no, that can’t be right. They died a year apart. No connection, and that is all, sadly, water under the bridge. The press will forever have a field day with those two untimely tragedies, but it’s no use now. Now there is something new and dire to deal with. Just as she’s finishing up another successful term, she’s become embroiled in a scandal. They are trying to put her behind bars, Alasdair. Can you believe that?”
“Well, it won’t come to that, if she’s innocent, right?”
I had my doubts about the innocent part. I knew Diana well enough to at least entertain the idea that she could be guilty. She was a formidable, terrifying woman, capable of eating her own young, as far as I could tell, but you could add that opinion to the list of things I’d never be telling my mother.
“Yes, yes, of course she’s innocent, but think of the damage this is doing to her impeccable reputation. It is tarnishing her good name. She’ll never be able to run for president, if this continues to escalate.”
I made a note to tell Iris about this latest scandal whenever she showed up again. She abhorred politicians on principal, and I knew I’d get a kick out of her reaction to a VP with direct ties to the mob.
“Now I know you don’t like to get sentimental . . . “
Me? She thought I was the one that didn’t like to get sentimental? This was news to me. Well, not news so much as the pot calling the kettle black.
“ . . . But, I don’t know, I think it’s all this thinking about what poor, dear Diana has been through with her grandchildren, and I just wanted to tell you that I love you. And, well, you must know this, but I’m extremely proud of you.”
I felt instant remorse for my usual snarky thoughts about her. I’d just heard her mission statement so many damn times that it was easy to apply it in a way that dehumanized her, when I should have felt a touch more sympathy for the single hardest working person I’d ever met. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a vacation.
“Love you too, Mom,” I said gruffly, the words feeling hopelessly unnatural, even if they were the truth.
When we finally hung up, I found myself searching online for news reports about Diana’s granddaughter, Francis. She was the older of the two girls, the second to die in a tragic accident, and the one I’d actually known, however briefly.
She’d had an impact on me, though I’d only spent a small amount of time with her. She’d been in her early teens, but already brilliant, a prodigy, and she’d been absolutely thrilled to meet me on one of the rare vacations where our families had all gotten together. I recalled spending one memorable afternoon with her, where she’d interviewed me for some school project.
When I’d heard of her death, I’d been stunned. And crushed. I couldn’t get over how tragic it was for such a bright young person to lose their life so early.
I started out looking for pictures, because I had this strange, crazy suspicion, centered straight in the deepest pit of my stomach, that I badly wanted to shake, but I wound up reading news articles about the accident that had taken her life, because it had never added up to me.
She’d died in a car accident, in the middle of a storm that had washed away an entire bridge, right as her driver had been trying to cross an overflowing river.
Two people and the car went missing, but only the driver’s body and the car had been found. Based on that, she was presumed dead.
I delved deeper and found several reports from the fringe media, nothing mainstream, about possible foul play. It was all very out there—marks where the bridge had been that suggested explosives were the culprit, though the police statement vehemently denied anything of the kind.
Of course, the report then claimed that the police were in on it, or at
“Well, it won’t come to that, if she’s innocent, right?”
I had my doubts about the innocent part. I knew Diana well enough to at least entertain the idea that she could be guilty. She was a formidable, terrifying woman, capable of eating her own young, as far as I could tell, but you could add that opinion to the list of things I’d never be telling my mother.
“Yes, yes, of course she’s innocent, but think of the damage this is doing to her impeccable reputation. It is tarnishing her good name. She’ll never be able to run for president, if this continues to escalate.”
I made a note to tell Iris about this latest scandal whenever she showed up again. She abhorred politicians on principal, and I knew I’d get a kick out of her reaction to a VP with direct ties to the mob.
“Now I know you don’t like to get sentimental . . . “
Me? She thought I was the one that didn’t like to get sentimental? This was news to me. Well, not news so much as the pot calling the kettle black.
“ . . . But, I don’t know, I think it’s all this thinking about what poor, dear Diana has been through with her grandchildren, and I just wanted to tell you that I love you. And, well, you must know this, but I’m extremely proud of you.”
I felt instant remorse for my usual snarky thoughts about her. I’d just heard her mission statement so many damn times that it was easy to apply it in a way that dehumanized her, when I should have felt a touch more sympathy for the single hardest working person I’d ever met. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a vacation.
“Love you too, Mom,” I said gruffly, the words feeling hopelessly unnatural, even if they were the truth.
When we finally hung up, I found myself searching online for news reports about Diana’s granddaughter, Francis. She was the older of the two girls, the second to die in a tragic accident, and the one I’d actually known, however briefly.
She’d had an impact on me, though I’d only spent a small amount of time with her. She’d been in her early teens, but already brilliant, a prodigy, and she’d been absolutely thrilled to meet me on one of the rare vacations where our families had all gotten together. I recalled spending one memorable afternoon with her, where she’d interviewed me for some school project.
When I’d heard of her death, I’d been stunned. And crushed. I couldn’t get over how tragic it was for such a bright young person to lose their life so early.
I started out looking for pictures, because I had this strange, crazy suspicion, centered straight in the deepest pit of my stomach, that I badly wanted to shake, but I wound up reading news articles about the accident that had taken her life, because it had never added up to me.
She’d died in a car accident, in the middle of a storm that had washed away an entire bridge, right as her driver had been trying to cross an overflowing river.
Two people and the car went missing, but only the driver’s body and the car had been found. Based on that, she was presumed dead.
I delved deeper and found several reports from the fringe media, nothing mainstream, about possible foul play. It was all very out there—marks where the bridge had been that suggested explosives were the culprit, though the police statement vehemently denied anything of the kind.
Of course, the report then claimed that the police were in on it, or at
Similar Books
