Girl of Rage

  It was a long twenty minutes later before Carrie came back upstairs. Andrea was crying. “I’m hungry,” she cried.

  “It’s okay, Pooh Bear,” Carrie whispered. She began handing out donuts and small cartons of apple juice.

  “I wanted grape juice,” Sarah said.

  “It’s all they had at the 7-11, Sarah. Maybe you can have some grape juice later?”

  “Okay,” Sarah whispered. Her eyes watered.

  Now, at eighteen, Jessica understood just how awful it was that their older sister had to sneak out to the convenience store to get them breakfast, out of fear of disturbing their mother who was somewhere near the kitchen. But that was soon overshadowed.

  They all froze at the sound of footsteps coming up the hardwood stairs.

  “Carrie?” The voice was tremulous, shaky. It sent a chill down Jessica’s spine. Their mother had been crying, and that was never good. “Carrie? Where are you? Who were you on the phone with?”

  Carrie whispered, “Hide the food.”

  As the girls scrambled to push their donuts and juice boxes under the bed, Carrie stood up and walked toward the closed door. Stark terror filled Jessica as her big sister opened the door.

  “In here, Mother,” Carrie said.

  Mother staggered into the room. Her face was puffy and red, and her hands were clenched, wringing each other. “Who were you on the phone with?”

  “Um, a friend from school,” Carrie said.

  “Which friend?”

  “Witch friend,” Sarah said. Then she giggled.

  “What did you say, young lady?” Their mother’s eyes narrowed.

  Sarah’s eyes widened. Ridiculously so. Always defiant, she bared her teeth a little and rolled her eyes and said, “Witch witch witch witch.”

  “How dare you?” Mother shouted, raising her hand to slap Sarah.

  That was the moment everything changed. Because seventeen-year-old Carrie grabbed her wrist.

  “You’re not hitting her,” Carrie said. “Not anymore.”

  The response was instant. Adelina swung her other open hand and slapped Carrie across the face. “You don’t tell me what to do! You don’t touch me,” she shouted, slapping Carrie a second time.

  “Stop!” Carrie cried out as she stumbled back. “Stop, you crazy bitch!”

  Mother screamed something unintelligible, and Sarah and Jessica grabbed Andrea and dragged her under the bed. The scuffle got louder, as their mother screamed, and Carrie screamed back, wordless sounds of rage. Then there was a loud crash, and Carrie was on the floor looking stunned next to her cello. Their mother had staggered back to the door, a look of horror and crazed grief on her face.

  Mother swept out of the room without another word, and Jessica and Andrea swarmed out from under the bed. Carrie was on her back, her eyes closed in pain. Her cello was on the floor beside her, the neck snapped from where she’d fallen over it.

  “I hate her,” Carrie whispered, balling up into a fetal position. “Hate.”

  Jessica didn’t remember what happened after that, except that Sarah had hidden under the bed all morning, crying and refusing to come out and whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Carrie,” over and over again.

  The next fall Carrie had left for college, and Jessica never saw her play the cello again.

  But she’d won one thing. Their mother never hit any of them again after that.

  How was Jessica supposed to reconcile that with the image her mother painted of the wronged, raped woman struggling to survive a near psychotic husband? How was she supposed to ever, ever think of Adelina Thompson sympathetically?

  “I hate you,” she whispered, her words barely carrying over the sound of the surf crashing against the shore down below.

  “What?” her mother said.

  Jessica looked up from her knees and said, “I hate you. You weren’t a mother to us. Ever. And now you’re taking away my father too? I hate you.”

  Adelina flinched. “I deserve it,” she whispered. “I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

  “I don’t know how you can even think of forgiveness,” Jessica said. “You made our lives hell,” she cursed. But as she said the words, tears ran freely down her face.

  “I’m sorry,” Adelina replied.

  “I don’t accept your apology. I never will.”

  Jessica turned away. Remembering Carrie’s screams as she shielded her sisters from their crazy mother. Remembering Sarah sobbing under the bed for hours. She remembered Andrea packing to leave for Spain again, never knowing that the reason her parents didn’t want her was because her mother had an affair. You couldn’t tell a pretty story and apologize and expect everything to be better. You couldn’t erase a lifetime of hurt.

  Fuck her, Jessica thought.

  Adelina. February 17, 1984.

  “Come, Julia.”

  Julia wore a tiny blue dress with patent leather shoes and a matching belt. Lately whenever she moved it was at a dead run, slightly tilted forward with her arms behind her, as if smashing her head into a wall or the floor would be the most natural thing in the world. Completely in character, Julia ran forward at a dead run, straight toward the marble counter behind which sat the stunned concierge.

  “Stop!” Adelina called out, reaching out with one hand while she simultaneously tried to balance the stroller, two bags of groceries, her purse and a cup of coffee. Something had to give, and it was the coffee, which fell on the floor and erupted in a brown explosion. Julia’s feet slid in the sticky mess even as her arm stayed gripped with Adelina’s, and she started to swing around in a great circle as the first bag of groceries fell to the floor.

  Inside the bag, a bottle of something smashed open. Peanut butter, maybe, or apple sauce. God forbid it be the wine.

  “Julia!” she shouted, even as the little girl’s legs started to pump again.

  In another moment, she had everything calmed down and her daughter stationary. The grocery bag and her coffee, however, were lost causes.

  “We’ll bring up the … surviving groceries … Mrs. Thompson.”

  “Thank you, Harold,” she said.

  The concierge said, “By the way, a courier delivered a letter for you earlier. From the British Embassy.”

  Her chest tightened suddenly, almost painfully. “Oh … I’ll take that,” she said.

  He handed over the letter. “I presume it’s related to Mr. Thompson’s birthday? The courier was very clear to deliver only to you.”

  Stunned, Adelina said, “Yes … of course.” She held a finger to her lips. “Our secret, please. We wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  The only thing she wanted to give Richard for his birthday was a knife between the ribs. But that wasn’t a realistic option. In a sharp voice she said, “Stay still!” to Julia, then tore open the envelope.

  An invitation on heavy cream-colored card stock with gold engraving, handwritten in delicate calligraphy: You are cordially invited to lunch with His Grace Prince George-Phillip Windsor, the Duke of Kent, Wednesday, February 22, 1984 at Her Majesty’s Embassy in Washington, The District of Columbia.

  She rolled her eyes. The invitation was intentionally vague, she supposed, in case Richard had taken delivery of it. That would be an ugly situation.

  She wasn’t having lunch with anyone.

  She wasn’t.

  Especially not at the British Embassy. It was bad enough the Post had mentioned her lunch with George-Phillip at Matisse. Richard hadn’t mentioned it yet. Would he? Would he know? Richard was no fool, and the diplomatic community itself was tiny. She couldn’t imagine he hadn’t heard. Richard was biding his time. Sometime, this afternoon or tonight or next week or next year, he would do something unspeakably cruel. That’s how these things worked.

  “Come, Julia!” she called, marching away.

  The two-year-old ran after her, and grabbed Adelina’s hand as they reached the elevator. She took her daughter’s hand in hers and rode upstairs in silenc
e. Adelina didn’t notice that her other hand was clenched into a fist until she glanced down and saw the invitation was crumpled.

  Adelina. May 2.

  Adelina sat slouched in the driver’s seat of the minivan. The day was beautiful, the sky free of clouds, and the view to the horizon unusually clear. A strong wind blew off the ocean and up into the hills, occasionally shaking the minivan.

  Jessica still sat on the wall. Arms wrapped around her legs, face resting on her knees. She wasn’t crying. Her shoulders didn’t shake, though Adelina had no idea how her daughter sat out there without even shivering.

  You weren’t a mother to us.

  It was true, and she knew it. Her oldest daughter was thirty-two years old, her youngest sixteen. Six daughters, and they all hated her. The worst part was, she knew she deserved it. Jessica sat there on the wall, refusing to talk to her, and she hadn’t even been through the worst of it. She knew that it was Julia and Carrie who had borne the brunt of her unmanageable anxiety and fear, her panic attacks, her rage.

  She’d have done anything to fix it. Anything.

  For now, all she could do was help this one daughter. She slid out of the seat again and said, “You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. But don’t you think we should go get something to eat?”

  Jessica’s shoulders slumped. She nodded her head, and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand you, but I don’t hate you. I really don’t.”

  Adelina sighed. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did, you know.”

  Jessica grunted lightly and gave a tight shake of her head.

  “Anyway, let’s get moving.”

  “Where are we going from here?” Jessica asked.

  “Well … I’m concerned about being out on the road in the minivan, especially now that we know they’re looking for us. It’s a matter of time before we get caught. So I thought we’d stop at the next town and get a bus.”

  Jessica stared at her, her eyes unmoving, unblinking. Then she said, “To where?”

  “Canada.”

  Stunned, Jessica said, “Why?”

  Adelina said, “Haven’t you been listening to the news? They’re searching for us.”

  “Well, yeah. But … Canada?”

  “Yes. We need to get somewhere safe,” Adelina said,

  Jessica sighed. “I don’t know how I can possibly trust you.”

  Adelina reached out and touched her daughter’s hand. “I know. But nevertheless, we have to go.”

  “All right,” Jessica whispered.

  Adelina. February 25, 1984.

  In the week after Adelina’s lunch with George-Phillip, she avoided Richard and avoided time alone with equal intensity. The daytimes were easy enough to keep busy, as she went about interviewing possible full-time nannies, and took Julia around to meet with several different instructors for piano.

  Richard had voiced some choice words about both topics. But Adelina had persuaded him, reminding him that most cultured children played an instrument. Julia was young, but Suzuki method training typically began between the ages of three and five.

  I insist on her learning an instrument, she had said.

  You should teach her on your violin, he had snarled back.

  Of course he was aware of what she’d done to her violin. Richard missed little, but in order to drive it home she’d taken the shattered instrument and left it on his bed.

  Richard responded by throwing the violin in the garbage and having a deadbolt installed on his door.

  And so things continued. If Richard knew about her lunch with George-Phillip, he didn’t say anything. But she was sure he knew. Of course he knew, thanks to that bitch Maria Clawson. There it was, the bottom paragraph in her column. The Duke of Kent and current junior attaché at the British Embassy, Prince George-Phillip, was seen lunching with Adelina Thompson, the wife of a junior State Department official, at the exclusive eatery Matisse on Monday. Neither of them was available for comment, but this columnist wonders at opportunities for closer U.S. - British relations.

  There was no way Richard didn’t know. Maybe he was saving the knowledge for just the right moment. It would be like him, to sit on something for days and make her squirm in fear.

  But the days went on with no mention of it, and no further contact from George-Phillip for nearly ten days.

  When it came, it was like a bomb. The phone rang at 2:30 in the afternoon. Julia had been difficult that day—extremely difficult. When the new nanny arrived, Adelina made herself a drink and fled to the balcony. She was on her second drink when the phone rang.

  She ignored it, choosing to enjoy the unusually warm weather instead.

  The glass door slid open. “Mrs. Thompson?”

  Jenny Sullivan, the new nanny, held out the phone. “It’s Mr. Thompson.”

  Adelina closed her eyes. She didn’t want to talk to Richard.

  She had no choice. She reached for the cordless phone.

  “Yes, Richard.”

  “Go get a new dress to wear. Something fancy. We’re having dinner with the British Ambassador and guests tonight. It’s a black tie affair, very formal.”

  “The British Ambassador?”

  “Yes, and that boy you snuck off and had lunch with. Prince George-Phillip.”

  Adelina sucked in a breath, but didn’t say a word.

  “You didn’t think I knew about that, did you, Adelina? You should know better by now.”

  Adelina’s words were casual, but she couldn’t stop her voice from shaking. “Don’t be silly, Richard, it was just lunch. I even had Julia along.”

  “Of course it was just lunch. Even I know a British royal isn’t going to be interested in some peasant slut from Spain. But I don’t like being made a fool of in the papers, Adelina. This better be the last time Maria Clawson ever mentions my name in her column.”

  Adelina stiffened in rage. For nearly fifteen seconds she stood there, her teeth clenched, the phone gripped in her hand, unable to say a word.

  “What? Cat got your tongue, Adelina?”

  “I’ll find a dress,” she growled.

  Then with a swift, smooth motion she slapped the cordless phone against the cast iron table. She hit the phone against the table three, four, then five more times, until the casing finally cracked with a snap and plastic bits went flying everywhere.

  Then she burst into tears. She hated him. Hate.

  She closed her eyes and slumped into her chair. Then she whispered a prayer, the words sweeping over her in a torrent. She had to get control of herself and her temper. Sometimes the rage seemed to wash over everything, to black out everything. This was new. As a child or a teen she’d never been prone to fits of anger.

  She opened her eyes. Jenny was in the living room with Julia. Both of them stared at her.

  Adelina stood and brushed her hands down the front of her shirt. Her temper terrified her sometimes. And embarrassed her. She slid the door open and said to the astonished nanny, “I’m going out.”

  “Why Mummy break phone?” Julia asked.

  Neither Adelina nor Jenny answered the question. Adelina carefully buttoned her coat and walked out of the condo.

  Hours later, she rode silently in the car with Richard to the British Embassy. It was dark out, traffic was heavy, and it was stifling hot inside Richard’s Mercedes 500SE. She stared out the window, unaffected by the leather seats and polished wood dashboard. Her father had not owned a car for most of her life, and she’d have sooner lived with her daughter in a shack on a rock than in the shifting, often terrifying luxury Richard took for granted.

  “You’re quiet,” he said.

  Adelina shrugged. “I’m saving my energy for the dinner.”

  “Charm them, Adelina.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Anyone in particular?”

  “Eugene Jackson.”

  “Who?”

  Richard huffed in impatience. “I expect you to know these things, Adelina. We’ve reestablished diplomatic relations w
ith the Vatican. Jackson is Reagan’s envoy to the Vatican, and he’s been nominated as the first Ambassador.”

  “Right,” she said, holding a hand up. “His confirmation hearings are next week?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why didn’t we have diplomatic relations in the first place?”

  “Congress cut funding for the diplomatic mission in 1867, because the Pope banned Protestant services in the city.”

  “1867? Are you serious? And it took them more than a hundred years to fix it?”

  Richard shrugged. “I don’t know all the history. The Vatican was invaded and became part of the Kingdom of Italy or some such. Anyway, the British reestablished relations last year, and now we have.”

  “Okay. And why do you want me to charm Ambassador Jackson?”

  His eyes narrowed and his fists tightened on the steering wheel as his face flushed red—dangerous signals for Richard. For a moment she thought he was going to say it was none of her business.

  After a second, he relaxed, slightly, and said, “Along with being the new Ambassador, Eugene Jackson and his wife are close personal friends of the Reagans. A good word from him to the President could do a lot for my career.”

  Adelina nodded. “I see. What do we know about him?”

  “He’s seventy or so. Prominent businessman in California, he helped bankroll the President’s campaign, and he was part of the Kitchen Cabinet.” The Kitchen Cabinet was an informal group of conservative advisors to the President—political opponents had accused them of helping to select Reagan’s actual Cabinet members.

  Richard continued. “He goes riding with the President, and he and his wife hosted the Reagans for Nancy’s birthday.”

  Adelina nodded. “Okay. So, charm him. What’s his wife’s name? Will she be there?”

  “Elizabeth. They met at Stanford. And yes, she’ll be there.”

  “Okay. Make nice. Charm him. Consider it done.”

  In a sharp tone, Richard said, “Don’t be fresh with me.”