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Oh, forgive me, Mother, for I am drunk again!
Forgive me, Mother, for I am drunk again!
Forgive me, Mother, for I am drunk,
Forgive me, Mother, for I am drunk,
Forgive me, Mother, for I am drunk again!
(Repeat)
It is possibly the most annoying song of all time (besides Boris’s “A Million Stars”), but its annoying qualities multiply times infinity when you realize that it’s being sung by your father, who you’ve just found out has been lying to you (by omission) about having another child, and who only a few weeks earlier got arrested for recklessly speeding his race car in Manhattan.
“What’s he doing here?” I hissed, hurriedly closing the dossier.
“Oh, he’s been downstairs in his own suite this entire time,” Grandmère said, “with yo
ur fiancé.”
“What? Michael?” Suddenly I recognized the second male voice. “When did Michael get here?”
“I believe he arrived while you were imprisoning Rommel’s bride-to-be in the kitchen,” Grandmère said drily, “to try, as he put it, to straighten out this wedding nonsense. I sent him to speak to your father. It sounds like the two of them have been celebrating your impending nuptials. You can keep that.” She pointed to the dossier. “I have my own copy. But I wouldn’t allow your father to see it.”
“Wait . . . Dad doesn’t know you know?”
“Of course he doesn’t. You know how sensitive he is. Ever since he was a little boy, he never liked me knowing his business. I remember when he was at school, he used to collect comic books—the one who dressed as a spider, what was his name? Well, whatever his name was, your father loved him, but he never wanted me to know about it. Why do you think your father would be so ashamed of loving a spider man?”
“I don’t know, Grandmère,” I said, shoving the dossier into my bag, which was fortunately large enough to hold it since it was my carry-on. I hadn’t yet had a chance to unpack from my trip, so I was still carrying around all my clothes and bottles of sunscreen. “Maybe because he secretly wanted to be Spider-Man. Anyway, we have to talk about this with him. He can’t go on keeping his own daughter a secret.”
“Of course he can,” she said with a sniff. “At least until after the election. He’s done it for twelve years, he can do it for three more months.”
“But he can’t allow Olivia to be taken overseas!”
“Why not? The press will have a much more difficult time finding her there than in New Jersey. And this is the family she knows and, presumably, loves and feels comfortable with.”
“But it’s not right,” I said. “We’re her family, too. And we may never have a chance to see her again. Like in the 1991 docudrama starring Sally Field, Not Without My Daughter, based on the true story of the kidnapping of American citizen Betty Mahmoody’s daughter by her own husband, who refused to return her from Iran after his two-week visitation.”
Grandmère frowned at me. “I said overseas, Amelia, not Iran. You do know that I only shared this information with you so you would understand how essential it is that you provide a distraction in your role as royal bride this summer, not so that you could turn it into the plot of some terrible movie only you have ever seen.”
“That movie wasn’t terrible,” I said indignantly. “It was a moving portrayal of a brave woman who fought against a misogynistic regime for the return of her child.”
“May I remind you, Amelia, that this is a time of crisis, not a time for film reviews? Your father needs you. Your country needs you.”
“Well, I think my sister needs me, and I intend to do something about it.”
“You will not. You will do as I tell you. And stop twitching at me. It’s extremely unbecoming.”
But by then the door to the penthouse had already burst open, and Dad had come staggering in, supported under one arm by Michael, so the conversation (princesses never argue) had come to an end. My grandmother shoved me—with surprising strength for such an elderly woman—toward them, crying, “Well, hello, gentlemen! How lovely to see you both. This happy news calls for a celebration, don’t you think? What will you have?”
Dad is completely blotto—much too drunk to confront tonight—and I’m supposed to be in here making coffee (which obviously I haven’t been, because instead I’ve been writing this all down. I ordered coffee from room service).
Everyone is in too good a mood to notice, though, even Grandmère. Even Michael. He came in and kissed me.
Michael has not had as much to drink as Dad, though he did say that when he tried to broach the subject of toning down the wedding, Dad slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Now, why would we do that? Got to keep up with those Brits!” then cracked open a thousand-dollar bottle of 2000 Domaines Barons de Rothschild Chateau Lafite.
Even the new dog seems happy: she’s currently curled into a little white ball on my lap.
Everyone seems to be bubbling over with joy.
