Royal Wedding
Obviously you can’t protect kids from everything—like I said earlier—but there should be some reasonable protections, especially if you’re paying for them, which P.S., I am.
“Where was the Royal Genovian Guard?” I demanded, glaring at Lars, who was still on the phone. “I sent them to shadow her all day. Why didn’t they stop Annabelle?”
“Annabelle’s dad said he would sue them,” Olivia said, through the cotton toweling. “And the entire Cranbrook school district, if they laid one finger on his daughter. They said they called to tell you, but you were in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed. I didn’t know the meeting was here, about me.”
Uncle Rick laughed from his place on the couch. “Ha ha. That Jenkins. You gotta admit, the guy’s good.”
That’s when Dad lost it. I think he actually might have done some punching of his own if I hadn’t intervened and said, “Okay, that’s enough. I’m taking Olivia to a doctor right now.”
“Oh, please, you don’t have to do that,” Catherine said, looking embarrassed. I couldn’t help noticing that throughout the whole thing between my dad and her husband—which had gotten a bit ugly—she hadn’t once stopped scrubbing at the coffee stain I’d left on her carpeting. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious, but our pediatrician is perfectly capable—”
“You should notify your pediatrician that our doctor will be requesting Olivia’s records.” I took my sister’s hand. “Because I believe this incident has more than adequately proved that this isn’t a safe—or stable—environment for her to live in. If you disagree, you may have your lawyer contact ours. Come on, Olivia. Let’s go get your things.”
I began tugging my sister toward the stairs so we could start packing up her stuff. I was really mad.
But even though she was in obvious physical discomfort—something I understood; my foot wasn’t feeling too great either—she lingered a little, wanting to see what was going to happen next.
What happened next was that our father stopped glaring at her uncle Rick and said, “Yes. Yes, of course, Mia, you’re right. Let’s go.”
And he bent down to pick up Snowball—who’d become very fascinated by the coffee stain, as well—and followed us to the stairs.
But of course the aunt couldn’t let it go.
“But what about the promise I made to my sister?” she asked, coldly. “I promised her that I would raise her child to be as normal as possible—”
“You and I both know, Catherine,” Dad said, in as crushing a tone as I’d ever heard him use, even in Parliament, “that what Elizabeth wanted most of all was for her child to be loved. And from what I’ve seen so far, that’s far from what’s happening here.”
I saw Olivia’s aunt and uncle exchange a look. I might have been reading more into that look than was actually there, but I thought I saw guilt—guilt and maybe even a little shame—in their eyes.
The next thing I knew, Olivia had been pulled from my grasp, and Catherine was kneeling down before her.
“Olivia,” she said, in a tearful voice. “You know perfectly well that we love you. I know we didn’t exactly spoil you, but that’s because my sister wanted you to know what it’s like to live among the common people. She didn’t want you to grow up to be some snobby, rich princess who only cares about her looks and getting on the covers of magazines.”
She had the nerve to narrow her eyes at me. What? I was the snobby rich princess she was talking about?
“That’s not what you want, is it, Olivia?” Catherine asked. “To grow up to be some rich, snobby princess?”
“No,” Olivia cried, looking horrified. “Of course not!”
Catherine smiled. Her grip on Olivia’s arms loosened a little. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said. “You had me worried.”
“I don’t want to live with you because all you cared about when I walked in was getting the stain out of your stupid carpet.” Olivia pointed at my dad and me. “They cared about what happened to me. That’s why I want to go live with them. Now, could someone please give me some ice? Because my nose really hurts.”
If the twins turn out half as wonderful as Olivia, I’m going to feel like a complete success as a mother. Not, of course, that I’ve had anything to do with how Olivia’s turned out.
As soon as we get the X-ray results to let us know for sure whether or not her nose is broken (if it is, we’re going to have a consult with a plastic surgeon), we can all go home.
Which, in Olivia’s case, is going to be Manhattan, and from there—most likely tomorrow, via the royal jet—Genovia.
No offense to my sister’s birthplace, but if I never see Cranbrook, New Jersey, again, I will be very, very happy.
Oh, Michael’s texting:
Why is TMZ posting photos of you in an ER in New Jersey? Is everything all right???
LOL, everything is fine. Well, with me. O., on the other hand, got punched in the face by the school bully. She’s going to be OK though.
Good. That scared me. I thought something was wrong with you. Or the babies.
Everything is fine with me and the babies. Except I am starving and there is nothing to eat here.
Come. Home.
I am coming home. But first we’re taking my sister to her favorite restaurant as a special reward for being so brave.