Page 77 of The Princess and the Paparazzi
“Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” Naomi asks.
“Good news,” Rafe replies.
“The rest of the luggage is here,” Naomi says, “so I was thinking I would go to bed.”
“Okay, and the bad news?”
“Abba!” a tearful Orly runs into the room, trailed by the nanny. “I scared! I wanna sleep with you!”
“I can take her back to my room,” Rainey says. “I’m sorry the doorbell woke her.”
“No, Rainey, you get some sleep. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.” Rafe scoops Orly up, and she looks around, her big eyes taking in all the details of the unfamiliar room. As sleepy as she was earlier, she is wide awake now.
“Ooooh! Abba! I take baff?” she asks, pointing at the tub.
lorelei
I spendthe next few hours systematically going through all the photo albums in the console, hoping against hope that I’ll find more pictures of our adoption journey. But other than the three photos I’ve laid out on the table, there’s nothing. Birthday parties and Christmas trees. Missing teeth and chickenpox. Kenna’s mom in a chemo cap. Awkward tweenager years in braces and some truly regrettable Halloween costume choices.Was there really nobody to stop Kenna from dressing up as a human-size hot dog?
Kenna’s entire childhood is here, in these albums. And for the most part, it’s so normal. So full of Girl Scout picnics and sleepovers and bake sales and all the sorts of things I never got to do.
It’s a total invasion of privacy, but I go upstairs looking for more albums. I check closets and drawers. But there’s nothing. When I notice the shoeboxes full of old drawings and other memories in the cabinets in the garage, I have to go through them, too. It takes hours to go through all the boxes. I can’t be bothered to carry it all in, so I sit there, sorting, on the cold, cement garage floor. Christmas and holiday cards, postcards, and report cards dating back two and a half decades.
I read through the comments on Kenna’s report cards, praising her character before recommending that she apply herself more to learning how to read, or seek a more remedial classroom. I’m angry again on her behalf. There’s nothing slow about Kenna. So she has dyslexia? So many people do. I’m irked even more, reading the notes from her elementary school IEP plan that reads “possible delays due to early institutionalization in orphanage.”
She was barely six months old when she was adopted. I wonder if her schools were using her history to cover up their inability to deal with a common learning difference.
I get so wrapped up in the school stuff that I almost miss the familiar holiday card sandwiched in one of the stacks. But it slips to the floor as I sift. I recognize the photo from my own childhood mantel. Up till now, I’ve thought of it as one of the very first photos of me, even though, now that I think of it, this photo was taken at least six months after the momager brought me home.
I bring the holiday card inside and lay it beside three other pictures on the coffee table, marveling at the transformation that took place in those six months. I don’t even look like the same child as the one in the orphanage pictures. My skin is no longer sallow, and my rash is gone. My cheeks have filled out, and the bald patch has filled in. Hard to tell for sure because there’s a giant bow on my head, but my hair looks thick and glossy, falling in strawberry-blonde ringlets. Just a little bit lighter than it is now.
Possibly the most striking difference, though, is that both my mother and I are smiling in the photo. Matching flashbulb-brilliant smiles.
Impulsively, I rip the photo in half, a decision that delivers remorse at the same lightning speed as the anger that made me do it. Too late, I notice there’s a note on the back of the card.
Tears streaming down my face, I carry the card to the kitchen. I already know where the tape is, having found it while searching the drawers earlier.
Carefully, I piece the card back together, doing my best to mend the damage. Smoothing down the tape, I’m relieved to find that I am still able to make out most of the message on the back.
“We think of you still. Don’t know how we would have made it through that week without you guys. Send love to your brother. Lorelei still eats Fruity Pebbles as a special treat. I hope your sweet baby brings you as much joy as my daughter brings me. Let’s stay in touch.”
Except they hadn’t. Why hadn’t they?
I clean up the mess I’ve made, locking the door behind me, and carry my treasure back to Kenna’s apartment over the garage. I’m shocked to discover how late it is—almost 10 p.m.—but I’m not even hungry. I want to call someone and talk this through. But who to call?
I ponder this while I locate trash bags under the sink and clean up the evidence of my taco gluttony.
I can’t call Georgia. I just don’t know her well enough, and she’s Kenna’s friend.
Rafe is out. He’s in Cali with Kenna. And Kenna? Bless her heart, she would probably insist on jumping on the next flight back here. Like me, she’d want to check the DNA results right now. Which actually might be better than sitting here, staring at all this new information alone.
But then I think of the photos of toothless Kenna in a Cinderella costume, and something tells me to wait.Let her have this Disney trip.
Calling Noah is also out of the question. I mean, boning him would definitely take my mind off this stuff, but visions of sweet, helpless, toothless, little Kenna float across my consciousness like a screensaver that’s been set up by Jiminy fucking Cricket. I did sort of promise her there’d be no boning.
She better not be doing it with Rafe right now. It just seems unfair if I’m the only one suffering.
My phone lights up with a notification, and I snatch it up, hopeful that it will be a text from someone I can vent to. But it’s just a coupon for alpaca socks from a brand that I love.
