Birthdays of a Princess Read Online Free

placed me on my mom’s cut-and-stapled-back-together-again
stomach.
    My mom said to Gracie: “At least it’s a girl. I couldn’t bear it if
it were a boy. I’m sure he’d look just like Mikey and remind me of him every
single day.”
    And Gracie nodded in agreement and said: “Yes, it’s a blessing. A
girl is so much easier. We can make pretty things for her.”
    Mind you, I was lying right on my mom’s now empty belly, listening
to every word the two ladies said. You believe that? Ha, ha—got you there. Of
course I didn’t. I was a newborn, for crying out loud. But I’ve heard it told
so many times that I can’t say if I know it from hearing or from experience. In
any case, it’s true, unless their account of my birth has been twisted to suit
their own memories. Could be a figment of my mom’s imagination because she
doesn’t want to admit that she didn’t even look at me, the red-wrinkled
premature bundle of obligations. It could well be that she cried and lamented
and cursed me for being born and becoming a burden to a young, widowed woman.
Wouldn’t surprise me, the way she always went on about her suffering and how
much she’s given up for me and so on.
    Whatever. That was my Birthday Number Zero.
    A big, fat Zero!

 
     
     
    Chapter
7
     
     
    “Are you Melissa Brown?”
    The women at the door shook her head and glared at the detective in
front of her. “About time somebody from the police showed up!”
    Macintosh had to hold back not to snap at her.
    “Are you?”
    The woman pointed toward the open kitchen door.
    He walked past her. If the other one was as belligerent as this one,
he’d have a tough time staying professional. He couldn’t for the life of him
understand why some relatives thought it was the duty of the police to get in
touch with them right away. Accidents were a different matter, but a crime? If
they didn’t care enough about the girl to rush to her side as soon as they
found out, they shouldn’t act all indignant later on.
    The woman sitting at the table looked up, blank, confused. She was
big. A sloppy, sweaty mass, compressed by spandex tight slacks, spilling out of
every opening of her summery top. She was thirty-ish, hard to say. Traces of
former beauty were still detectable in her face. A delicate nose, smooth skin,
full lips, shiny blonde hair. Her face was that of a twenty-year-old,
balloon-tight skin, ready to burst at the next mouthful of cream cake.
    “Ma’am, I am Detective Pete Macintosh from the Vancouver Police
Department, District One.”
    No reply.
    He didn’t expect to exchange pleasantries, so he soldiered on. “I’m
here about your daughter. You have a daughter named Tiara?” Stupid, stupid
question, but he had to ask.
    The woman waved it away. Of course she had, and of course she knew
already.
    “I’m sorry, but I have to ask you a few questions. Do you mind?”
    The older women took charge. “Please, Officer, sit down. I’m Louise
Brown, Melissa’s mother, Tiara’s grandmother. Please, tell us what happened. We
don’t really know anything. Only what has been on the news. My daughter wanted to
call you but we couldn’t figure out whom to contact.”
    How difficult was it to call the local police station? Macintosh sat
down, took his small manila colored notebook out of its leather cover and
opened it.
    “At approximately 7.30 this morning a young woman we believe to be
your daughter attacked a female customer inside Starbucks on Robson Street.”
    “I know all that,” Melissa said, standing up. “I’ve seen it on TV. Shall
we go?”
    Macintosh didn’t move, except for a faint shake of his head.
    “I thought you were here to take me to her.”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “Then why are you here?”
    “The young woman has been processed and a judge has ordered her to
be taken into custody for further evaluation. I’m here to confirm her
identity.”
    Melissa just looked at him.
    “I’m sorry, but I have to make sure.” He put a picture