Royal Wedding

That’s all he texted, though. Nothing about Mom, or whether or not she’s forgiven him.

And of course all Mom had to say about the situation (in a voice mail she left in response to all my voice mails, probably while I was in the shower) was:

“Mia, please, stop worrying about me. I’m fine. Just a little embarrassed at the scene I made in front of everyone last night. I suppose I just never realized before how . . . complex a man your father is, deep down inside. Anyway, I’ll call you later. Have a good day, sweetie.”

I forwarded this message to Tina, to whom I’d also forwarded the recording of my mom and dad’s conversation the night before (although most of it turned out fairly muffled—I am not exactly Carrie from Homeland, though I like to pretend I’d be as good at her job at the CIA as she is—and I’d ended up having to transcribe a lot of it anyway).

Tina texted back promptly:

Your dad did it! He finally impressed your mom! And he didn’t have to injure himself in a high-risk sport to do it!

Yeah, right. All Dad ended up having to do to win my mom’s admiration was alienate his own country’s populace by hiding a love child for twelve years in a small town just off the New Jersey Turnpike. Easy!

He’s screwed things for us so royally, the consulate even had to cancel our appearance on Wake Up America (not that I would have gone anyway) due to the “unprecedented amount of death threats” they’d received.

The RGG says not to worry, though, the death threats aren’t serious (no more than usual, anyway). In addition to the usual antiroyalists, anarchists, misogynists, and general wackos, we’ve now acquired a few white supremacists and even some anti-Semites (Michael says he’s very proud he was finally able to bring something to the family, even if it’s only a hate group).

I instructed Dad that under no circumstances is he to leave Olivia alone with his mother for a period of more than two hours. There is no telling what that woman might do. I have a sneaking suspicion a makeover might be in the works. While this did not end up being the worst thing in the world for me, there is no reason to give Olivia one. She’s only twelve, and besides which doesn’t suffer from the many style maladies that plagued me at age fourteen (such as the “bad hair” Grandmère reminded me last night I inherited from Dad).

Meanwhile, the news from the tabloid press couldn’t be worse. Of course they’re making much of the “scandal” of a newly discovered illegitimate princess (though I fail to see how this is any big deal, since everyone’s been there, done that with me), but some of the more sensationalist sites/networks are trying to suggest that my father took advantage of an innocent watercraft tour guide (since Olivia’s mother died in a Jet Ski accident), not a sophisticated woman who actually piloted multimillion-dollar Learjets.

Is there no low to which the media won’t sink in its quest for hits/ratings?

Oh, we’ve reached Dr. Delgado’s office—

CHAPTER 61

9:55 a.m., Thursday, May 7

Back inside the HELV

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I am in total and complete shock. Such total and complete shock that I can barely even write, my hand is shaking so badly.

But I have to write this, because—as Olivia reminded me yesterday—sometimes when you’re overwhelmed, the only way you can make sense of what’s happening is to write it all down.

So here’s what happening:

First of all, the wedding isn’t canceled. I think the date is going to have to be moved up, actually.

Also, my foot isn’t broken.

Well, we don’t know if it’s broken, because Dr. Delgado wouldn’t give me an X-ray. He said he couldn’t give me an X-ray. He seemed very surprised I didn’t know why. He came bustling into the room where the nurse ushered us, having directed Michael onto a chair and me onto the examination table, and took off his glasses and said, “Oh, there you are. I see you finally got my message.”

I said, “No, what message? I called you.”

And then I showed him my foot, holding it in the air as I lay on the examination table (fully clothed, I might add, even though the nurse had told me to undress and gave me a paper gown, which I’d thought was extremely odd. Why would you put on a paper gown when all that was wrong with you was a possible broken foot? Michael had found it odd, too, so obviously, I had not undressed, except for taking off my sock and UGG).

“The message I left for you on your phone days ago,” Dr. Delgado said. “I left a message telling you I’d received the results of the blood and urine tests that I took the last time I examined you.”

“Oh.” I glanced helplessly at Michael, who’d put away his phone and was staring at Dr. Delgado as uncomprehendingly as I was. “Well, I guess I didn’t get your message. I get a lot of messages. Like a thousand a day. I have people who are supposed to sort through them, but a lot of stuff has happened since I last saw you. You might have heard about it on the news—”

“News?” Dr. Delgado looked impatient. “I don’t have time to follow the news. It’s too depressing.”

“I have to agree with you there,” Michael said.

“Well, not all of it,” I said, annoyed. Those two had never met before, and there they were, instantaneously bonding over how the news is so depressing. “Some of the news is good, like that I’m getting married. Dr. Delgado, this is my fiancé, Michael Moscovitz. Remember, I told you about him?”