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I close my eyes, lean against the counter, and brace myself.
“SWEETIIIIEEEEEEEEEE,” she gushes into the phone. “My darling is back!” Monica Bosworth is a stereotype of a stereotype. I would have to say that at least half of my therapy sessions over the past four years have been about her. You would think that those hours would have been spent processing the gang rape, but no.
They were spent processing my mother’s reaction to the event.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, forcing a smile.
“‘Hi, Mom’? My daughter finally comes home and ‘Hi, Mom’ is all she can manage? You’re so understated, Lindsay! You should be shopping! Celebrating! Ooooo, we should have a party!” she adds, breathless with possibility. Her voice changes, going low. “But a quiet one. Nothing that triggers press coverage, of course.”
“No, really, Mom. Please,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Don’t go to all that trouble.” I know the code. She isn’t really going to throw me a party. I know what’s coming next.
She lowers her voice. “Good point. I wouldn’t want to re-traumatize you by inviting a bunch of people because there’s always that one person who says the most inappropriate and rude comment to you.”
Right.
Mom doesn’t realize that she’s that person.
“I’m sorry I’m not there, Lindsay. You know how busy this time can get,” she says, shifting into her no-nonsense voice. “I’m at the spa and there’s been a delay.”
I called it.
“It’s fine, Mom. I know how it works when Daddy’s getting ready for a campaign.” A cold wave of liquid steel fills my stomach. I know one of the reasons I’ve finally been let out is because Daddy’s about to campaign again. I’ll be expected to show up to events, to be pristine in my appearance for campaign photos and appearances. Smile, be on stage, hold hands with Daddy, film commercials, and basically, be a cardboard cut-out version of The Perfect Daughter.
It’s a role I could handle four years ago.
I wonder how much the press has turned me into The Imperfect Daughter.
And then it hits me: I have a smartphone. With search engine apps. I can search myself. On the island, I had limited moments when I could research. Mostly, new staff members who came in were the only way I got unfiltered Internet access. Using regular computers in the labs there was a joke. They filtered my name. I couldn’t even research myself.
But a staff member who needed a $50 bill would sometimes let me use their phone for fifteen minutes. That’s how I saw the video. I spent every penny of my discretionary money on bribes for access to unfiltered Internet.
And then there was the staffer who taught me about the dark net. The untracked underbelly of the shadow Internet, where nobody can see what you are doing or monitor your searches.
“Well,” she chuckles, “this year it’s a little different, dear. Your father’s campaign won’t be anything like it was four years ago.”
Ouch. See?
Chapter 14
“Right.” I don’t know what else to say. I take in a shaky breath and let out an even shakier one.
“Has he had a meeting with you yet?” All the gushy, over-the-top love is gone. Mom is back to being a senator’s wife. Cunning, sharp, and on top of every detail in support of her powerful man.
“Tomorrow. We’re having a breakfast meeting.”
“I see.” Oooo, that means she’s not pleased. “I’m surprised he’s waiting that long.”
My neck starts to tighten. A sharp pain between my eyes feels like someone’s pierced me with an ice pick. I know from stress reduction sessions with therapists that this is just a stress response. It’s a reaction. I can control this. I can’t change my mother, or take away her words, but I can change me.
“I hope everything heals fast, Mom. When can I expect to see you? Can’t wait.”
She sounds surprised as she says, “Tomorrow, of course. I’ll see you tomorrow. I wouldn’t miss that meeting for the world, dear.”
Click.
“I love you, too, Mom,” I mumble into the phone, voice dripping with sarcasm.
Someone snorts. I pivot, realizing I forgot that Connie was still in the kitchen with me.
