Page 79 of The Princess and the Paparazzi
“Why, because yousavedme? Is this where you tell me about how great you are because you plucked me out of obscurity and made me a star? Did it ever occur to you to ask me how I felt about any of it?”
“You have a huge talent, Lorelei. That’s why you’re lucky. Your luck has nothing to do with me and everything to do with you. It always has. You’ve always been driven, charismatic, and determined. And empathetic. Even as a baby. I watched you wrestle a bully twice your size to win back a toy that he stole from one of the babies in our group. Actually, I think it was that baby in the photo. You were so attached to her.”
“Well, she wasmybaby,” I say with primal certainty. I don’t quite remember it, but the minute I looked at the photo, I just knew what I’d been feeling in that moment. I felt the hollow tearing at the threat of separation. The sense ofeverythingbeing taken from me. If I’d been able to shoot fireballs out of my eyes, I would have. That baby wasmine.
“Have you found her? I always wondered what happened to that family. I sent them Christmas cards every year, but after the first year, they always came back, return to sender,” my mom says. “I sure would have loved to have had those photos. The few photos that I took were destroyed by the X-ray machines on the way home.”
“Wait … you took photos?” I ask. This is the first I’ve heard of it. “Why didn’t you say?”
“No use crying over spilled milk. I really didn’t take many, and they probably weren’t very good. I thought it might have been some kind of divine intervention, saving us from reliving bad memories. I just wanted to get you home and start making better ones.”
“I would have liked to have had those photos,” I say quietly.
“Me, too.” My mother sighs. “I know now that I was wrong. And not just about that stuff.”
We both sit silently for a few seconds.
“I’d love to hear what you’re up to, if you ever want to talk about it,” my mom says, tentatively. Shyly. “I’m still your biggest fan, Lorelei. Literally. President of the Moxie McAllister Official Fan Club.”
“That is so embarrassing, Mom,” I groan. “Why? Why do you still do that stuff?”
“Because I’m proud of you. I was then, and I am now. Even more now, I think. I can’t take any credit for your work these days, but I can still be proud. You are an artist.”
I rock on the bed. This train has just crossed the border into Ugly Cry Country, and the snot trail agent is barreling down the aisle to check my papers. I don’t have any Kleenex handy. Yesterday’s tee is going to have to do. I offer up a silent apology to Kenna and vow to figure out the washing machine in the morning.
Noisily, I blow my nose. On the other end of the conversation, my mom is blowing hers. Probably into a tissue pulled from the decorator box on her nightstand. Or the packet in her purse. Band-Aids, tampons, Kleenex, tic tacs … my mom was always prepared. If not to deal with emotional fallout, at least to clean up the mess.
“Mom,” I say, once I’ve caught my breath. “Do you know if I have any siblings?”
“No way of knowing, really. As you know, you were abandoned on the church stairs,” she says.
Like baby Moses in a basket.She doesn’t say this now, but she always used to when I would ask her about my adoption story as a kid.
“Have you gotten any hits from the DNA sites you signed up for?” my mom asks. I brace for the lecture.
“Nothing yet. I know you don’t think it’s a good idea, but I’m not going to stop looking.”
“I think it would be nice for you to have a little more information about your birth family.”
“Who are you?” I’m tempted to say.
“I was just talking to Rafe’s mom recently, and she was telling me about her daughter’s research on the genetic components of Parkinson’s, and we were both saying how it’s not fair you don’t have more to go on.”
“Well, I’ll be SOL if I ever need a kidney from a family member,” I say.
“I’d give my kidney to you, Lorelei. Any time. Say the word.”
“Hey Mom,” I say, “would you have any interest in coming to the opening night ofAMidsummer Night’s Dreamin Ephron next month? I think I can score you some free tickets. No need to donate a kidney.”
“I’d love that so much,” she says.
kenna
The beautiful headon the pillow, nestled next to mine when I wake up the next morning, is Rafe Barzilay’s. It is attached to his equally beautiful body, which is no less perfect in slumber. Yes, his hair’s a little tousled and he’s got some stubble.Cue the loin clench, but good Lord, he is perfect. Like, Greek-statue perfect. And nice to boot. All my adult life, I’ve been convinced that hot guys were kind of required to be dicks. And I’ll be honest, sometimes it kind of turns me on when they are.
But apparently, it also turns me on when they aren’t.
My sleepy mind wanders back to last night. Rafe running the bath. His answer when I asked what was happening. Nothing, unlessIwant it to. And I had wanted to. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be naked in a tub with this man? Would he wash me with the same care and attention to detail that he’d summoned when he rubbed on the suntan oil?
