Life Before Damaged Vol. 3

by H. M. Ward

  Ricky still jumps over the bar to dance with me throughout the evening. I tried to do it once and caught my heel on the rail. Faceplant. It was a display of spectacular dorkdom. Seriously. They should give me a cloak and tiara for that move. I’m lucky I didn’t twist my ankle.

  Pete hasn’t come back. I asked Ricky if he had banned him from the bar after the fight and he said, “Hell no! I couldn’t pay for that kind of publicity. Ferro can walk in here and get thrown out any night he wants.”

  As for Pete, my daytime infatuation died down to embers. At night, however, my dreams feature him prominently starring in both nightmares about the warehouse fire and erotic visions of him doing unspeakable things I never thought I’d do.

  The last time Anthony and I were intimate, I found myself closing my eyes and fantasizing about being with Pete. It made me feel horrible, but every time I pushed Pete out of my mind my thoughts wandered until they came full circle and back to those hands and that dimple.

  I wave to Charlotte and turn the corner into my cubicle. She’s on the phone, jotting down a message. Instead of waving, she just makes a silly face, scrunching up her nose and sticking her tongue out at me.

  I sit down at my desk and start the tedious task of going over the reports from the New York Stock Exchange. My internship supervisor asked me to watch the stock market value for Granz Textiles and find correlations between its fluctuation in value with world news and current events. It’s fascinating how a little climate change can affect the price of silk, thus making our stock value plummet. Of course, over the past month, the company’s stock has taken quite a fall due to the fire and various lawsuits.

  I take a sip of coffee, breathing in its comforting aroma, and I stare at the numbers. Something doesn’t feel right. I take out my highlighter pen from my drawer and start marking up the papers. What I see just doesn’t make sense. I drop my highlighter on my desk and stare at the sheets in front of me.

  Just as I think to call my supervisor and show her what I found, my phone vibrates on my desk.

  It’s a text message from Dad: Be in my office in 30 minutes.

  I reply: Will do.

  Good. I’ll go straight to him with this. It may be best to keep this as hush-hush as possible. If there’s anything shady going on within the company, it’s better to keep it within the family. I hope I’m wrong, but numbers don’t lie, and that’s what worries me.

  I TOLD YOU SO

  July 24th, 10:05am

  I finish my coffee, grab my documents and head over to Dad’s office. When I get there, he’s sitting at his desk, his eyes fixed on the computer screen in front of him and talking on the phone. I knock on the door frame, and he looks up, a smile interrupting the focused look on his face. He gestures to the chairs sitting in front of him, and I take a seat, waiting for him to finish his call.

  While I wait, I glance around the office, appreciating the backdrop it sets for the important work done here, with it’s breathtaking view, supple leather, and modern conveniences. As a child, I knew this was where Daddy worked, but didn’t understand the kind of work he did. At school, I would tell people my Dad just sat at a desk all day, talked on the phone, wrote stuff down, and yelled at people. Being a CEO didn’t seem glamorous to me. Not when other kids’ dads were rock stars, movie stars, or famous artists.

  Now that I’m learning the ropes of the business, I have a newfound respect for what he does. One day, that will be me, and I’ll have to explain to my kids what Mommy does for a living.

  “Morning princess! Penny for your thoughts?”

  “Oh, hey, Dad. I was thinking about how as a kid, I had no clue what you did all day at work. Look at me now!” I motion to my designer suit and the reports in my hand. I’ve become the young business woman he wanted me to become. Sometimes I wonder what kind of a career path I would have chosen for myself if I hadn’t felt the obligation to take over the family business. Those thoughts never occurred to me until recently. It’s weird because I was content, at least I thought I was. Since the fire I've reevaluated my life, wondering if I'm making the right choices. It’s hard to know until it’s too late.

  “... going over some of these numbers, and we may need to resort to external funding to complete the testing phase.” My Dad has already moved on to important business matters, so my attention quickly snaps back to the here and now.

  He goes on to explain how we’re most likely to go over our initial budget planned for this part of the testing phase of the medical grade fabrics. I hold myself back from saying, “I told you so,” but really? I did tell him, and he chose not to listen. Now he has to beg other people for the money instead of following my advice and being able to pay for it ourselves. The male ego is ridiculously delicate. The inventor of a jockstrap for the ego will be a billionaire in a blink.

  Daddy continues, “So we’re going to have a little function at the house next week. We’ll invite potential investors, and I would like you to be at Anthony’s side while he charms the money out of investors’ wallets.”

  Great. I’ve been reduced to arm candy. I’ll be the demure gentlewoman standing by her man’s side while he woos potential investors. The message is crystal clear. I will not be a part of the Granz Textiles team during this function. They won’t give me a chance to talk business. I will be Anthony’s date and my father’s daughter, not the future CEO.

  Rage bubbles up, and I feel my eyes begin to prickle, but I refuse to cry in front of my father. I refuse to show him any sign of weakness. Crying is such a childish response. Why can’t I tell him what I’m thinking—that I’m an asset to the company, not some brainless bimbo. Why did I go to college if he doesn't want me to work? My jaw tightens.

  “Was there something you wanted to show me, Regina?” Dad motions to the papers I’m twisting and crumpling in my hands. My fingers have gone white from squeezing so hard.

  “Yes there is—please look at these.” I try to keep my voice as neutral as possible, even though I’m brooding inside.

  I smooth my documents, place them where Daddy can also see them and start to explain, “Despite the drop in our stock value, there’s been a lot of purchasing going on.” As I talk, Dad taps his lower lip with the tip of a finger. “Normally, that would be an encouraging sign except that most of these purchases are being done through the same stockbroker. See?” I point to all of the highlighted areas on the sheets. “The buyers are all different, but the stockbroker is always the same one.”

  I chance a look at my Dad to get a feel for his reaction. I’m expecting him to disregard anything I say at this point, so his reaction surprises me. It’s not the one I expected at all, but it’s a reaction nonetheless.

  Though I find it strange, he seems pleased.

  His mouth pulls into a bright grin. He slaps his palms on the desk, elated. “This is great news! Make sure Charlotte finds out who this stockbroker is and have her send him an invitation for our little get together next week. Good work, Regina.” He dismisses me and sends me on my sweet little way by handing my crumpled files back and returning to his computer screen. When I don’t budge, he looks at me, questioningly.

  I tap the papers. “Dad, aren’t you just a little bit suspicious about this guy? I mean, why the sudden interest in our stock?”

  Dad waves me off like I’m talking gibberish. “Believe me, sweetie, this is a positive thing. He’s bringing more money into the company.” He dismisses me again, but I still don’t budge.

  “This smells bad, Dad. I could investigate into who the shareholders are to see if there’s a link...”

  Dad cuts me off, taking his no-nonsense pose. It’s his elbows on the desk, fingers entwined, glaring through his eyelashes pose. “That’ll be all, Regina. Go back to your desk and make sure that Charlotte invites this stockbroker to the party.” It’s the final dismissal.

  He's done listening to my arguments. I take my documents and head out the door to his office. It doesn’t matter what I say or do. In the end, I’m just
sitting here, biding my time until he decides to retire and hand the reins over to me. Until then, my opinion counts for nothing.

  As I walk through the doorway, I stop and ask, “Dad? How’s the investigation going? Have they arrested anyone yet? Do they have any names?”

  Dad rocks back on his chair, and the smile swiftly falls from his lips. The warehouse fire is not his favorite topic of discussion, and I shouldn’t bring it up, but I have to know.

  “Things have been quiet, other than a couple of new lawsuits filed against us. They’re still waiting for the final witness to come out of his coma before making arrests. It seems he may be one of the guys responsible for lighting the fire. He has a criminal history of assault and several misdemeanors. We’re hoping he does wake up so he can shed some light on what happened.” Dad clears his throat and shuffles some papers on his desk. “Try not to worry too much about it, Gina. They’ll find the culprits. And when they do, they will pay for what they did.”

  I look down, unable to face my father anymore. I nod once and leave, closing the door behind me. I feel guilty for all the wounded people, for lying to my parents, for breaking the law, for putting our company through hell. I even feel guilt over the guy in the coma, even if he is the arsonist.

  My conscience says I should confess and face the consequences of my actions, but I got a second chance at life. I should be dead. I should have died that night. Too many mixed emotions skew my thoughts, making my mind a tangled mess. Logic left the party a long time ago. It’s just me, and remorse and guilt, and the naive hope that somehow this will be all right in the end, that this isn't my fault. The fact is, until coma guy wakes up, I won’t know.

  SHOWTIME

  August 3rd, 4:56pm

  Looking into the mirror, I gently insert my second earring; a freshwater cultured pearl on a sterling silver stem, simple yet elegant. I study my reflection, critiquing each aspect of my appearance, silently judging whether I will meet Daddy's standard for class and sophistication.

  I'm so tired of playing Regina, the dutiful daughter. My entire life has been an act, a show, a supporting role for the people surrounding me with dominant agendas. Whether I'm on stage or mingling in society, it's all the same.

  Act a certain way, Regina.

  Say certain things, Regina.

  Give them the show that they've come to see, Regina.

  Tonight I'll make everyone believe I'm having the time of my life, though I'd rather be swing dancing at Ricky's club. This past month has been a whirlwind of both exciting and traumatic events. Despite my mistakes, I'm finally discovering who I am and who I long to be, and that young woman is within reach. She’s strong and smart—ready to live her life.

  I assess the stranger in the mirror once more, my eyes lingering on her virginal white silk dress with distaste. She looks prim, modest, and pure. I've lived with her my entire life, but it's only recently that she's become a stranger to me. I don't want to be her anymore.

  I want to be bold, to be brave, to be outgoing and reckless. Suddenly I feel as if I'm gasping for breath, gasping for life. I feel like there's an hourglass in front of me and time is running out. Until now, I've lived selflessly, putting everyone else first and myself last. Each grain of sand is falling through the hole screaming for me to be selfish. Take control already and stop dancing for them. Stop the act.

  Just stop.

  My phone vibrates. It's a text from Mom telling me to hurry down and help greet our guests. I put my mental argument on hold for later. Those are questions I’m going to have to answer. Maybe it was the fire or maybe it’s because I've finally grown up, but I can’t go on pretending to be someone I’m not.

  I strap on an elegant pair of high-heeled sandals, straighten my back, lift my chin and walk down the stairs. I walk through the French doors, steeling myself against my mutinous thoughts as I join my parents in the garden.

  BROWN NOSERS' PARADISE

  August 3rd, 5:08pm

  The late summer evening coupled with the warm breeze coming off the water set just the right conditions for an outdoor event. My parents' estate has been decorated elegantly, of course. Dogwoods line this side of the vast lawn, giving the landscape a textured ethereal feel. Strings of white lights form a canopy above our heads, providing a warm glow for tables adorned with crisp white linens. A cascade of flowers embellishes the center of each table, their shades of red and orange contrasting nicely against the spotless white tablecloth. A champagne fountain sits next to seemingly endless silver trays of hors d'oeuvres, each offering a mouthwatering aroma. Opposite an infinity pool overlooking the Bay, a temporary stage has been set up for this evening's entertainment. In the center of the event space, an elaborate ice sculpture commands a place of honor overlooking the festivities. Not a leaf seems out of place in the freshly sculpted topiary border of the party area.

  Everything is perfect, as always.

  I start to mingle with the crowd of investors as they pour onto the lawn in their tuxedos. It’s a sea of black and white, with stern old faces and endless fake pleasantries. Years of practice have made me the exemplary hostess. I smile, shake hands, suffer through unimaginable quantities of air kisses from women and hand kissing from men. I call people by name, making them feel special and appreciated, even as I struggle to remember who is married to whom and try to avoid confusing trophy wives with daughters. It's a horrifyingly easy blunder to make in this group.

  I compliment each female guest on some aspect of her appearance—a horribly gigantic hat, a gaudy new hairstyle, an obvious Botox injection gone wrong. Each becomes praise for how young the guest looks whether it is true or not. God, I hate being fake.

  There are people everywhere. Rich people love parties. They love to host them, and they love to attend them. It is no surprise Daddy's little "shin-dig" has such a large turnout.

  The evening promises to be long and tedious, but I can't let my boredom show. I wish Erin were here to keep me from going out of my mind. She always managed to get us into trouble at parties like these. Luckily, Anthony is here, somewhere. Maybe we can make some mischief of our own later on.

  I do my rounds, talking about nothing important with our guests, when my mother signals me to join her and Mrs. Gambino, Congressman Gambino's wife. I know what's coming next because we've gone through this conversation so many times in the past. My mother will brag about my achievements. I'll be modest, downplaying her motherly pride. The guest will then suck up to my mother by boasting about how wonderful I am, ending with a flourish of "you must be so proud of her.”

  It's so predictable.

  "Regina, sweetheart, I've been telling Mrs. Gambino about your lead role in last spring's ballet production of Giselle. Our daughter, the prima ballerina!" Mom says with her hands clasped together.

  "Oh, Mom! You make it sound bigger than it was." I turn my gaze to Mrs. Gambino. "It was more of a recital than a production. We only did a couple of presentations, and the theater we performed in was modest. It barely held 500 spectators," I reply, shaking my head.

  "You are such a sweet girl, Regina." Mrs. Gambino says to me, patting the back of my hand before returning her attention to my mother. "Mrs. Granz, I've seen your daughter dance before and she is talented. I'm certain it was a marvelous performance. You must be so proud of her!"

  And there you have it. Brag, downplay, suck up and repeat. Somebody, please, shoot me now!

  Excusing myself, I begin to work the crowd again, finally spotting Daddy and Anthony deep in conversation with... Oh, God, no! What the hell are they doing here?

  I scan the crowd nervously. A waiter passes by with a platter of champagne flutes. I swipe one and hold up a finger, silently asking him to wait. I shoot back it's contents, return the glass back to the tray and take another glass. The waiter looks at me expectantly. He must think I'm some lush intending on drinking every glass on his tray. Instead of waving him off, I give him a polite smile and walk away, second champagne flute in hand.

  "...
which is why we are confident our unique product will be distributed worldwide. We've already secured all the necessary patents and..." My Dad is talking up a storm, trying to peak the interest of the couple standing before him. I walk up to the group, clear my throat and take Anthony's hand. My throat feels unbearably dry, and I reflexively sip my champagne. Nerves make every cell in my body twitch. I wonder if anyone can tell. I hope I don't break out into a sweat.

  "Ah, Regina! You remember Mr. and Mrs. Ferro?"

  PERMAFROST

  August 3rd, 5:33pm

  Daddy introduces me to his audience. The couple turns their attention to me. Mrs. Ferro has an ice queen look about her, from her golden hair to her golden shoes. Diamonds slither around her throat and wrists, with a clunker of a ring that always twists to rest on her pinky because the stone is over fifty karats. Even her dress glimmers, pale gold with a blood red stone—a huge ass garnet—at her waist. Tassels of 24K gold dangle down forming a unique and exquisite belt to hold that whopper gemstone in place. The rest of her gown is silk with a sheer overlay, carefully stitched with golden thread and matching seed pearls. Mrs. Ferro will never wear it again, and there’s no doubt in my mind that her gown cost a million or more. They are that rich, and they love to show it.

  Mr. Ferro has Pete’s looks plus a few pounds, and the years have been kind to him. Excusing a few crows feet and a few sexy streaks of silver in the dark hair near his temples, Mr. Ferro looks young for his age. He absently twirls a fat wedding band that means nothing to him.