BABY ROYAL

by Bella Grant

  “Yes, Mom,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

  “Raymond,” she started, and I immediately felt like I was standing before the Board of Directors waiting for the assessment that would decide if I would be fired. I waited for her question—the only one she asked regularly. “Have you found a wife yet?”

  Always so abrupt, but I expected nothing less. “I think you would have heard,” I replied through gritted teeth. With difficulty, I reined in my emotions when she was the object of my pain.

  “Well, what are you waiting on? You’re not getting any younger,” she snapped.

  “So any woman will do, is that what you’re saying?” I fired back. I tugged at the tie at my throat as a feeling of suffocation came over me.

  “Don’t be silly. This island is full of women. I’m sure you can find one willing to marry you. You do remember that was a part of the package.”

  Here we go again. The package that caused unease and unhappiness of the greatest proportions. When my parents had divorced, I had been their only child. Mom expected to get a settlement from Dad, but he had given it all to me on the condition that I take over the business, find a wife, and produce an heir so the legacy would continue. I had a good business head—my father had made sure of that—so I fell into the company just fine. Now, a decade later, the company had grown and expanded into a multibillion-dollar international conglomerate. And I was at the head without an heir.

  “You don’t have to remind me. I’m only thirty-two, not sixty. I still have time.” I rocked back into the chair, feeling the weight of the conversation crushing me.

  “That’s old enough,” she retorted and clicked her tongue.

  “Careful, Mom. You might get a wrinkle,” I mocked, knowing full well it would rattle her. She was vain and materialistic, and the thought of getting old provoked her. I used that card every chance I got.

  An unpleasant sound escaped her before her onslaught began. “You’re such a coward, Raymond,” she began spitefully, and I closed my eyes and tried to block out what I knew was coming. “You are my son, and you should have stuck by me. I am so ashamed of you, taking that man’s money and watching as he tossed me out in the street.”

  “What do you mean, ‘that man?’ He was my father. And what could I have done, Mom? I was only nineteen when you guys decided – well, when dad called it quits. It was none of my business.” I pinched my nose, pressed my thumb between my eyes, and sighed. “Plus, I wouldn’t say you got tossed out in the street just because you didn’t get the estate.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she replied unfairly. “You should have made sure I did. And to make matters worse, you won’t even find a woman, if just to give me some kind of purpose.”

  God forbid! If that was the only reason to have a child—to give Mom something to do—then I’d die without the experience of being a father.

  She was silent for a while, and I wondered if she was still there. “Mom?”

  “Are you gay?”

  My eyes bulged, and I started in the chair. “What? No!” I answered, and I felt my ears grow hot with embarrassment.

  “So why haven’t you found a wife?”

  My eyes caught the clock, and I saw that I’d come to the end of my sentence. “Mom, I’m going to leave now. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I hung up. One second longer would have started another unpleasant conversation, or a rehashing of the former one. I didn’t sit around my usual safe house, although I wanted to. I glanced at the liquor cabinet as I felt it’s pull, but remaining there after five would mean asking for trouble – someone was sure to take advantage of the fact that I was still at the office, and I was not in the mood for addendums to my boredom. With that in mind, I hurried from the office like it was on fire. It was a futile attempt at escape because I carried my torment around with me. I would never escape my mother, not while she was still alive. The only way to shut her up – I hope – was to find a wife, so I resolved to find a woman to marry.

  “Good evening, sir,” Joshua, my driver, said flatly and purely out of a sense of obligation. “Where to this evening?”

  I think he was prepped by the agency to ask such questions, because the answer was always the same. I wasn’t much of a social butterfly but more of a recluse. I preferred spending time alone, so when I left the office, I always went home.

  “You know,” I replied, slid in, and slammed the door shut.

  He hurried to the driver’s side, and slowly, we drifted from the busy downtown office and down the narrow streets that eventually broadened as they met the highway. I stared at the trees lining the sides of the streets as the vehicle drifted closer towards home. I sighed with a small measure of contentment when the car pulled into the driveway of my estate, which was situated close to the ocean, and I sucked in a lungful of the much-appreciated air as I stepped out of the car. Joshua continued around to the back as I hurried to the front entrance.

  I alone occupied my estate, and I imagined my son roaming the halls. I remembered how I acted as a child – how I would run from the hallway to the sunroom to the kitchen to my father’s study; how he would laugh and pick me up even when I disturbed his work. We were much closer when I was younger, but as the years rolled by, he recoiled from the world. We drifted apart, and by the time I got back from college, he was like a stranger, barely nodding at me when we ran into each other in the house. I didn’t think about him much after he left. But how could I blame him? Mom had an uncanny ability of driving people away, in much the same way she was forcing me to keep my distance from her.

  Having a son would bring me joy, but I was anxious about children with my mother around. I didn’t need her influence, but like a plague she would descend upon me, mocking, jeering, criticizing at every turn. I would love to have a son, but she made me almost afraid to think about it. I couldn’t blame my lack of a family entirely on her – at the rate I was going I would never find a bride, and I was instantly reminded of the site I had stumbled across earlier.

  I wandered to my study and immediately searched for the mail-order bride crap. A quick scan told me exactly what would happen: I needed to create a profile of my own, advertise myself, display my character traits, and add one, or a few, of my best pictures. I would then scroll through the profiles of women and choose someone I’d like to marry. I’d meet her—or them, of course—but I knew I had to get this right. She had to be cultured, and with money. I would parade her in public, so she had to be attractive, and not headstrong or annoying. She had to be submissive if this was going to work, and most importantly, she had to understand our marriage was nothing but a living arrangement—a business deal. In short, she had to be the opposite of my mother.

  I wasn’t excited as I flipped through one profile picture after another of the eligible bachelorettes. Nothing struck me about their appearance, and the ones who did came from shady backgrounds.

  “This is ridiculous,” I muttered to myself, even though my fingers kept moving, tapping the ‘next’ button repeatedly as if they had a mind of their own.

  I don’t know what I expected would happen—that I’d find the perfect woman without effort and this would be a done deal by tomorrow? With my luck, I would be there all day. An hour later I had proved my theory correct, at least the general direction of it. I cracked my neck where it ached from being hunched over for so long and rubbed my eyes as I stood. This would have to wait. Maybe I’d have better luck the following day, but even as I thought it, I had no reason to believe otherwise.

  Anna

  I learned the word ‘desensitization’ in the eighth grade, I think. I remember the teacher explaining to us that it’s technically what happens when someone has been in a situation, or exposed to something, long enough. It dulls the senses. It made sense to me then, especially when I went to the butcher shop and noticed the smell didn’t affect Steve one bit. He would stand behind the counter chopping and slicing through slabs of meat like they were nothing, while I had to d
o everything I could think of to keep my guts from spilling.

  When I reached the homeless shelter like all other times before, I couldn’t understand how I didn’t get desensitized to life like this. The building was made of wood and old. It couldn’t withstand a disaster even of the smallest magnitude. Just standing on the outside stirred something inside, and with heavy feet, I trudged slowly up the concrete steps that chipped at the edges and cracked at the corners.

  “Hi, Anna,” the rotund woman at the desk smiled and waved as I entered. She wore a pale blue dress squeezed so tightly around her the buttons threatened to pop. The wig she wore was pulled back to reveal graying hair at her hairline, and she quickly adjusted it when she saw me looking.

  “Hey, Nica,” I replied, but I didn’t recognize the voice that answered. I coughed and patted my chest and then grunted. My other words were less scratchy. “Where are they?”

  “I think they’re in the common room. Teresa isn’t doing so good,” she said sadly and came around the desk to meet me. “Maybe you should stick around for a while?”

  My heart sank at the mention of my little sister’s name. She was only five and already plagued with an upper respiratory tract infection. She had terrible coughing fits, and was in constant need of medication that neither my mom nor I could consistently provide. I felt guilty because I had to leave them here, but what else could I do? We had been in and out of shelters for months. We had left a dingy apartment, riddled with cockroaches, pet dander from all the other flea-ridden animals some of the other tenants owned that ran free around the property, and mold. No wonder Teresa was sick, and the longer she stayed there, the worse she got. Mom had to make the hard decision to live week by week in homeless shelters and government homes. This was our third homeless shelter, and after a few weeks, they would have to leave again.

  Nica’s voice was elevated like she was asking a question, but it was more of a suggestion.

  “Maybe,” I lied, and quickly walked away.

  There was no ‘sticking around.’ They would have to leave soon anyway. But one quick glance around the room told me I needed to—and that I couldn’t at the same time. The droopy eyes of the children as they cuddled next to their parents haunted me. The drapes that hung from their meatless bones were barely sufficient for clothing. The air was thick with the stench of puke, urine, and medicine, and I had the overwhelming feeling to hurl.

  Mom had been relatively stable before, until she lost her job, and everything went to hell after that. She couldn’t afford the rent, and pretty soon we were shamefully evicted. She had struggled to get her life together, doing odd jobs here and there, making little that quickly ran out because we had to keep moving around. The following week would make three years we have been living like this, seeing sullen faces and sunken eyes, smelling disinfectant and bug spray day in and out, but even after all this time, I could never get desensitized to the faces or the smell.

  Mom saw me before I reached her and signaled me over. I found it difficult to move when I saw her tear-stained cheeks. She held Teresa in her arms, and the girl coughed uncontrollably. Fear gripped my chest and I started hyperventilating. I understood then what Nica had meant when she suggested I stay a while longer. She thought Teresa would die.

  I could hardly form the concept in my mind, much more accept it. This was my little sister, and she was only five. She can’t die here. I left because I thought I could help them more, but now, the pain in my chest told me I needed to stay.

  When I found my legs, I hurried over and knelt beside Mom. “What’s wrong?”

  “She’s getting worse,” she said sadly, quickly brushing fresh tears from the corner of her eye. “She’s been coughing since last night.”

  “Is there anything I can do? Maybe get some medicine at the pharmacy?” I stared at her through eyes that begged her to tell me I could make her better.

  “I’m afraid not,” she answered, crushing me in the process. “Nica gave her some antibiotics and something for the cough. But you know how it is here—they can’t keep it up.” She looked around at the other long faces occupying the room. “There are plenty people here. There’s not enough for everybody.”

  “No.” I sighed and sank to the floor next to her feet. I could feel the strength draining from my body and grew limp. I felt Mom’s hand on top of my head as she stroked my hair.

  “It’s all right,” she said, and I could hear the optimism in her voice. I couldn’t understand how she did it, and in some ways, I didn’t want to.

  I gripped her hand and looked into her wrinkled face. She was only forty-five, but she looked much older. Her struggle with diabetes and hypertension coupled with Teresa’s illness added what looked like twenty years to her life. Her eyes were wrinkled, and her forehead boasted permanent creases that had been tattooed on by the stresses she had to live with. Her eyes were pale, but when I was around her, I felt her love.

  I started crying, and as I whimpered, I felt her body shake. Teresa had stopped coughing long enough to give me a weak smile.

  “Don’t cry, Anna,” she said in her angelic voice.

  I smiled back through the tears and gripped her small fingers. I returned my gaze to Mom. “I think I should stay. You need the help.”

  “No, my child,” she hastened to say, and her eyes were wild when she did. “You are helping. You’re no good to me here. You’d just get sick too, and I can’t take care of you. You have to go and take care of yourself now.” Her voice trembled when she spoke, and it tugged at my heart even more.

  I understood what she was saying, and taking care of her and Teresa had been my motivation to leave. I would feel more at ease if they lived in a motel rather than here, or any other shelter. But the money I made as a housekeeper at the Sampson estate would never be enough to take them out of the shelter. I alone had escaped, and the guilt weighed me down.

  “I’m going to help you, Mom, and you too,” I told Teresa. “I’ll bring you stuff every week.”

  Mom smiled at me, but I could see she did not hinge her hope on me. Even though my leaving made her life harder, she was happy I had left.

  “I know you’ll do the best you can,” she told me.

  I had left the shelter a few months ago, the one before this, or was it the other? I had lost track of which one because there had been so many, but it didn’t matter which shelter because each visit weighed on me more. I dreaded leaving and receiving bad news, and I feared what would happen to Teresa if I left.

  I couldn’t even think about it. I wanted to stay, but I couldn’t bear to be there any longer. I rose, and Teresa’s limp hand fell from mine. Tears blinded me as I watched her chest rising and falling in short succession. She was worse than the last time I had seen her. I caressed her cheek, and she closed her eyes and pressed against Mom’s chest. Mom wrapped her arm around her, rubbing her forearm in comfort as she did.

  “I will come back,” I whispered, “and I will save us from this.” I didn’t know how I would fulfill that wish, and I could see in her eyes that she didn’t believe it either. It just felt like I couldn’t leave without even a promise of something better.

  Mom smiled and kissed the top of Teresa’s head. “Take care, Anna,” she mouthed and smoothed the hair on Teresa’s forehead.

  “Love you, Mom,” I mouthed back, and the tears sparkled in her eyes. She turned her head away, but it was too late. I had seen them, and they spurred mine into a full onslaught. I brushed them away vehemently as I hurried from that godforsaken place. I couldn’t understand how my life had become so difficult so quickly. And worse, I could see no way out.

  I drove to the Sampson estate, and like all the other times before, I imagined it belonged to me. I would have a nice, long, black car, like the one Henrietta used. She was only eighteen and had to be driven everywhere, but she was nothing like the rich snobs I’d seen on TV. She was friendly and kind, and in a short space of time, we became good friends. In fact, she was my only friend, so reasonably the
best one.

  I gazed at the wide, open spaces and the lawn that stretched further than I could see. I imagined the pretty dresses Henrietta owned, the parties they threw for her—things I dreamed of having. But I knew it was just a dream I was constantly awakened from.

  As soon as I opened the door and entered the foyer, Henrietta spotted me. “Anna!” she cried.

  I quickly found a smile to replace my frown and hurried to meet her. “I just got back.”

  “Come,” she told me and grabbed my hand. Anyone looking on would have thought we were sisters if they didn’t pay careful attention to the faded clothes I wore. She led me to her room where she began telling me about a party she was supposed to attend. She needed my help picking out an outfit, and walking into her bedroom-sized closet only added to my grief. I couldn’t maintain my façade any longer.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked when she saw my lack of enthusiasm.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not in a good mood,” I told her and walked to the stool in the corner.

  She followed me. “Is your mother all right?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know. Teresa was coughing, and she seems to be getting worse. And I wanted to go back—”

  “Don’t be silly,” Henrietta said, taking my hands as she, the daughter of millionaire parents – or maybe billionaires – knelt before me like she was servant. “You know you can’t help them there. Maybe this is how you can.”

  “I know,” I whispered, as hot tears stung my eyes. “But what am I supposed to do? Leave them there to die?”

  “No, I didn’t say that,” she said softly and rubbed her thumbs over the back of my hand. “But you could help them better with a job. Or maybe a rich husband.”

  Henrietta was always playing around, and it was hard not to laugh a little over her suggestion. “I can’t even hope for that, Henrietta,” I replied. “A rich man wants a rich woman. Not a young, foolish, inexperienced girl who has nothing to offer him.”