Table of Contents [Report This]
Andrea
Disclaimer: The Pretender is owned by NBC/MTM, I own the words.
"Momma, no!"
But the girl's cries were in vain...her mother dropped dead to the floor seconds after the gunshot ran out.
"No," she sobbed, in the arms of the Sweepers that held her back. "No. She can't be dead..."
*~*~*~*~*~*
Miss Parker bolted upright in bed. The silk sheets were on the floor, hopelessly tangled. Just like her memories...
The nightmares always came. They never stopped. Even when she knew the truth.
The truth that her mother had not died in that elevator at the Centre; that she had not been killed by Major Charles. The truth that her grave was empty. And that it had been for thirty years. She had mourned; poured out her heart to an empty
memorial.
Had her father known? Chances were that he had. He'd lied to his Angel for her entire life, always telling her that her mother had committed suicide because she had been too weak to live. Too weak for the Centre.
It had been a warning. A warning to herself; that if she herself failed, the same would happen to her...
She turned over, ignoring the ball of silk on the floor. The night was warm, she wouldn't need them.
*~*~*~*~*~*
"Angel, are you done yet?"
"Yes," she called. Emerging from her room, she turned in front of him. He gave her a cursory glance.
"Not good enough. Don't you have anything more..." he paused, searching for the right word. "Funeralish?"
She shook her head. "Momma always bought me bright clothes."
"I can tell," he muttered. "Well, there's nothing I can do about that. I'll have to get somebody to run you to the store."
He reached for the phone beside him. Mr Parker dialed a number and waited as the phone rang. "Is Edna in," he asked. When she picked up, he quickly explained the situation, and she offered to take the girl shopping for clothes. His talk finished, he laid the phone back into its cradle. "She'll be here in a couple of minutes, so go put your shoes on."
"Yes, Daddy." Parker moved toward the door. "Daddy...how can you just..." she trailed off, uncertain as how to proceed.
"How can I just what?" he asked gruffly.
"Just act so...so calm!" she exclaimed.
But her father didn't have time to answer. Which was just as well, because he didn't have an answer. A car horn beeped outside, and Parker walked out the door.
*****
When she came back an hour later, her father was gone, presumably off to see about funeral arrangements. Parker dropped on her bed, inviting the sadness to creep in and consume her.
Her eyes fell on a picture of her mother on the dresser.
Smiling out at anyone who cared to look, Catherine Parker didn't seem like a person about to drop over the edge. To take the ultimate way out...
*****
The alarm jolted her awake at 9am. Her father had told her to get up early enough to eat and get dressed. Parker didn't know how she could eat; her stomach was still doing gymnastics. But she had to eat; otherwise she would anger Mr Parker.
*****
"Listen to me now. You have to behave today. I don't want any theatrics, or hysterics. No tears either. You have to be strong. Your mother didn't die of natural causes...she was too weak. Therefore, you should have only sympathy for her. Not grief."
He kept stressing that…
"Yes Daddy," Parker nodded, she was barely holding the tears at bay now. Her father's speech made it even harder.
He leaned over the gearstick and kissed her on the forehead. "That's my Angel."
*****
She didn't know how she managed to get through the funeral. It had been closed casket, thank God for small favors. A steady parade of mourners had come forth to
offer their deepest sympathy to the daughter and husband.
She sat in the high-backed chair for four hours in the morning and four hours again in the evening. Instead of allowing her to take a break between calling hours, her father insisted she take a part in the final arrangements. 'You'll have to learn this
sooner or later, and sooner is always better. One day you will be taking care of my arrangements.'
He left nothing to chance, she thought bitterly.
*****
Six men stepped forward the last morning. The pallbearers. Four were Sweepers from the Centre; Daniel, Hayes, Ainsly, and Nicholas. Sydney was another, and a man who claimed to be Catherine's brother was the sixth. He was supported by Mr Parker, who knew him. Miss Parker had never met him herself.
The great black limousine drove silently to the cemetery, followed by a long line of cars. Many people were paying their last respects to a woman they all had loved...
*****
She stepped out of the limo and smoothed her black skirt. Her father had insisted that she wear black, and the young girl had virtually no somber clothes. She and her mother had liked bright, happy clothing. Thus the shopping trip with Edna
Raines.
Her father was wearing a dark gray suit with a dark red tie. The color had reminded her of blood...the blood of her mother's final sin…
Miss Parker, the picture of a grieving young child, wore a short black skirt and a white Oxford button down shirt. She hated the combo of black and white; it made everything seem to be readable, so perfectly understandable. So clear.
When everything was obviously not.
*****
Yesterday, she had been able to sit next to her father and listen to the murmurs of conversations around her. Many came to her and offered their deepest regrets, she thanked them in a haze.
If anybody were to ask her anything about the day before Parker would be unable to answer.
*****
The six men swarmed around the mahogany casket once more, each intent upon his task. As one they lifted and carried, walked towards the final resting spot in the
Centre grounds.
Section G, Row 14, Plot 6.
The minister uttered a final prayer, and everybody echoed his 'Amen.'
When her father urged her, she stepped forth. Reaching down, she came up with a handful of dirt. Holding her hand over the open gap in the earth, she opened her fingers. Dirt drifted down slowly on the wind...
*****
Later that night Parker and her father exchanged words. He was angry at her for being in a stupor the entire two days. She fled his presence, afraid of her father. Afraid of what he might do if she said what she thought...
Once in her room, she gazed into the mirror. An unusually white face peered back at her, the red outlines of a hand barely visible. Her father's parting slap.
The picture of her mother again caught her eye. This time, the young Parker didn't feel happy. She felt anger, fury, indignation. The audacity of her mother to leave her by herself, with her emotionally abusive father. Just because she couldn't handle the pressure.
One swift smooth motion of her arm knocked the silver frame off the dresser, the glass shattering upon impact on the wooden floor. Fumbling for the lighter, which was never hidden completely, she seized the picture from its protective keeper, now a destroyed heap on the ground. Flicking the Bic she set the corner of the photograph to the flame. It eagerly consumed the stiff paper.
Crumpling the grayish ashes in her hands, the girl dropped the pile and began randomly setting fire to anything that reminded her of her mother. Nothing escaped her behaviour: clothes, pictures, other momentos. Within minutes, the large room was splattered in embers, their ashen tails leaving comet streaks wherever they landed…
She could imagine her mother crying in Hell. For she didn't belong in Heaven. The tears dropped down her cheeks, leaving behind wet traces behind. The savage, rapacious lights of Hell reflecting the damp paths. Her mother's horrified face…her disbelief at her daughter's demonic actions…
Collapsing in the middle of her room, Miss Parker lowered her head and allowed the tears to flow…
*****
Knocking cautiously on the door, he called, "Angel?" Receiving no answer, he slowly pushed the door open. He glanced around the room, his eyes noticing the streaks on
the walls; the little scorched piles scattered. Parker was asleep in the middle of the bedroom; a Bic lighter clenched in her left hand.
Kneeling beside his daughter, he shook her awake gently. "Do you feel better now," he inquired.
Oddly, she did. Nodding her reply, she stood on shaky legs.
"Its ok now, Honey. Everything is ok." Her father said, hugging her. At first, she pulled away from the unfamiliar embrace. Then she welcomed it. He loved her; he hadn't left her…
*****
"Angel, I have something to tell you."
Parker braced herself against his words. His last speech had changed her in ways she didn't want to think about. No telling if this would be another.
"Now that your mother is gone, I have to take care of you. Obviously, because of my job, I won't have a lot of time to spend with you. So, you'll be at the Centre a lot, you can finish out the year with Sydney as your teacher. Next year I think boarding school, most likely. There will be other adjustments for both of us, I'm sure."
"What does all this mean to me?" Parker asked, confused.
Sighing, her father answered. "You'll have a large ajustment, Angel. Nothing will be the same anymore…"
*~*~*~*~*~*
Had that been a nightmare? Or just a dream?
The memories were clearer than they'd ever been; just musing about the dream caused her to fall back into it…
*~*~*~*~*~*
A week after the day of two talks, her father sat her in front of him again. "Angel," he began. "I've noticed something. You seem to be…"
"Weak," Parker said sharply. "Just like my mother."
"Not exactly. Not weak, but sorrowful. Almost like her. Almost. Angel, if you're going to take over my place at the Centre one day…"
She broke in. "I don't want to take your place! I want to be me. I want to be a dancer…"
He shook his head. "You are a Parker. You are my heir. Therefore, you will one day fulfil the position of Chairman at the Centre. Back to what I originally started to say.
You're becoming too weak. Much more of this moping around, and the Centre may just decide to take care of the problem. Permantely." He stressed the last word, making its meaning clear to the girl.
"I know that you are young, Angel, only twelve. Still, you have to learn."
"I have to learn what?" Parker cried.
"How to be like me. How to instill fear into those below you. How to be ruthless and uncompassionate…"
"You want to please me, don't you Angel?"
*~*~*~*~*~*
That's the problem. I still want to please him. I want to triumph, to make him proud of me…Even after all I've learned. Even after all he has had me do. Even though he may not be my real father…I still want him to be proud of me…I want him
to kiss me on the cheek and tell me I'm his Angel.
The almost unbreakable mask had cracked straight down the centre, leaving her vulnerable to the harmful assault of musings that flooded her thoughts. The pure, untainted child that had lost her hope and innocence in one tragic event broke through the essence of the safe cocoon she had developed over the years. The core built of pain,loneliness, heartache, and tragedy. It shattered into thousands of pieces which could never be put back together again…but of course they must be. Pasted together crazily, each time leaving visible cracks into which the real world protruded, rearing its ugly head. Spitting the maddening truths that she had managed to keep from even herself for thirty long years…
Shock, grief, anguish, and disbelief had surrounded her, enveloping her in a halo of forgetfulness. A false sense of security…
Why…why can't I be myself?
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