Broken World

  Broken World

  (#2, Broken Beauty Novellas)

  By Lizzy Ford, writing as Chloe Adams

  http://www.ChloeAdams.com/

  Published by Evatopia Press

  http://www.Evatopia.com/

  Cover design by Eden Crane, Eden Crane Design

  http://www.EdenCraneDesign.com/

  Kindle Edition

  Broken World copyright ©2014 by Lizzy Ford http://www.GuerrillaWordfare.com/

  Cover design copyright © 2014 by Eden Crane Design

  http://www.EdenCraneDesign.com/

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  While the story within is a work of fiction, the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence estimates that one out of every six women will be raped in her lifetime with only twenty percent reporting these rapes. The crime and its emotional aftermath are portrayed in a fictitious setting in this novel, but are based on the author’s insight and experience, as well as experiences of other women who shared their tales in confidence with the author.

  Any references to historical events; to real people, living or dead; or to real locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  The news about my pregnancy hits the papers a day after my “incident,” as Daddy refers to it. I prefer to describe it like it was -- I almost passed out in the clinic bathroom after seeing the positive test results. Not even Shea, the head of my father’s public relations team, could hush it up before it was plastered all over the news. My best friend, Ari, finds it and sends me a link to an online article. Then two links. Then dozens. Most of them reference a source at the clinic. Bitterly, I realize it wouldn’t take much to pay off one of the people there working for minimum wage or one of the women down on her luck living in the barracks.

  I can’t blame the clinic staff for talking. Instead, I’m angry with myself for not being strong enough to walk out after the test. I’m a public figure, which means everyone is watching and news like this spreads like wildfire.

  I’m not leaving the safety and privacy of my closet today. No way in hell. I’m too overwhelmed to write in my journal, either. I feel lost and just want to stay hidden for the rest of my life.

  By noon, Daddy’s issues a statement. Ari sends me those links, too. I start to read the headlines.

  Joan of Arc: The conservative party’s new face

  Senator Abbott-Renou’s Daughter Pregnant after Rape; Keeping Baby

  I can’t read any more. I close the browser on my phone and stare at the wall across from me. Whoever called me Joan of Arc was probably patting himself on the back. Overnight, I’ve become a martyr to the conservative cause.

  I still can’t understand the idea of having a child growing inside me. Of having his child growing inside me. I don’t even know which man is the father, but one thing I know for sure...I don’t want to have his kid.

  Daddy won’t sign off on an abortion. After years of hearing him call it murder, I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do anyway. Then again, Daddy lies. He lies in his speeches. He lies to me.

  It’s his job.

  My cell rings. I don’t recognize the number. Every once in awhile, some reporter gets lucky and figures out our numbers, so I reject the call. Whoever it is leaves a message. I stare at my phone, not certain I should check the voice mail, then decide to listen to it.

  “Heya, Mia, it’s Dom. Just wanted to check in. Gianna asked me to call. Her phone is broken. She has the worst luck with mechanical things.” He chuckles. “You got our numbers, if you wanna talk. Take care.”

  I save the message. His voice always reminds me that not everyone in the world is like my father, and I like the reminder that there are good people out there capable of caring for someone else. The cynical side of me wonders if he would’ve called if Gianna hadn’t made him. After all, he wants me to out Robert Connor, so he can solve a case. Maybe he thinks I’m an emotional, vulnerable mess, and he wants to pounce while he can.

  That thought kinda hurts. Ari thinks the same thing that Dom does, and both of them are good people. Dr. Thompkins says I can’t let my anger toward my family and what happened to me make me think badly of everyone in my life. There are people who want to support me.

  My cell rings again, and I’m not surprised to see Mom’s number pop up on the screen. I accept the call.

  “Hi, mom,” I say. “Let me guess. You’ll be home in two days.”

  “Bonjour, mon amour. I, ah, saw the news.”

  I slump against the wall.

  “I talked to Daddy’s team this morning. I will be home in two days.”

  “Mom…” I sigh. “Just stop with the two days stuff. I’m having a hard enough time as it is.”

  “This time, I’m coming. I’ve done my sixty days here. I’m coming home.”

  Just like every other day she says she’ll be home in two days, part of me wonders if this time, she really will.

  “Mia,” her voice takes on a hesitant, grave note. “I know your daddy. I know how…convincing he can be. You are my daughter, too. If…if you need me to do something for you that Daddy may not agree with, I will.”

  Surprised, I listen. I know what she’s saying, even if she doesn’t say it. Mom’s European background was an issue for Daddy before he married her. Her more liberal views still come up during campaign season, which is probably another reason why she’s been exiled to rehab in the critical months before his reelection.

  My mom has been little better of a parent than Daddy, always absorbed in the social scene. She loves the treatment and status Daddy’s reputation and last name gives her. She’s the opposite of me. She loves the paparazzi, fancy clothes, and spotlight. She can charm women voters, something Daddy can’t do. When she’s on, she’s Daddy’s greatest asset. When she’s off or drinking, all they do is fight.

  “You don’t have to. It’s just an offer,” she says when I’m quiet.

  “Mama, I think I need your help. But I don’t know yet.”

  “I’ll be home this weekend. I can find you someone to talk to who isn’t in your daddy’s pocket. I did the same for Molly.”

  “Molly? She got knocked up?” I whisper, shocked. “She’s like, goody-two-shoes-miss-perfect.”

  “Mon amour, every family has its secrets.” Mom gives her husky chuckle, the one that makes men swoon. “Your problem is that Daddy and the press already know. I hushed up Molly’s indiscretion. It’s too late to hush up yours.”

  I can’t help but think of Mom in a different light. I’m accustomed to seeing her fold like a drunk flower to whatever Daddy wants her to do, in the name of the family and politics, like the rest of us have learned to do. That my mom keeps secrets from him or acts against his wishes in private is nothing short of a miracle. I know they fight, but Daddy always wins. At least, it looks like he always wins.

  “You didn’t notice how civil we are to each other now?” she jokes with another laugh.

  I haven’t paid much attention to Molly since she left the house for college several years ago. In fact, I rarely even talk to my half-sibling. She used to hate Mom and blamed her for breaking up their family long before I was born. She hated me, too, growing up. If there was a thaw, I didn’t notice it. No one in my family talks to one another about such private ma
tters.

  “Please, please, mama, please come home this time,” I beg her. “Please.”

  “I promise you, my baby.”

  “Okay. Then I’ll see you this weekend.”

  “I can’t wait to see you, Mia!”

  “Bye, mom.”

  “Au revoir,” she murmurs.

  I hang up. Hopeful but scared she’ll betray me yet again, I release a deep breath. I want so much to believe her, but I can’t handle any more bad news.

  I open my journal and write the thoughts I’m afraid to say out loud.

  Am I stupid for believing Mama will come home and help me? I want so much to see her again. I believed Daddy when he said it wasn’t possible to get pregnant after rape. I believed everything he said in his speeches. Why can’t I trust my own parents?

  Molly got knocked up?! I feel like I don’t know ANYTHING about my own family.

  I set down my pen. I almost want to laugh, but I’m too surprised.

  I scroll through my contacts in my phone and gaze at Molly’s number. I wonder if she’ll talk to me, if she’ll tell me what Mom just did. I’m afraid to call her, so I text her.

  How’s the wedding planning?

  It’s lame, but I don’t know what else to say.

  She doesn’t answer right away or for the next few hours. I guess I didn’t really expect her to answer anyway, but I can’t help but be disappointed. If my family is good at one thing, it’s disappointing me.

  I spend the day in my closet, texting Ari. Molly never responds. When I go to bed, I can’t help but cling to the hope that Mom will come home this weekend.

  Chapter Two

  I arrive at the women’s center on time the next morning. There’s a police line blocking off the swarming press and paparazzi from the entrance and the line of women already waiting. I don’t look at anyone as I get out of the car and go inside, followed by Fabio.

  Wendy eyes me as I enter. She doesn’t say anything, but she’s not the only one uneasy with me being there. I pass Ricki in the hallway. She smiles. I go to my cube and avoid the long looks of the two women already in the office area. There’s a stack of forms on my desk already. I start working on those, hoping that nobody speaks to me and I can leave after my four hours. After a few minutes, I smell fresh coffee drifting down the hallway from the break room and get up.

  Another worker is in the break room. I wait for my turn to grab a flimsy paper cup. I purposely don’t think about the last time the coffee maker has been cleaned and instead doctor up a cup of terrible coffee.

  “Hey, kid.” Gianna’s voice almost makes me freak out. “You got a minute?”

  “You’re the boss,” I reply.

  She sits down at the table. I sit across from her, staring at my coffee.

  “How you feeling?” she asks.

  “Okay. Sorry about the other day.”

  “Don’t worry, Mia. I understand. I can’t imagine having this splashed all over the news makes this easier,” Gianna says. “If you need time away from here, let me know.”

  “I’m okay,” I say.

  “No, I don’t think you are.”

  I’m not sure what to say. Gianna squeezes my arm. She’s sweet, with the same brown eyes Dom has. Like Grandpa’s. I wonder if their presence, the two of them taking care of me, is Grandpa’s way of looking out for me. He died years ago, and I still miss him. Thus far, he’s the only family member who remotely cares, and I’d like to think he’s still protecting me in any way he can.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I say at last.

  “Would you be interested in sitting in the group counseling sessions? You can meet and talk to other girls your age who are going through similar experiences.”

  “Are there a lot of girls like me?” I ask, meeting her gaze for the first time this morning.

  “More than there should be.” Her smile is sad. “We have a session at one today. You’d have to stay later than your four hours.”

  “It’s okay. I think I have time to make up from Wednesday.”

  “Okay, good. If it doesn’t help, you don’t have to go back.” She stands.

  “Gianna, why are you helping me?” I ask, uneasy at the thought of a stranger helping me when my family would hush this all up if they could.

  “It’s what I do, kid,” she replies.

  “I’ll ask Daddy to increase his … donation.”

  Gianna laughs. “No bribes needed.” She grows serious. “What frightens me is that you are more alone than many of the girls who have nowhere near your wealth. No matter how rich you are, you need help, Mia.”

  My face feels hot. I clear my throat and leave with my coffee. I sit down at my cube and start typing up forms.

  My phone vibrates a short time later. I’m expecting it to be Ari, complaining about how bad her chef’s coffee is, like she does every morning. I’m surprised to see the text is from Molly.

  We can talk about it at brunch tomorrow. Your mother’s favorite spot, 10AM.

  My hands start shaking again, this time out of excitement that she actually wants to talk to me. Maybe I won’t be alone in all this. I send her a quick okay then stare at my computer for a few minutes.

  My time goes fast. I text Chris to tell him not to send the car until two. I skip lunch. Gianna comes to get me for the one o’clock session, and I follow her to what looks like was once a classroom. There are mismatched, but comfortable looking chairs set in a circle with several teens already there. I’m surprised to see a couple of them are younger than I.

  It’s quiet and awkward. I sit down in one while Gianna sits nearest the door. I’m not sure how I feel about her being the facilitator then realize it’s no worse than Chris sitting in my last session with Dr. Thompkins. With my…issues on the front page of every newspaper, I guess it’s too late to worry about privacy.

  Two more girls show up. They sit down, but no one really talks to each other. We all kinda look around, and no one is comfortable.

  “We’re going to start with Jaime. Everyone introduce yourselves, why you’re here, and what you hope to accomplish,” Gianna starts. “Jaime, go ahead.”

  The girl named Jaime is one of the youngest in the room. She looks around nervously. She’s got to be several months pregnant; her small frame looks like she’s got a ball tucked under her shirt.

  “I’m Jaime. I’m here because my cousin raped me and I got knocked up.”

  “What’re your goals?” Gianna prompts when Jaime falls quiet.

  “I dunno. Um, to feel better?”

  Gianna smiles. I’m not sure what Jaime means, but Gianna accepts her answer and moves on. I listen to the other girls talk about their situations. Gianna is right; I’m not the only one who was raped and ended up pregnant. Two of the girls have had abortions and are feeling guilty. Three are too far along or don’t want to. Like Jaime, two others are being pressured into having babies while one other says she wants to end the pregnancy.

  Unlike me, they don’t have trust funds. What starts as awkward silences melts when they start talking about where to go for cheap – or free – medical care and something called Medicaid. Gianna encourages us all to think about where we see ourselves in a year. I expect her to push the idea of having the kid over not, since it’s a Catholic center. But she doesn’t. She focuses on what the girls are saying.

  I puzzle over the idea of what happens in a year or two. I’ll turn eighteen in a few weeks and will graduate in June of next year. Then I can move out and put distance between me and Daddy’s politics. I haven’t thought about more than that, just as I haven’t tried to imagine what life would be like and how I’ll feel down the road if I do – or don’t – have a baby. I don’t know where I’ll go to college and if I do, what I’ll major in. School has never been my forte. I haven’t thought that far ahead, maybe because all I think about is making it through the day.

  Dr. Thompkins has a different style then Gianna. Maybe it’s because there are so many of us in the room and only an
hour to talk, but we don’t go into the level of detail Dr. Thompkins does. Gianna challenges us to think more about our future and to be ready to talk about it next time. When the session is over, I leave quickly. I’m confused again and missing my closet. It’s the longest I’ve been out of the house since the incident.

  I see Dom leaning against the reception desk talking to Wendy as I head towards the front entrance. He catches my eye and straightens. Though I’m always curious to see him, I’m feeling stressed and ready to bolt today. I start past him.

  “Mia, wait.” He touches my arm.

  I stop and face him, looking up. With Dom’s warm eyes and gravelly voice, I’m beginning to believe Grandpa really is looking out for me from heaven. I shouldn’t feel as comfortable with a stranger as I do with Dom. I don’t even mind that he touched me. Since the rape, I jump every time someone touches me.

  “Just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he says.

  Anxious to leave, I can’t help the jaded thoughts in my mind, even about my rescuer. I wonder if he called yesterday and stopped by today to pressure me.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “You’ve got my number, if you ever want to talk.”

  “You mean, if I decide to come forward maybe, given what I’m sure you saw in the news?” I cross my arms.

  “You’re welcome,” he says, unfazed.

  We stare at each other.

  “Yeah, I do want you to come forward, and I’ll keep asking you until you say yes. But, I also want to make sure you’re okay,” he says at last. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll be straight with you, and you drop this defensive shit with me. That tone just really drives me crazy. Deal?” A slow smile crosses his face. He holds out his hand.

  I don’t know why my defenses melt around him, but they always do. He can see right through me, and he’s not running for the hills. I’m not sure what to think about that, either. I shake his hand and offer a quiet, “Deal.”