Royally Knocked Up by Pamela DuMond
Chapter 17
Ihitched a ride with a group of tourists on a late-night party boat back to Milazzo. I caught a 5 a.m. bus to Messina, planning on booking a flight out, but when I stopped at the airport bar to grab a bottle of water, the scandal was everywhere on the TV news feeds.
I hit a store and purchased a burner phone and a box of hair color—bright red— anything to cover up my blonde, highlighted locks. I dyed my hair in a public bathroom in the marina, caught a ferry across the Straits of Messina to Reggio Calabria, and worked my way by bus and train up to Rome.
I walked from the train station and holed up in a one star pensione. I couldn’t call Nick so I phoned my other lifeline: Esmeralda.
“Where in the hell are you?” Her voice shook with concern and anger.
“You can’t tell Nicholas.”
“He’s out of his mind with worry.”
“I’m out of my mind with worry. You’re good with rendition. Get me out of here.”
“No,” Esmeralda said. “I’ll send transport. We’ll get you back to Sauerhausen, where you can go into seclusion and deal with Nicholas and the fall out here.”
“No. They said I ruined both Nick and Cristoph’s reputations. They’re saying I’m the worst thing to hit a royal house since the Bolsheviks gunned down the Russian Czar and Czarina.”
“Who is ‘they’? The tabloids? Archbishop Causesdesperdues? He’s under investigation for being complicit with Knottingwood. Who’s going to believe him?”
“Everybody. He’s a priest. Do you know how hard it is to bring down a man of the cloth?”
“Not impossible. I’ve done it three times.”
“I’m not you. Get me out of here. I’m calling in the help you promised when I pulled the Devil card back in Segovia. And fuck you for making us pull tarot cards. You scared the crap out of me with that mumbo-jumbo gypsy stuff, and now it’s all come true.”
“What about your history with the Timmel family? Good God, Lucy. You’ve been part of this family for years now.”
“I will never in a million years knowingly allow the Timmel family to be hurt because of me.”
“Then what about Nick? Surely you don’t want to cause him pain?”
“That’s the problem, Esmeralda. No matter what I do, I cause Nicholas pain. I can’t do that anymore. I will not tolerate Nick suffering indignity, blame, or pain because of me. I will not live the rest of my life knowing I caused that. Knowing I permitted it.”
“But this problem’s not on you, Lucy. You’re not the reason this happened. At the end of the day you can’t fix this. And you’d better believe Nick’s already suffering or you’re the asshat.”
“Tell me that if something like this happened to Captain Sam, you’d do anything differently.”
She sighed, grumbling under her breath. “Fine. Be in front of the Piazza del Popolo tomorrow at noon. Wear the fedora with the blue peacock feather.”
“I don’t have it anymore By the way, you need to bring my dog, Tulip.”
“Find the fedora with the blue peacock feather. That wasn’t cheap you know, and I’ll find a way to ship you the pooch.”
* * *
If you had told me a few years ago that I’d have taken a part-time job as a ‘royal’ impersonator, fought off the advances of two princes, fallen in love with one, walked down the holy matrimonial aisle four times but never successfully been married, and then ended up exactly where I started—I’d have told you that I hope the door smacks you hard on your ass on the way out of the room. Oh, and by the way, please make that happen—now.
Never in a million years would I have guessed that I’d end up back at MadDog Biker bar on the Southside of Chicago, cocktail waitressing. Let me be clear on one key point—waitressing wasn’t the problem.
I adored helping people, and was not averse to hard work. I treated my regular customers with kindness and dignity. People like Artie and Mr. Fitzpatrick were my friends, practically extended family. I attended pee-wee basketball games with my pal Alida to cheer on her son Mateo – my favorite cute, floppy-haired boy. I played sudden death ping-pong matches with my Uncle John who, because of his PTSD, still resided at Vail Assisted Living where I continued to pay his rent. I leased a small room from Alida and during my downtime, I pretty much stayed there with Tulip unless we were out running and playing fetch at the park.
I didn’t sit back on my not-so-royal ass when I was engaged, married, whatever, to Prince Cristoph or Nicholas. I stepped up to the plate, burned the midnight oil, and tried not to take anything or anyone for granted. I visited orphanages, played bingo with seniors, and delivered girl empowerment speeches at primary schools. I was a decent spokesmodel, shilling mineral water and organic chocolate for the Alpine town of Friedricksburg in Fredonia.
I tended. I nurtured. I showed up. I cared.
None of this meant I was a perfect person. Far from it—I harbored hate in my heart for bullies, damned thieves to hell with creative strings of curse words, and frequently jaywalked. But inherently—I was kind. I was funny. I gave a fuck.
But now, I was back in my hometown, thousands of miles away from the man that I was madly in love with, unable—or should I say too stubborn and unwilling—to let him back into my life because I was not only bad for him, but also toxic for the entire royal Timmel family.
But my enforced separation took a toll. I cried myself to sleep at night, got up the next day, walked my dog, puttered around the house, and then went to work. I wasn’t able to get much more done than that. Grief had sidelined me, stolen my joy. I used to be a person who hummed along to silly tunes, but now I was the person who burst into tears every time a sad song played.
I had no more fucks left to give.
I hadn’t talked with Nick since I walked out of room 3B at Pensione Giulietta in Vulcano six weeks ago. He’d called, left voicemails, emailed, and texted. I suspected after I stepped in bird poop on my doorstep that he dispatched a carrier pigeon, but I still didn’t reply.
I did my best to stay away from his social media feeds, as it riled me up. Valentine’s Day was fast approaching, and I made the mistake of checking his Instagram page. There were ridiculously cute videos of him playing with the orange marmalade palace kittens that he’d adopted, and I was a big fat, crybaby for the rest of the day.
And now it was the suckiest Valentine’s Day ever. Try working date night at the hip, grungy, biker bar when you’ve just gone through the worst breakup of your entire life, you’re sporting half an inch of roots that don’t even come close to the cheap dime store red you dyed your hair, and your heart is irretrievably broken. Then just when I thought life couldn’t suck any harder I missed my period.
I was a week late, which wasn’t completely unusual when I was stressed, but this time I was panicking. “I’m taking my break, Buddy,” I told the tatted, middle-aged, Irish bartender who doubled as my boss. “You have to be nice to me. It’s not only Valentine’s Day but it’s that time of the month.” I kicked off my heels, grabbed my galoshes from an employee cubicle, and pulled them on.
Buddy, who was polishing glasses behind the mahogany bar, said, “Your farmer boots look stupid with that skirt.”
“Thank you for the fashion advice, Anna Wintour.”
“Don’t lollygag, Lucy. It’s the biggest night of the year for MadDog.”
“Liar. That’s St. Patrick’s Day.” I yanked my ten-year-old down coat off the peg on the wall, shrugged it on, and zipped it up.
“You need to finish blowing up the heart-shaped balloons before the crowd gets here.”
“You could have popped for a helium tank, cheapskate.”
“Why bother when my star employee is filled with so much hot air? Go do girly things and hurry back.”
Braving the sleet and wet February snow, I jogged the four blocks to a Walgreens. I purchased two pregnancy test kits, a box of tampons (for good luck and to throw off the nosy looks of the cashier), a chew toy for Tulip, and a box of Milkduds.
I slogged back as the snow fell harder. It’s like the heavens were pissed off about Valentine’s Day, too. I stopped to catch my breath outside MadDog, the single story brownstone next to a hole in the wall auto repair shop. The lit sign hung over the bright green door. It was simple, and a little rough around the edges, like me.
Maybe I never belonged in a castle. Maybe I belonged in a place that smelled like beer nuts on a good day. Get this over with, Lucy, I told myself. Find out. Stop playing the delay game.
The bells on the door jingled as I pulled it open. I stomped my boots and walked inside. The jukebox was playing ‘Somewhere In My Broken Heart,’ by Billy Dean. Damn it, that song always made my cry. I was already a hormonal mess. Whoever had put their money in the jukebox should have picked a happy love song or stayed home and played this tear jerker in a dark living room late at night, and kept the misery to himself. I headed to the ladies room with my stash.
“The night is becoming interesting and business is picking up,” Buddy said. “Those balloons won’t blow themselves up, you know. Hey, you do know that you’ve got—”
“What Buddy? Water retention? A bad attitude? Shitty fashion?”
A baby on board?
“Give a girl a private moment, ’K?”
Alida raised one eyebrow in my direction as she picked up an order at the bar. She pointed at the tampons sticking out of the paper bag. “Did you get it?”
I shook my head.
“Lucy, you need to find out. You do know who’s here, sí?”
“I know what’s not here yet. I’m going to find out.” I trudged down the hall, and pushed open the door to the ladies room and checked out the two stalls. The cushy one, the wheelchair accessible unit that I technically wasn’t supposed to use, even though clearly I was emotionally disabled in my present state, was already occupied, which felt enormously unfair right now.
I entered the tiny stall, pulled out the first test, and put the bag on the floor. Three minutes later I stared at the pretty shade of blue. I dropped my head in my hands, tears welling in my eyes. I was royally knocked up. “Dear God, what am I going to do?”
“I’m so glad you asked that,” the woman in the handicapped stall next to me said. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. I thought I sat down just a few minutes ago. I must have nodded off. I woke up, but now my legs are numb and I can’t get up.”
“Oh my God. Are you okay?”