Diamond Girl (33 page)

“That’s great, Cares, and it’ll probably come in really handy since you are such a trailer, hitch-road-trip kind of girl. So is the new car in your name?”

“No, it’s in his, but Gawd, it’s not like he cares. The only reason is like he said, I have such a shitty driving record that if it were in my name it would be a ton of money to insure.” 

She laughed. “Still parking on sidewalks and rear-ending everyone in town, huh? Okay, listen I have to go. I’m sorry if I sounded bitchy. I just worry about you, you know. Sometimes I think you don’t see where you’re going.”

“You mean while I’m driving?” 

She sighed. “Yeah, Cares, that’s what I meant. So you drive carefully, okay?”

John was so pissed when I told him what Milan said, he stomped around the house yelling, “Fuck this, fuck your rich bitch little do-nothing friends. I never wanted the fucking car. Sell the fucker, I don’t give a shit. Is that what you think too, Carey, that I care about your fucking money, like I’m some kind of asshole gigolo?”

I jumped up and put my arms around him, cutting him off mid-pace. “You know that’s not what I think. You know that. I know none of this,” I gestured around the house, “means anything to you. God, honey, I’m so sorry I told you. Please, please, please don’t be mad at me, okay?”

He exhaled, putting his arms around me. “I know, baby. I know you’re not like the rest of them. You’re my girl, aren’t you?”

I nodded eagerly. “You know I am.” 

He grinned. “Okay, good, we’re good then, so let’s go do something stupid and blow off all this bad shit, okay?” Of course I was always up for doing something stupid, which that night turned out to be a trip to Venice Beach, and involved me getting a spontaneous drunken tattoo of his name on my lower back and John getting his ear pierced.

When I pulled out one of my canary studs and handed it to him, he took it, smiled at me, and said jokingly, “Is this a proposal?” 

I laughed. “No, you have to do that.”

He winked at me and the piercing guy while he put in one of my three carat studs. “You know I will, baby. Meantime, I’ll wear this like a promise earring, okay?” 

What could I say? He kept the earring and he looked damn sexy wearing it driving around town, his long hair blowing out the open windows of his black Lexus. He was my pirate.

*  *  *

John still hadn’t proposed by November when Aunt Georgia called and invited us to join her on her long-delayed trip to visit her Indonesian orphanage. John wanted to experience it, so I said yes, and two days after Christmas John and I boarded the Kelleher corporate jet that Aunt Georgia had requisitioned for the trip.

Two weeks later I flew back on a commercial flight to California,
alone, and John accompanied Aunt Georgia and the plane to New York.

Chapter 36

Aunt Georgia’s orphanage changed my life forever, and in surprising ways. The orphanage itself is a sweet, safe little place set in the middle of the dark green jungles, near a place called Makassar. Aunt Georgia may have set up Pak Lyn as a tax shelter, as my mother had told me, but no matter the reason, the result is a pretty miraculous home for kids.

The whole beautiful country which could be an amazing resort area is instead a place of such unreal poverty that being there was for me like turning into an extra in 'Slum Dog Millionaire'. Aunt Georgia’s Pak Lyn orphanage is one of the very few orphanages in the country that isn’t being run by some seriously over-the-top right wing Christian group, latter day missionaries like the kind who 'saved' our own Indians. These people give the deserted starving little kids food and shelter, and in return teach them enough English to say 'Praise Jesus'.

I made John and Aunt Georgia crack up when I said that it was the equivalent of giving needy American kids a Jeep Wrangler each if only they would say they had found God. I mean, who wouldn’t? I never have liked quid pro quo deals. I think they’re shifty, so I have to give Aunt Georgia props for running a good place for those so needy little kids and not asking for something in return.

The orphanage has two main houses inside a log-walled enclosure, one for the girls and one for the boys. Then there are some staff houses, or more like staff shacks, set around. John and I stayed in one and Aunt Georgia in another, forcing the staff to bunk on floors inside the children’s areas.

Aunt Georgia’s long-suffering assistant, Dennis, had been charged with flying out a month previously, responding to Aunty G’s vague instructions to “do something with
those huts to make them livable”.

Dennis knew my aunt well enough to catch her meaning, so the former huts were almost bearable when we arrived. Dennis had installed window air conditioning units and even found a generator to power them, after his trial run had knocked out Pak Lyn’s electricity supply for a week. We had these pretty cool oversized hammocks outfitted with gel cushions, he had covered the floors with woven mats, and had installed two Indonesians whose full time work it was to keep our dwellings bug and rat free, Indonesia having no Home Depots and therefore no access to modern pest killers.

John was happy from the day we got there, and since he had formerly lived in his car and had come from some craphole like Bakersfield, Indonesia’s poverty and smells and heat didn’t bother him at all. Because he had arrived at Pak Lyn as part of Aunt Georgia’s entourage, he was treated by the staff like a god and by the two hundred kids there like a magic man, just for smiling at them.

Aunt Georgia didn’t seem bothered by the heat either and spent all day every day striding around the place followed by a sweating miserable Dennis whose sole purpose it was to jot down her brilliant ideas as they came to her.

Example:

“Dennis, when we get home I want you to order thousands of lavender bushes. It will be perfect. The children here can have their
own little farms and sell the lavender later on. Besides, it will help cover up the smell from the pigsty.” 

Dennis dutifully wrote it down and
didn’t point out that lavender would never grow in that climate.

I humorously suggested she plant a weed crop instead, saying that something like that might really give the kids a leg up financially. Aunt Georgia, queen of all she surveyed, was not amused. As near as I could tell, to her Pak Lyn and the children were some kind of living version of Farmville, and if she wanted lavender on her farm, by God it had better grow there.

The other not-so-funny thing was that day by day I noticed John was starting to act like a sycophantic asshole around her, like Dennis, who, I pointed out to him angrily, was at least paid to kiss Aunt Georgia’s liposuctioned ass, so what was his excuse?

The new self-important version of John answered me in such a pompous voice that he reminded me of Herbert. “You see, Carey, that’s perfect, that’s so you. You’re here in this amazing place seeing first hand the incredible, life saving, life giving work that Georgia is
...” 

“Georgia?”

John shrugged defensively. “She asked me to call her that. We’re friends now, Carey. She knows I really get who she is and what she’s trying to say.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, John, she’s my aunt and I love her, but Mother Theresa she ain’t. This place is great but a
)  it’s a tax write off, and b) it’s a way to justify her day-to-day existence as one of the richest women in the world.” Seeing his look of skepticism enraged me. I continued, my voice becoming shrill. “That’s right, John, think I’m rich, think my friends are a bunch of do-nothing rich bitches like you call us. Hell, John, we are poverty-stricken compared to my aunt, the great do-gooder, my aunt who spends millions a year on lawyers so she can argue with Donald Trump about having a private fucking Olympic-sized pool in her stadium-sized apartment so that she doesn’t have to take the elevator down thirty stories and swim in the Olympic-sized pool that’s already in her building. Because, God forbid, if she did that, she might actually end up sharing the same water as some filthy ordinary millionaire and who the fuck knows what kind of diseases people like that have.” Exhausted from my diatribe I collapsed into the hammock. I hadn’t felt good since we had arrived. The heat and humidity wiped me out. The lack of electricity meant that I had to monitor my own insulin levels and use needles, and I always hated dealing with that.

John was staring at me like I was a monster, so I held out my arms to him and said contritely. “Honey, come here, lay down and take a nap with me. I’m sorry I yelled at you. I don’t feel good and, honestly, you have to admit, you have been following Aunt George around like some kind of groupie. She’s okay, but she’s not what you think. My family is a different breed of cats and it’s not a good idea to try and get too close. To them you’ll always be Carey’s latest inappropriate mistake and, you know what, I don’t give a shit. I love you and we’re happy, and that’s all that matters.” 

He didn’t come over to me. Instead he moved towards the door. Reaching it, he turned and stared at me. “Well, now that’s all out in the open. I knew it, you do think I’m some kind of fucking peasant, and it’s interesting to me that not once during all these months of catering to your spoiled ass and doing everything you wanted, did you call me a groupie. But now that I’m here, being a part of something real and being taken seriously as a person by your aunt, you call me names.”

Seeing my tears start, he raised his hand and sighed. “Carey, calm down, you don’t need to cry. I know you don’t feel well. You probably shouldn’t have come here. Just, I don’t know, just rest, and calm down. I’ll try and forget what you said. I’m gonna go meet Georgia and Dennis now. They’re going to show me the new kitchen plans Georgia’s drawing up. I’ll check in on you later.”

The trip as far as John and I went didn’t improve, but the next day I met someone who took my mind off of him. Her name was Mera and she was the tiniest, most beautiful, two year old little girl in the whole world.

Since I wasn’t being included in Aunt Georgia and John’s daily who-the-hell-knows-what, I had started hanging out at the orphan houses and that’s where I met her. It was a mutual love at first sight kind of deal, and by Saturday I had hired a driver to take me into the local village to buy her tiny dresses and little wooden toys. I really didn’t feel good, but Mera wasn’t one of those rumbunctious little kids. She seemed more than happy to sit beside me on the porch, leaning her little head against my arm while she held up her new toys to show me, and I started to think we might belong together.

On Sunday I approached Aunt Georgia about adoption procedures. Stupidly I thought she would be thrilled for me and for Mera.

She wasn’t. “Oh no, no, Carey, I don’t think that would work at all.
Pak Lyn isn’t a store for children, and besides, even if I could help you cut through this country's red tape, I wouldn’t.”

“Why not, what’s wrong with me, what is it that Mera has now that you think I can’t give her more of?”

She shook her head at me in the same dismissive 'you’re too pathetic and small to understand', the way that she did with poor Dennis fifty times a day. “Children aren’t about money, Carolyn. As a mother myself, I think I’m a little better placed to understand what they need, besides …”

“Besides what?”
I shrieked, starting to lose control.

“Besides, I am in the process right now of adopting one of the children, a little boy, so you can see I can’t let you take out a child too. It might look as though I started Pak Lyn as a shop for my family members to pick out children. The press, well it just wouldn’t look good. I’m afraid my answer’s no.”

I stared at her, thinking of Mera’s little face and the way she felt in my arms. My heart broke while I stood there.

Aunt Georgia patted my arm awkwardly. “I’m sorry, Carey, it’s just not the right time. Besides, you aren’t even married. One day you may want to have your own children. Of course, with the diabetes, well never mind, who knows what the future holds, right? Speaking of which, I have some fabulous news that will cheer you up.” I looked at her blankly, still crying. She smiled hesitantly. “You’ll feel better when you hear this. I have decided to let John’s band play at a fundraising benefit I’m arranging for Pak Lyn in New York.”

I wiped my runny nose on my sweaty hand and laughed sourly through my tears. “You’re going to hire a band called Steel Whore to play in front of tout New York to raise money for orphans?”

She looked away, clearly uncomfortable, but determined to get it out, and hopefully escape from my swollen face and annoying questions as soon as possible. Yes, I am hiring the band. It’s a wonderful opportunity for them, and since John has become so involved in my mission here, it seems like the least I could do for him. As for the name,” she smiled thinly, “John has sweetly suggested changing it to something more appropriate, and his choice is a very touching one.”

“Really Aunty G, what’s this touching new name?”

“There you go again, Carolyn, descending to the lowest common denominator, sarcasm. The band is now called Georgia’s Tears. Isn’t that lovely?”

I flew back to California the next day, still crying for Mera. John drove me to the airport and kissed and hugged me, telling me he’d see me in New York in a couple weeks when I would fly out for the fundraiser.