Broken Beauty Novellas Page 4

  “Thank you,” I whisper. “I’m so glad Shea called you.”

  “She didn’t. The police did. Shea didn’t want to let me in the house tonight.”

  “What?”

  “Some officer called me this morning. Said you asked him to.”

  I’m quiet. I vaguely remember asking Kiesha and Dom to call Ari. I guess I’m not surprised Shea didn’t call Ari, but I am surprised Dom remembered. And grateful. I start to wonder if he’s my guardian angel.

  “Come on. You need some sleep before the press conference.” Ari pulls away and stands. She helps me to my feet. I limp to my bed and sit heavily. Ari goes to one of my two walk-in closets and returns with a clean t-shirt and pajama boxers.

  I smile as she sets them beside me. With her help, I struggle into my sleeping clothes and hobble to the door, locking it. She’s brought an overnight bag and retrieves it from the doorway then heads to the bathroom.

  “Ari!” I call. She always leaves the bathroom door open.

  “Yeah?”

  “Will you promise not to say anything about … you know. Robert? It’s my fault for skipping the fundraiser.”

  “Mia, I really think – “

  “Promise me. Please.”

  Ari moves into the doorway of the bathroom and looks at me, toothbrush jutting from her mouth.

  “Please,” I say again. “I just want it to go away.”

  “Okay, Mia,” she says around the toothbrush.

  “Can you bring me a glass of water for my meds?”

  “Sure!”

  I sigh. I’m so happy Ari is here. I don’t know how I’ll ever spend the night alone again. Ari finishes up in the bathroom then turns off the lights. I start to panic, and she runs to turn on one of the closet lights.

  Exhausted, I take my pain meds and lay down. Ari climbs into my bed with me, like we did when we were little. I stare at the closet light until I fall asleep.

  Four

  Ari puts the finishing touches on my make-up. I look awful, but she’s managed to tone down the black-blue of my eye and cheek, make my hair look flawless, and even picked out my clothes. I’m wearing a cream sweater and khaki slacks. My wrapped ankle is hidden away in camel colored boots.

  She’s wearing some of my clothes, and seeing her in my favorite green blouse makes me smile. She’s always so put together; the fact that she forgot her own clothing is a sign of how worried she was to come over. More worried than Daddy, mom, my half-siblings. My bestie really is the only one who cares for me.

  “Don’t!” Ari warns. “No crying until after the press conference! You’ll smear your mascara!” She considers me for a long moment. “Don’t worry. Even all beat up, you are way prettier than me and your mom and your sister combined. Okay?”

  I swallow my tears and nod. I test my ankle by walking a few steps. No matter how much it hurts, I wouldn’t dream of wearing shoes that looked bad.

  “I really hate Shea right now,” I tell Ari.

  “Me, too. But I’m going with you. I’ll be right there. I don’t care what she says.”

  There’s a knock at my door. Ari opens it, and Chris is there. He’s in a suit today and wearing his silver-rimmed glasses. I cross my arms. He looks me over. I stare at him, puzzled. I have no idea why he’s so involved in this, especially since I said I wasn’t going to court.

  “Shea has your speech prepared. You want to go over it first?” he asks.

  “I guess.” I limp to the door and follow him. He trots down the stairs to the foyer, where two men with earpieces wait. They resemble the Secret Service escorts that watch over Daddy.

  I’m about to ask where the conference will take place when Shea slips through the front door, followed by the flashes of tons of cameras. Ari and I exchange a look. Who has a press conference on their front porch?

  “You’ve seen Molly give speeches,” Shea says, handing me a one-page speech in a leather frame. “Keep it short and be yourself. I will be there to answer questions. The press has already received summaries of the medical records and photos.”

  “My god!” Ari exclaimed. “Why?”

  “It’s a long story,” Shea says. “

  “You didn’t give them pictures of her naked?” Ari looks horrified.

  “We were selective and honest.”

  Shea didn’t say no. My face is hot. I want to die.

  “This is it, Mia,” Chris says to me. “The best way to put out a fire is to stop it before it spreads. We’re a step ahead of the press. You being brave enough to face them should snuff the rumors.”

  “If we do this right, the press will lose interest and move onto the next thing,” Shea adds. “Any questions about the speech?”

  I haven’t even looked at it. I start to read it with my good eye and instantly feel a headache coming on. I don’t get far before Shea interrupts me again.

  “When you step outside, walk to the microphones. Give a greeting of your choice then read what’s on the paper. Thank them and let me talk. Got it?”

  It sounds easy, and if Molly can do this, I can. Then, everyone will leave me alone, and I can stay in my room for the rest of my life.

  “Ari’s going with me,” I tell Shea.

  “You say nothing,” Shea instructs Ari.

  Ari rolls her eyes at Shea, and I am privately cheering her on as Shea’s cool look turns pissed. Shea loves to be in control, and Ari loves to buck people like her.

  “It’s nine. Let’s go,” Chris says.

  He signals the two beefy men, who open the doors and walk onto the porch. They take up positions on either side of the bank of microphones on the top stair. There’s nowhere to set my speech, no podium, just the microphones. Standing for so long is going to make my ankle hurt.

  The moment I step into the doorway, I freeze up. Molly makes this look easy, but I’m baffled by the amount of people. The crowd extends from my house to the gate a quarter mile away. There’s a lull in the talk as people see me, and I’m blinded by flashbulbs. Ari nudges me. I take my first step and focus on the microphones, my destination. It seems like a long trip when I’m limping. Other than the clicks and flashes of cameras, the crowd is silent and still.

  I look up when I reach the microphones, stunned again by the sheer amount of people on my front lawn. Ari crowds me. I can hear she’s breathing as fast as I am. The masses wait, and I look down quickly at my speech.

  “Hello,” I start awkwardly. “I’m … I’m Mia Abbott-Renou. This is my friend, Ari.”

  I look at her, and she’s pale. For once, I don’t think she knows what to say or do, either. She takes my hand, and I squeeze hers.

  “Read,” Shea prompts me quietly from somewhere behind me.

  I look down. It’s strangely quiet for being so crowded.

  “’The night before last, I went through something no woman should go through,’” I read. “’Summaries of what happened have been provided to you. At this time, I’m not … I’m not ready to talk about it publicly. I ask that you give me and my family privacy during this difficult time. But I want to stress that hundreds of thousands of women a year go through what I did. As an advocate for women’s rights, my father condemns acts of violence against women and is dedicated to bringing those who commit domestic abuse and rape and other forms of v…violence to justice. I am cooperating fully with the police to identify them.” I stop, throat tightening at the lies. “I would also like to … issue an apology to my father, my mother and my siblings for my …” I can’t believe I’m saying the words, like a puppet. I pause. Ari squeezes my hand. “… for my actions. As you will find in the summaries, I was … drunk. I am not of legal drinking age …”

  I can’t finish this crap. No one in their right mind could say the rest out loud. Something about being partially responsible for what happened.

  “I’m sorry for that,” I say and look up. The lights of police cars blocking off the road remind me of something I know I should say. “Finally, I want to thank the policemen … police of
ficers who saved me. Their names are Dom and Kiesha.”

  “Do you know their last names?” someone shouts to me.

  “Um, no. Dom sounds like a Brooklyn taxi driver, and Kiesha wears ruby lipstick,” I answer.

  A ripple of laughter goes through the crowd, and my face feels hot. I see the pictures in the hand of one of the reporters at the front of the crowd. It’s of the bruise across my back.

  It hits me that everyone in front of me can see what I looked like when I got to the hospital. Daddy gave them my most intimate, terrifying moment. It makes me want to throw up.

  Near tears, I look at Shea, who steps forward. Chris is beside her.

  “Does this change the position of Charles Abbott-Renou on the morning after pill and abortion?” someone calls out.

  Shea moves into position. As if the floodgates open, people are suddenly shouting questions at her. She gives only a few answers then declares the press conference over.

  Overwhelmed, I let Ari tug me towards the door. She opens it, and I hurry inside and lean against the wall of the foyer.

  “Done,” I breathe. “Thank god!”

  “Very good,” Shea says, following. “Even if you didn’t stick to the script.”

  Fury fills me. I can’t control it. I fling the leather frame with the horrible speech in it at her. It smacks her on the cheek.

  “Mia!” Ari exclaims.

  “Don’t ever talk to me again, Shea!” I yell. “Responsible? You wanted me to tell them it was my fault this happened? You gave them pics of what those monsters did to me! You know, what? Fuck you! I hope you get raped one day so you know how fucked up that is!”

  I go as fast as I can up the stairs, not caring if my mascara smears now. After a stunned silence, Ari follows. I slam my door and fling off the boots, gasping as the pain in my ankle subsides. I slam the bathroom door just as Ari closes the door to my bedroom behind her.

  Leaning against the sink, I stare at myself in the mirror. Ari tried hard to fix me, but I still look awful.

  How long until this is over? How long until I feel normal? When does this go away? I sag and sit on the counter.

  “Mia, I called your mom,” Ari says, knocking on the door. She opens it and holds out her cell, still pale.

  I take it. Ari steps outside and closes the door.

  “Bonjour, my love.”

  I don’t realize just how much I need my mom until I hear her voice with its thick, French accent. I melt.

  “Hi, mama,” I reply.

  “How are you, my love?”

  “I, uh,” I clear my throat, though there are tears in my eyes. “Can you come home soon?”

  “For you, I will. I am here voluntarily, at your father’s insistence,” my mom says. “I saw your speech. It was broadcast live. I am so sorry, my love. I don’t know what your father was thinking by putting you on TV.”

  “His attempt to bribe some magazine not to publish pics didn’t work.”

  “I assumed as much. I’m sure Chris gave you the speech about snuffing the fire-”

  “-before it spreads,” I finish and half-giggle, half-sob. “Yeah, he did.”

  “Chris is a good man, Mia. He comes across a little cold, distant, but you can trust him to help you,” Mom says. “The speech was horrendous. Shea is slipping – don’t trust her with anything, if you can help it.”

  “Shea’s a bitch. She wanted me to say … to say it was my fault, mama!”

  “It’s political, love. Don’t take it personally. Everything you say in public must be a lie or too vague for anyone to misconstrue,” my mom says.

  For once, her bitter words make sense. I never understood her resentment towards Daddy – or reliance on alcohol – until recently, when she was sent away. After going through the speech, I’m starting to resent Daddy, too.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I say. “I haven’t even seen Daddy!”

  “His first priority is damage control. It’s what he does well.”

  “Mama, are you there because you really do have a problem?” I ask. “Or did Daddy send you away for embarrassing him?”

  “I’ve had a drinking problem for a while, love. It started out as solely your father’s idea that I come here, but I’ve found that the wellness facility does help. Besides, he gets less bumps in the road during the homestretch of his campaign, and I get to relax in a spa,” my mom says. Her cheerfulness sounds a little too forced for me to believe Daddy was more interested in her health than his campaign. “But my little girl needs me. I will be strong for you, love. I will be home in two days, though I can’t stay long.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper. The sense of being completely alone begins to fade. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too. I trust Chris and told him to take care of you. Don’t let the rest of Daddy’s lackeys try to tell you what to do. Be strong for me, my love.”

  “I will, mama.” I hang up, and I feel better.

  I take a hot bath. It’s the first time my body doesn’t hurt quite as much. When I’m done, I wrap a towel around myself and walk into my bedroom. I’m tired even though it’s barely noon. Ari lies across my bed, playing on her iPad.

  “Chris came up. He says you have to write a statement for the police and to meet him in like, ten minutes in the study,” Ari said, glancing up.

  I just want this to be over. But I put on jeans. Ari helps me with the t-shirt. My upper body is too stiff and sore for me to raise my hands above my head. Finally dressed, I go downstairs. Chris is alone in the study, sitting at the table where Daddy meets his team. There’s a pad of paper and a pen in front of Chris.

  “Have a seat,” he says without looking up from his phone. “I want you to write what happened in your own words. We’ll go from there.”

  “Didn’t Shea already do this and have me humiliate myself in front of everyone?” I ask.

  “This is the official statement for the police that they put in their records for the investigation,” he explains.

  This has to be the last thing. I feel stronger after talking to my mom. I sit down and write my version of events. It takes up half a page. I slide it to Chris. He takes one look at it and slides it back.

  “Try again. As detailed as possible.”

  “You said in my own words,” I remind him.

  “The purpose of a statement, from my point of view, is to give the police all the information they can possibly want, so they don’t come back to bug you again,” he says with a rare smile. “So include everything you can remember.”

  I bite my tongue to keep from snapping. He’s trying to help me. I don’t think he understands that I want to forget every detail of that night – not remember.

  The next version, he marks up with a red pen, crossing out details and adding in notes.

  “Seriously?” I ask, near tears.

  “Everything you can remember,” he says again.

  I cover my face with my hands. “I can’t do this.”

  “You can, Mia,” he replies quietly. “Let’s take a break. I’ll get you some praline ‘n cream ice cream.”

  It’s my favorite, though I’m not sure how he knows that.

  “You still like grape soda, like you did when you were little?” he asks, standing.

  “How do you remember that?” I lower my hands.

  “I’m a part of this family, too, Mia. Believe it or not, most of us are trying to figure out how to help you through this. I know the statement makes you remember things you don’t want to, but it’s necessary. If ice cream and grape soda will make it less horrible, then I’m happy to get them for you.”

  He leaves the study. I watch him go, surprised he is being so nice. I wipe my face and sit back, my eyes going automatically towards the wall that’s shared with my father’s office. Why is Chris being so nice and Daddy hasn’t even called?

  I start to rewrite the statement. Chris comes back with the ice cream and soda and places them beside me. I take a short break then finish my ice cream while writi
ng. If he’s irritated about me dribbling ice cream onto the paper, he doesn’t say anything.

  When I’m done, I pass him the newest version. He reads it quietly.

  “Getting much better. A few more little changes,” he says. There’s an odd note in his voice. “I can’t believe this happened to you, Mia.”

  “Yeah, well, it did.” I’m exhausted from the exercise and my pain pills. I’ve rewritten my version of the events three times now and am feeling numb. I just want this over with.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t insist you go to the fundraiser instead.”

  “I wouldn’t have done it,” I say glumly. “I hate those things. I hate being part of this family.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “But I do.”

  Chris studies me. He’s frowning.

  “I don’t fit in here, Chris. I’m not perfect like Molly. I don’t want anything to do with politics like Joseph. Daddy barely speaks to me and then he sends Mom away, and she’s the only one who is nice to me. I hate it here!”

  Chris is quiet for a long moment then leans forward.

  “I didn’t realize what it’s like for you here,” he says. “I see someone who is well-provided for, who never wants for anything and who is exceptionally blessed with a great life. It never occurred to me that you needed something more to be happy and weren’t getting it.”

  He’s right. I do have everything I could ever want in the world. I just want my daddy to love me, though, and to feel like I belong in my own family. How my uncle can see what my parents can’t, I don’t know. It bothers me, though, and I’m too mentally taxed to consider why.

  “It never crossed my mind that you weren’t happy.”

  “I’m tired, Chris,” I tell him.

  “I understand. One more time. I promise it’s the last time.”

  I nod, knowing he’s probably the only person there who really does want to help me.

  The final version is mostly his words with a few of my own sentences. Only one of those sentences is difficult to write. The one where I lie about knowing who hurt me.

  Finally, I’m in tears, but the statement is done, written on the official police form. True to his word, Chris doesn’t ask me to make any more changes.