Page 124 of Damaged Mogul
“In what sense?”
“She struggled to make ends meet. She never sugarcoated our reality. We could only afford the basics. Sometimes, we’d have hotdogs for dinner for weeks on end. And I’m not talking about name brands. I’m talking about a generic brand of sausage sliced in half and wedged between one slice of white bread—whatever was on sale. The mustard and ketchup were packets from McDonald’s. Mom would stuff her pockets with condiments and sugar when she stopped by for her weekly cup of coffee—one of the only luxuries she allowed herself. Watching QVC was her escape. She couldshop to her heart’s content, without spending a dime. She always commented on everything that flashed on the screen. Jewelry was her favorite. Especially the lines from celebrities who would create affordable versions of the pricey counterparts they wore in real life?—”
“Or what they want the public to believe they wear in real life.”
She works her lower lip. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“It’s a great tribute to your mom.”
“That was my goal,” she says. “Although, I no longer live in a tiny, crappy, bordering on dilapidated apartment with rickety furniture in Escambia County, Alabama, and I get a colossal monthly allowance, none of it is mine. It’s my father’s. And he never misses a chance to remind me he holds the purse strings. As long as I toe the line and don’t cause waves, my account is replenished on the first of each month, like clockwork.” She averts her gaze.
I don’t rush her.
“I guess in many ways, I’m still that little girl, sitting on a beat-up couch, next to Mama, watching QVC, and listening to her shopping advice.” She returns her attention to me. “This”––she touches the pendant––“is the type of jewelry Mama would go crazy for. Especially because of the French connection––a country she would never have been able to afford to visit. We were too poor to afford a motel in a nearby state, let alone get on an airplane. I can hear her now,‘Lily, darlin’, that fine piece of jewelry right there would be worth the monthly payments’.”She laughs, but it’s devoid of lightness.
The weight of her revelation stretches between us like the English toffee sauce Mom used to make at Christmas, pulling and clinging.
“Can I ask a personal question?”
She takes in a deep breath, and exhales on the word, “Sure.”
“If Fisher never acknowledged you, how did you come to live with him?”
“I’ve never lived with my father. I still don’t.”
I level her with a quizzical stare.
“We’ve never lived under the same roof,” she says.
I frown my confusion. “How is that even possible?”
“After Mama’s passing, I lived in my father’s Connecticut house.”
“Alone?”
She shakes her head. “The house was fully staffed with a cook, a house cleaner, and a butler. Since it was too late for him to register me in a new school, my father hired a full-time governess of a sort to look over me and tutor me.”
I incline my head, as if trying to discern if my ears are playing tricks on me.
She nods, answering my silent question. “You can’t make that shit up.”
“I suppose not.”Wow.“How did you communicate?”
“Phone. Emails. Texts. Video chats.”
“Who came for you after your mom’s death?”
“Henry, the butler with the Australian accent.”
“Fisher doesn’t have siblings?” I’ve never cared to find out.
“He has two sisters and a brother. All younger.”
“You don’t know your aunts and uncle?”
“I know them as much as I know my half-brothers.”
The most over-the-top soap opera doesn’t measure up to this unbelievable story.
