Girl of Rage

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Wilson?”

  “Speaking,” Julia said.

  “There’s a Mr. Anthony Walker here to see you.”

  “Send him up, please?”

  She hung up the phone and glanced over at Crank, who stood at the bar mixing a drink. “Fix me one, please?” she asked.

  “Strong?”

  “Yes. Better make it a double. What about you?” she asked Bear, who was standing in the corner sending an email on his phone.

  “No, thanks,” Bear said absently.

  Carrie was lying on the couch nearby, her face exhausted, and Rachel stretched out across her chest asleep. The baby’s eyes were closed, her tiny hands curled into fists.

  Crank held out the glass to her, a vodka tonic. She sipped it, sighing in relief. Sarah was on the balcony, headset in her ears, her head moving as she listened to music. Alexandra had disappeared to her room the moment they’d arrived in the suite.

  A knock on the door. Julia set her drink down as Crank opened it. He put a finger to his lips and whispered, “Quiet. Baby’s sleeping.”

  Anthony practically tiptoed in, his eyes falling on Carrie and Rachel. Carrie didn’t open her eyes, but said in an even voice, “It’s fine as long as you don’t shout. Forgive me for not getting up and introducing myself. I’m a mattress right now. An exhausted mattress. My name’s Carrie Sherman.”

  “Anthony Walker,” he replied in a bemused voice. His lips were curled up in a slight smile, and his eyes scanned Carrie longer than Julia was comfortable.

  Intensely protective of her younger sister, Julia’s eyes narrowed. “Anthony’s a journalist,” she said, in a none-too-friendly tone of voice.

  Anthony raised his eyebrows. “I am. By the way, I’ve got a question for you. I know you guys ruled out Senator Rainsley. But—odd question, but the dates line up. And so do some other things. Do you remember George-Phillip Windsor?”

  “Who?” Carrie said.

  Anthony passed his phone to Julia, who stood to take it. A sudden squeeze in her chest hit when she looked at the photo.

  Anthony said, “You recognize him.”

  In a higher pitched voice than she expected, Julia said, “That’s George Lansing. He worked for the British embassy when we were in China. My mother—she had an affair with him.”

  “Let me see,” Carrie said. “I never knew what he looked like.”

  Julia handed the phone to Carrie, realizing that the resemblance was too clear. “It’s obvious now, but I never saw it before. That was a long time ago, and I had a lot going on.”

  Carrie’s eyes widened when she saw the picture. Her hands started to shake, and she said, “I know him. He spoke at my graduation. And … and … he’s the guy from the pictures. From Spain. I think.”

  “I don’t know who George Lansing is,” Anthony said. “Unless that was just the name your mother told you.”

  “Wait,” Julia said. “You said—”

  “I said George-Phillip Windsor. As in, Prince George-Phillip. He’s like a second or third cousin or something to the Queen of England. And the head of the Special Intelligence Service.”

  Carrie let out a loud cough. “I’m sorry, but what?” The baby stirred, but Carrie shifted anyway, sitting up and trying to settle Rachel in her lap. “Are you saying he’s my father? That my father is some … somehow connected to the British royals? I know him—he gave the commencement address at Columbia when I graduated. I shook his hand.”

  Anthony said, “I don’t think there’s proof.”

  “Well,” Julia said. “Tell us what you have.”

  Alexandra, standing in the door of the suite, said, “Yes. Tell us.” Her face looked stunned, and she walked forward, facing Anthony.

  Anthony looked back and forth between the sisters and Crank. “Okay. Here’s what I know. The timing is right. I think they met sometime in the spring of 1984. George-Phillip was a junior diplomat at the British Embassy. I don’t know where they met, but we can place them in a restaurant together in late February, 1984. In fact, you were there too, Julia.”

  Julia felt as if she’d been punched. “I was there? How do you know?”

  “A gossip columnist spotted your mother and George-Phillip and wrote about it.”

  Julia felt her stomach churn. “A gossip columnist? Anyone I know?”

  “Yeah,” Anthony said, his voice apologetic. “It was Maria Clawson. From what I hear—and this is all hearsay—she dated George-Phillip briefly. Before he met your mother. And—well—she didn’t take his rejection well at all.”

  “Jesus,” Crank muttered. “That gossipy bitch smeared Julia all to hell twenty years later. What the hell?”

  Julia took Crank’s hand and squeezed it. “She’s out of business now.”

  Maria Clawson was out of business only because Julia had personally funded a lawsuit against her. A nineteen-year-old college student had been raped by a popular football player on campus at the University of Alabama, and when she went public, the media came out swinging, Maria Clawson in the lead, smearing the girl. The girl won her lawsuit and a settlement big enough to permanently shut down Clawson.

  “So I ate at a restaurant with this guy. Where did they meet?”

  Anthony shrugged. “No idea.”

  “I can probably answer that,” Bear said. He’d been quiet up until that moment, but Julia looked at him now. “In your father’s State Department personnel file, we’ve got a photo of your parents along with George-Phillip. It was taken in the condo you live in now, in February 1984.”

  Carrie shook her head as she rocked Rachel back and forth. “The timing’s right. I was born the next January.”

  “Right,” Anthony said. “And then George-Phillip was in China for a year, from May ’96 to May ’97.”

  Julia closed her eyes. “That’s the year I was—falling apart.”

  “The twins were born in April ’96,” Carrie said.

  “And Andrea in June ’97, which means she could easily be his daughter. Both of you could be.”

  Julia met Carrie’s eyes. Carrie shrugged, her expression empty of emotion.

  “I don’t know what to think,” she said.

  “So Mom had an affair with some British prince who blew in and charmed her,” Alexandra said sarcastically.

  “I think it’s crazy she stayed married to him, considering what happened,” Carrie said.

  “What exactly happened?” Alexandra asked. “He wasn’t convicted of anything. He was suspected. They didn’t arrest him. They dropped the charge.”

  “Yes, Alex,” Carrie said. “Because he was a rich diplomat. You think he would have stayed out of jail if it hadn’t been for that?”

  “I am not the child of a rape,” Alexandra shouted.

  The baby started to stir, a rough cry slipping out. Alexandra covered her mouth.

  “If I read her diary correctly,” Julia said, “you are. And so am I.”

  “What about the twins?” Alexandra said. “You think they are too? Or is there some other affair waiting in the wings?”

  Julia leaned forward, resting her head in her hands for just a second. Then she got up and walked over to Alexandra and faced her. Alexandra looked scared, her eyes an open window into confusion and shock.

  “Alexandra, this is a shock to all of us. And we don’t know the answers to a lot of this. But—just—right now, try to keep an open mind, okay? We’re here for you. Whatever happened with our parents, we know who we are. We know what we’ve been through together. Okay?”

  Alexandra took a deep breath. She nodded, silently. “All right,” she whispered. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Julia soothed. “It’s okay.”

  No one else spoke for a minute. Then Julia took Alexandra’s hand and led her to the couch and sat down.

  “Okay,” Julia said. “So we have this Prince George-Phillip and my mother meeting in early ’84. And we think he’s likely to be Carrie and Andrea’s father. We know they were
together at least twice in ’84, and I remember seeing him in Beijing.”

  “And he looks just like the mystery guy in my photo album. And he showed up at my graduation.”

  Anthony looked confused, and Julia said, “What mystery guy?”

  Carrie sighed. “When I went to Spain with Andrea in 2002, there was a guy in two different photos—one on the beach and one in the town square. He’s standing off to the side watching us, and neither picture was focused very well. But he looks a lot like your George-Phillip. I guess the deciding thing is height—is George-Phillip tall?”

  “Really tall,” Carrie said.

  Anthony nodded. “Six-six maybe. Gangly. Hair and eyes like yours, but he’s got these huge bushy eyebrows. Be grateful you didn’t inherit those.”

  Carrie laughed, a short, bark-like laugh. “I suppose. Now the question is, how do we get in to meet George-Phillip?”

  “You don’t,” Anthony said. “He’s the head of the British Intelligence Agency. It would be like asking for an appointment with the director of the CIA.”

  “Or the Secretary of Defense?” Carrie challenged.

  “Hmm—good point. Except you don’t have those kinds of connections in the British government. Do you?”

  Oh, shit, Julia thought. For the first time in this discussion, she wanted to run. She wanted to just get up and walk out. Because she did have those kinds of connections in the British government. Or at least one.

  Harry Easton.

  Harry had been her first love, if you could call it that. Nineteen years old, a fourth year at the International School of Beijing when she started there at fourteen. He’d swept her off her feet. He’d treated her like dirt, pressured her into sex way too early, got her pregnant then dumped her. He’d ruined her life, at least for her high school and early college years.

  He was currently the Deputy Head of Mission at the UK Embassy in Washington.

  Julia only knew about that because of an article in the Post three weeks before, detailing the implementation of the latest trade agreement between Britain and the United States. Harry had been quoted in the article.

  She sighed out loud, then said, “I know someone at the Embassy.”

  For the first time since he handed Julia her drink, Crank spoke up. “Fuck, no.”

  “Crank, it’s necessary—”

  “No. We’ll find another way. He screwed you up way too much. I won’t have you going to him asking for a favor.”

  Bear interceded. “What are we talking about here?”

  Carrie sat up, clutching Rachel to her. “Julia, no. I can find another way.”

  Alexandra looked baffled, and Anthony’s eyebrows drew together as he put together the story. “You aren’t talking about—”

  Julia spoke in a loud, sharp tone. Not a shout, but loud enough to cut through the sudden chaos. “Everybody be quiet! I’ll be the one to decide who I talk with.”

  Silence from the others.

  She took a steadying breath and said, “All of that happened almost twenty years ago. I’m going to go make the call.” She stood, and Crank rose with her.

  “Crank—I need to be alone, all right? Please?” She looked in Crank’s eyes, trying to communicate through that gaze how much confusion and discomfort she felt. She needed to do this alone. She needed to process this call by herself, and not have to talk about it in front of other people.

  He gave a minute nod. He understood.

  She was ashamed of the sudden relief that flooded through her. So she leaned forward and kissed him on the corner of his mouth, then walked away from the group and into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

  She sat down on the bed and closed her eyes, puzzling through the feelings that flooded through her.

  She was a grown woman in her early thirties. She ran a multi-million dollar corporation, moving hundreds of people all over the globe. She was competent, skilled, and in command of her own life.

  But inside, part of her was still that desperately lonely fourteen-year-old girl who was abandoned emotionally by her parents, who’d gotten involved with a much older boy who took advantage of her loneliness and insecurity. Some days, even though she’d met the love of her life, she still woke up with a gaping pit of need that could never be filled. Even after twelve years with Crank, she still sometimes looked at him like he was a stranger. Not because of him, but because deep inside, she couldn’t trust, couldn’t open up, couldn’t reveal the terrified little girl inside.

  She didn’t want to make this phone call.

  So she unlocked her phone and dialed 411. An automated voice asked her for the listing she wanted. “Washington, DC. The Embassy of the United Kingdom.”

  A toneless voice, a computer, which had no understanding of the emotional weight of its words, said, “Stay on the line to be connected.”

  Two clicks, and then a ring. Another ring. She felt queasy and wrapped her left arm across her stomach. A third ring, then a pleasant female voice answered.

  “Embassy of Great Britain. How may I help you?”

  Julia cleared her throat. Then said in a voice far too tentative for her liking, “Harry Easton, please.”

  “May I ask who is calling?”

  “Please tell him it’s Julia Wil—Julia Thompson. He’ll remember me from the International School of Beijing.”

  “Yes, ma’am, please hold.”

  Julia cleared her voice again. She would not let her voice shake when she was speaking with Harry.

  Then his voice. The same melodious voice which had once whispered in her ear, That wasn’t so bad, was it? Only now he sounded tentative and uncomfortable.

  “Julia.”

  She cleared her throat, suddenly choked with anxiety. She couldn’t force any words out.

  “Hello? Julia?”

  Get. A. Grip. She clenched a fist and said, “Harry. Hello.”

  “I was … surprised … to hear it was you.” His voice sounded oddly tentative. “I’ve seen the news about your family—I’m sorry to hear you’ve had such tragedies.”

  Julia reminded herself that Harry Easton had no power over her now, unless it was power she gave him. And she wasn’t going to do that anymore. Not after all these years.

  “Honestly,” she replied, “I didn’t expect to be calling you. But I’m finding myself in need of a favor. And you’re the person in a position to assist.”

  She heard him take a deep breath. He waited a moment, as if he couldn’t find the right words to say. Then he responded in a low, sober tone, “If there is anything in my power, I will. I owe you that much, certainly.”

  Prepared for—arrogance, or anger, or contempt—Julia hadn’t expected that tone of voice or those words. She flinched.

  “I—” she started to speak, but cut herself off.

  “Listen, Julia…”

  “No,” she responded. “You don’t need—”

  “I do,” he said. “I … I’ve carried regret for many years for the way I treated you. I was so terribly wrong.”

  Julia wanted to scream with rage. She wanted to throw her phone across the room. She wanted to shout at him, or scream, or do anything she could to throw the words back at him, to not have to hear the remorse and sorrow in his voice. He didn’t get to be sad about what he’d done. He didn’t get to ask for forgiveness.

  She shook. But she didn’t say anything. Finally Harry spoke again.

  “Julia, I’d never dare or presume to ask for your forgiveness. But all the same, I hope one day you’ll offer it. I’m deeply sorry. I’d do anything to change it.”

  All of it flooded back. All of it. The shame and fear and sadness. The horror of walking through the halls of high school her senior year, with the words slut, whore whispered around her. The awful photo. The crushing shame, and the sharp pain in her wrist when she sliced it open.

  She’d thought that she had left it behind. She’d thought that it didn’t affect her anymore—that her career and her life with Crank had robbed those
experiences of their power to make her hurt. But she hadn’t. She hadn’t healed, she hadn’t walked away from it, and some of it still had the power to drag her right back.

  But now she had a choice. Now she had a choice to move on and grow up and live her own life. It was the choice she’d made every day for the last twelve years, and the choice she was going to keep making.

  There was no choice really. Not if she wanted to live the life she wanted. Because the only way to release the power Harry Easton had over her was to give up any power she might have over him. She heard the sadness in his tone. The shaking in his words. Somewhere along the way, he’d gained some—what? Wisdom?

  She exhaled, letting out the tension. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath. With that rush of air out of her lungs, she felt herself let it go.

  “What happened?” she asked. “What changed?”

  “Everything,” he said. “But—the big thing was—I’m a father now. A little girl, she’s three. And some day she’s going to be in school and will be around boys and all I can do is pray she’ll be treated better than you were. I’m truly sorry, Julia.”

  Julia closed her eyes. Something so simple, yet profound. A baby. Harry had no way of knowing that Julia couldn’t have children. He had no way of knowing the utter rage she carried. A tear rolled down her cheek. Harry Easton walked away with some remorse, but he got to have a daughter. But thanks to him, thanks to the back-room abortion in that awful clinic in China, she would never bear a daughter of her own.

  She didn’t want to forgive him. She didn’t want to let him off the hook. She wanted to reach through the phone and tear his guts out.

  Julia closed her eyes. She thought of the affirmations her therapist had given her, and the prayers she’d learned to say. She sought the inner peace that was sometimes so elusive.

  Finally, she whispered, “I forgive you.”

  Then she clenched her fist against her stomach, because she didn’t know if she meant it. But even if she didn’t, she had to act like it.

  Harry gasped. Then, incredibly, she heard him sniff, as if he was tearing up. “I don’t deserve that,” he said, his voice broken.