Broken Beauty: Part One, Broken Beauty Novellas

by Lizzy Ford

  “Is this it?” I ask. “Am I done with this?”

  “For now,” Chris says, taking my statement. “I’ll discourage them from further questions. And, apparently, Robert Connor has an alibi.”

  I look up at these words, surprised.

  “I called the police officers you gave his name to. They checked with him. He’s got several witnesses that place him somewhere else. If you remember anything else about who did this to you, please let me know,” Chris says. He’s looking at me intently, like I’m the one who lied about Robert.

  But I didn’t. I have a photo. Rather, Ari has a photo.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I mutter, recalling how Shea said I’d destroy everything for Daddy, if I tell people about Robert. I just need to figure out a way to forget this whole thing and move on.

  “It does matter,” Chris replies.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “As your uncle, I do believe you. As an attorney, I know the prosecutor will have to prove that a man with an alibi did this to you while playing down the effects of alcohol and drugs on your ability to coherently recall what happened that night. If there is no doubt in your mind Robert did this, then I’ll do what I have to in order to get this ball rolling,” Chris said. “But if there is doubt, I need to know.”

  “I don’t know.” I can’t handle this conversation now. I can’t forget what Chris said about me going to court. “Thank you for the ice cream.”

  There’s a pause, then, “You’re welcome.”

  “Where’s my phone?” I ask.

  “I’ll retrieve your property when I drop this off at the station. They said everything went into the fountain, so I imagine we need to get you a new phone.” He slides the statement into his folder and rises.

  “Chris,” I say as he walks towards the door. “What happens now?”

  “Dr. Thompkins will be here tomorrow. He’ll help you through the mental damage. Shea is still gauging the press corps’ response to your speech this morning. Hopefully, we can distract them with your sister’s wedding. She’s marrying the son of a former president. Lie low, heal, and get yourself together. You’ve got one year left of high school before you can walk away from the family business. That’s always been your mother’s goal for you, and I think she’s right. You’re not cut out for this. You’ve got two trust funds. Go do whatever you want with your life.”

  “Thanks.” It’s the most encouraging thing I’ve ever heard from him, and it still sucks. He leaves. I return to my room. Ari is still there and I make her swear she won’t leave me alone until I’m asleep, facing the windows and the sun.

  Five

  Mom’s two days turn into several days, although she calls every day to say two more days. Ari stays. My nightmares are bad, filled with memories of the night that changed me.

  Daddy doesn’t talk or even visit me. He won’t even respond to texts. If not for Ari, I’d spend every minute of every day sobbing in my closet, which has become my second home.

  Finally, on the sixth day after my incident, Chris sends me a text asking me to go to my father’s office. I’m tempted to tell him I’ll be down in six days. But I go.

  Daddy is seated behind his desk when I tap on the door and walk in. He bids me to enter without looking away from his computer screen. I cross quietly and sit in front of his desk, well-aware that he doesn’t like to be disturbed and will acknowledge me when he’s ready.

  That takes five minutes, and I still have issues sitting for more than a few seconds without pain. I shift forward at last, and he glances up. Charles Abbott-Renou is at least twenty years older than Uncle Chris. His hair turned from blond to yellowish, and his blue eyes are bright in his tanned face.

  “You look much better than I expected,” he says with a smile. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better,” I lie. Daddy doesn’t like bad news.

  “Good, Mia. I was worried you wouldn’t be able to handle this as well as Molly.”

  There it is. The inevitable comparison to my too-perfect half-sister. I want to scream.

  “Daddy, why didn’t you come see me at the hospital?” My voice carries a tremor of emotion in it, one I hoped I could prevent.

  “Mia, dear, you know I would have if I had the time. Your press conference did wonders for my polls this week. Did Shea tell you?”

  I shake my head and look down.

  “You’ve become Daddy’s-little-helper,” he says with a chuckle.

  I’m glad someone can laugh off my rape.

  “And don’t worry about the mistaken identity with Robert Connor. Chris got the District Attorney to seal the reports with Connor’s name. We wouldn’t want any issues distracting the voters from the election, would we?”

  My mouth is too dry to speak. I always know how our conversations will go. I thought my monster face would have some kind of effect on him, like maybe make him realize he loves me more than politics? I’d settle for him loving me as much as politics.

  “Molly’s giving a press conference about her wedding this weekend,” he continues. “Maybe you can watch it, pick up some tips? Shea says people really responded to your unpolished delivery. Invokes a sense of protectiveness in women voters, the demographic I’m struggling with this year without your mother to help me.”

  “Okay,” I say numbly.

  “I’m attending a ceremony within the next few weeks to present awards to the two police officers who rescued you.”

  “Really?” It’s the first thing he’s said that doesn’t make me feel like shit. I look up.

  “Really,” he says. “It’s the least I can do to show the men and women of the law enforcement how much we appreciate what they do.”

  My excitement fades. He’s doing it for political reasons, not because they helped me. It strikes me that Dom and Kiesha stayed with me at the hospital, because they are the kind of people who help others. My daddy is more interested in what others can do for him. I should’ve done more than thank the two.

  “I’m glad to see you’re doing okay, kiddo,” Daddy says in a voice he uses with interns.

  “Thanks, Daddy,” I say and rise. I understand it’s a dismissal.

  Dejected, I leave. I just want him to love me. For once. He looks at me like he’s trying to figure out how he can use my monster face to his advantage to win over voters, not like he cares that I’m hurt.

  I go to my room and notice how quiet it is without Ari. She left earlier today, and I can’t help missing her already.

  I don’t feel like crying, after the talk with Daddy. I feel like I’m dead inside.

  I go to my jewelry box and fling it open to toss my earrings in. I feel too ugly to wear anything pretty. Among my expensive jewelry, I notice the quarter at the bottom of the box. It’s the one I won from Dom after the silly game we played. For some reason, it makes me feel better. It’s a reminder that there are good people out there, even if they aren’t in my house.

  Quarter clutched in my hand, I close the jewelry box and go to curl up in my window seat. Staring past the gates, I’m willing Ari to return when I notice instead that even more protestors with signs are arriving outside the gates.

  I assume Daddy said something controversial. Every time it happens, we end up with protestors. My cell phone and wallet were thrown into the fountain at Sven’s. Chris brought me a new phone a few days ago, one without the pics of the guys who did this to me. I don’t need reminders. I see them in my dreams every night. I promised Ari I’d buy her a new snakeskin wallet someday, if I ever feel like leaving the house.

  One week turns into two, three, four. It takes that long for my eyes to both work right, though there’s still faint bruising around one. The scrapes on my cheek and fingers are gone. My fingernails have grown back partially, and the bruises on my body are almost all gone. I can pee without pain and brush my hair over the stitches in my head.

  In every way, I’m told I’m improving by the physician and the people in my house. Physically, maybe, but I
can’t get them out of my head. They’re in my dreams and every dark corner of the house. I’ve never been afraid of the dark, but I’m terrified of nighttime now and of being alone. It still feels like the incident happened yesterday.

  During one of my counseling sessions, I tell my distant cousin, Dr. Thompkins, all of this.

  “Where do you feel safe?” he asks.

  I hate the shrink. He might be the best, but he’s got the personality of my carpet. I look from the window to him. I gave up being sarcastic with him. I don’t think he gets humor of any kind.

  “My closet,” I reply.

  “What makes you feel safe about your closet?”

  “It’s small. There’s nowhere for anyone to hide. The light lights up every inch.”

  “When you start to feel the fear, can you imagine yourself in the closet?”

  “I can just go to the closet.”

  “Mia, part of what we’re trying to do is give you tools to deal with the anxiety you feel. If you can’t handle it, how can you go back to school? How can you leave the house?” he asks.

  “I will when I feel better.”

  “Feeling better takes active participation and understanding how to think differently about something that disturbs you,” he reminds me for the millionth time. “If you think you’ll ever stop remembering, or there’s a reset button, you need to listen to me when I tell you this isn’t the case.”

  I know as much. I feel overwhelmed and rest my chin on my knee.

  “What goes through your mind when I say that?” he asks.

  “That I don’t believe you.”

  He waits for me to say more. Ari texts me, and I look down.

  Forgot to tell you. The protestor signs say something about Joan of Arc. Did your daddy insult a saint? LOL

  I smile. Ari has been in and out the past few weeks, and Dr. Thompkins has stopped telling me not to text during our sessions.

  “What does Ari say?” he asks.

  “She said the protestors are mad at Daddy for something he said about Joan of Arc or something. Funny, he can even piss off a dead woman.”

  “Does he … piss you off much?” he asks.

  “All the time. He cares more about politics than anything else.”

  “More than you?”

  “Yeah. He didn’t even come to the hospital,” I say.

  “You have a problem with him or the nature of his work?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Do you love your father?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “But you don’t love the politician.”

  “Nope,” I say firmly.

  “What was he doing the night you were in the hospital?”

  “Trying to bribe some paper to keep them from publishing pics of me.”

  “Do you think that’s his way of trying to take care of you?” Dr. Thompkins asks.

  “It’s his way of saving face.”

  “Mia, your expectations of how your father should show affection and the reality of how he does show affection are not on equal footing,” he says.

  “He should’ve been there!”

  “I am saying he shows affection the only way he knows how. Everyone has their own limitations.”

  I look out the window again, tired of being told I’m wrong by everyone.

  “Joan of Arc is you,” Dr. Thompkins says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, those aren’t protestors. They’re supporters. Your supporters. Your speech is still drawing headlines. They’re comparing you to Joan of Arc, a brave woman who stood up when those around her didn’t believe her.”

  “I’m not Joan of Arc,” I whisper. “I’m like, the anti-Joan.”

  “Making a statement to the press took courage.”

  “I did it because I wanted everyone to leave me alone. Didn’t she get burned at the stake?”

  “She was martyred, yes.”

  I shake my head. “I’m no martyr. I want to stay in the closet and be left alone. Molly loves fans, and so does my half-brother Joseph. They actually want to be involved in politics, like Daddy. I don’t.”

  “You’re a public persona, more so now because of your speech,” he reminds me. “Your daddy is giving the two police officers who helped you public commendations. If you hadn’t mentioned them, it wouldn’t have happened. They’re being regarded as heroes.”

  “They should be,” I say, unable to help the small bloom of pride. “They rescued me. They stayed with me at the hospital. They are heroes.”

  “Your daddy recognizing them is another way he’s trying to show his concern for you. It was important enough for you to mention them in your speech. It became important to him, too.”

  “I guess.” I’m not convinced Daddy isn’t doing this for political reasons. But as I sit and think about it, I realize Daddy is probably missing meetings to commend them. It’s a few months before his reelection; he normally is in the office, traveling or in meetings for twenty hours a day until after he wins. Maybe Dr. Thompkins is right this time. Maybe Daddy is thanking them, because it’s important to me. “But I still don’t understand why he didn’t come to the hospital.”

  Dr. Thompkins’ watch beeps twice, the sign our session is over. He folds his notebook.

  “Think about taking the closet with you wherever you go and escaping to it when you feel anxious,” he says and stands. “Also, why don’t you try to keep a diary for a while about what you’re feeling and thinking?”

  “You think it’ll help?” I ask.

  “I think it’s important for you to acknowledge your feelings, yes.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’ll pick up Tuesday.”

  He leaves. I feel alone again, exposed. My eyes go to the Joan of Arc supporters then to my desk.

  I’ve never really been much of a writer, but writing in a diary will give me something to do when I’m bored. I play around online for a bit, looking up the Joan of Arc articles, until I start to feel anxious, then decide to occupy myself by digging through my desk.

  Molly has given me pretty journals before for Christmas. I considered them lame gifts, but today, they might come in handy. Picking out one, I sit down at the desk and stare at the first blank page before writing.

  * * *

  Tuesday, August 20th

  Dear Diary

  * * *

  I giggle. That sounds so childish, I think to myself.

  I pace around my room then sit down to try again.

  * * *

  It’s been a month. Why do I feel the same? Guilty, terrified, confused. I’m not even sure where the past few weeks went. It’s been a haze of Dr. Thompkins, painkillers and bad dreams.

  I Google’d blogs of the Joan of Arc crowds. Dr. Thompkins is actually right. One site proclaims I’m the “new face of violence against women” while another says I’m brave and will inspire other teens to come forward about their experiences.

  I think that part is cool about inspiring people. Too bad I’m a coward. I’m not willing to face Robert in court or even to tell people he hurt me. He has an alibi, and it’s my word against his. Daddy is right. It would destroy our families and hurt his reelection. I want him to be proud of me for helping him. I don’t want to disappoint him.

  When will the dreams stop? When do I feel better? I shouldn’t have been drinking. I shouldn’t have worn that dress. I wanted to feel beautiful that night and instead, ended up broken. Shea’s speech is right. It is my fault. I didn’t even have to be there that night, but I was.

  I don’t know what to feel.

  * * *

  I set the pen down. Is this supposed to make me feel better? Nothing really seems to. Although, I kind of like the freedom of being able to say whatever I want without worrying what Dr. Thompkins or Chris or anyone else will think.

  Picking up the pen again, I continue.

  * * *

  Daddy gave commendations to Dom and Kiesha. I saw it on TV last night while I was
in my closet. It was so cool to see them again and I’m glad Daddy did the right thing for once.

  Dom is taller than I remember and strong. He’s really handsome. I just remember his eyes were pretty and I liked how safe I felt with him. It’s weird - he looks like he’s the same age as Robert Connor, but they’re so different. Dom is really nice and a good person. He’d never hurt anyone. Dr. Thompkins said I shouldn’t talk to him again, because I need to learn to heal without leaning on anyone else and something about how people who get hurt will cling to their rescuers and it’s not healthy or something. Kiesha is so tiny and shapely with large eyes and a bright smile. I so wish I could wear that lipstick. Her nails matched. I wonder if I can find some like it somewhere.

  * * *

  My journal entries make me laugh. Is this how they’re supposed to be written? Maybe it doesn’t matter, because no one will read them anyway. I put the journal in the desk and get ready for bed.

  I’m still thinking about her nails when I drift to sleep in the closet. As odd as it sounds, I’m looking forward to writing in my journal. I’ll try to do it daily, but we’ll see.

  * * *

  Tuesday, August 27th

  * * *

  Dear Diary,

  Mama hasn’t come home, and Daddy is still too busy for me. They make me so mad! Even Chris talks to me more than they do and of course, Dr. Thompkins, who is driving me crazy. Feelings … feeling … feelings. Ari comes to visit every day. I love her!

  Still can’t sleep through the night. Been taking lots of naps. The Joan of Arc supporters are outside the gate. I thought they were strange at first, but I kind of like seeing them now. They’re taking care of me or guarding me or something.

  I was putting on makeup this morning and noticed something weird. All my bruises are gone, and I look … normal. But even without the bruises, I’m not me yet.