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Chapter 3 BEATRICE'S ADOPTIVE DAUGHTER

SHE WAS LATE, she was late, oh, God, she was so late!

Gia came bounding up the stairs, then made the hard left turn down the hall, her long blond hair whipping around her face. Twenty minutes and counting. She hadn't even thought about what she was going to wear. Damn.

She tore into her room with her sweatshirt half pulled over her head. A strategic kick sent the heavy mahogany door slamming shut behind her as she shed the first layer of clothes.

She toed off her tennis shoes and sent them sailing beneath the pine bureau that swallowed nearly a quarter of her bedroom. A lot of things came to rest beneath the battered dresser. One of these days she meant to clean it out. But not tonight.

Gia hastily shimmied out of her ripped-up jeans, tossed her T-shirt onto the sleigh bed, and hurried to the closet. The wide plank floorboards felt cool against her toes, making her do a little cha-cha-cha along the way.

“Come on,” she muttered, ripping back the silk curtain. “How hard can it be to locate a cocktail dress?”

To judge by the mess, it is pretty hard. Gia grimaced, then waded in fatalistically. Somewhere there were a few decent dresses.

At the age of sixteen, Gia Zee was petite, capable, and a born diplomat. She'd been abandoned as a child at City General Hospital with no memory of where she came from, but that had been a long time ago and she didn't think of those days much. She had an adoptive mother whom she loved and worshiped. Dr. Beatrice became her adoptive mother but she considered her as her older sister due to their age.

Dr. Beatrice is 30 years old, while Gia is sixteen. They become very close. They were not just another rich family, they were a tight-knit family. She kept telling herself they would be like that again soon.

Gia graduated earlier with her high I.Q and it gave her an opportunity to help Beatrice manage her other businesses. Every success she achieved, Beatrice served as an enthusiastic cheer leader. Now Gia was a professional event organizer. Mostly she did charity functions. Huge black-tie affairs that made the social elite feel social and elite while simultaneously milking them for significant sums of money. Lots of details, lots of planning, lots of work. Gia always pulled them off. Seamless, social columnists liked to rave about the events, relaxed yet elegant. Not to mention profitable.

But the good thing is, she still managed to help Beatrice with managing her hotels and bars. Which gave Beatrice more time to practise her passion, which was being a doctor.

Then there were the nights like tonight. Tonight was my mother's birthday party , held right there at Beatrice's house, and, apparently, cursed.

The caterer wasn't able to get enough ice. Thirty minutes ago, Gia had gotten so frustrated, tears had stung her eyes. Completely unlike her.

But then, she was agitated tonight for reasons that had nothing to do with the reception. She was agitated, and being Gia Zee, she was dealing with it by keeping busy.

Gia was very good at keeping busy. Almost as good as her adoptive mother.

Fifteen minutes and counting. Damn. Gia found her favorite gold-fringed flapper dress. Encouraged, she began digging for gold pumps.

During the first few months of Gia's adoption, Beatrice had been so excited about her daughter, she'd lavished her with every gift she could imagine. The second floor master bedroom suite, complete with rose silk wall hangings and a gold-trimmed bathroom, where she needed a stool just to catch her reflection in the genuine Louis IV mirror, was hers. The closet was the size of a small apartment, and it had been filled with every dress, hat, and, yes, gloves ever made by Ashley. Beatrice was shadowing every move Gia made, handing her food before she could think of any movement, bringing her games before she could think of being bored, and offering her blankets before she could think of shivering.

It was a little weird.

Gia had gone along at first. She'd been eager to please, wanting to be happy as badly as Beatrice wanted to make her happy. It seemed to her that if a woman as golden and beautiful and rich as Beatrice was willing to give her a home and have her as a daughter, she could darn well learn to be Beatrice's daughter.

So she'd dress each morning in flounces of lace and patiently let her new mom cajole her straight hair into sausage curls. She'd listened gravely to Beatrice's dramatic stories of snatching cardiac patients from the clutches of death. Gia spent long afternoons sitting quietly with her butler, memorizing his tight features and troubled eyes while he swore to her again and again that he would be the perfect butler for her. He would.

Everything was perfect. Too perfect. Gia stopped being able to sleep at night. Instead, she would find herself tiptoeing downstairs at two A.M. to stand in front of a painting of another golden little girl, who wore flounces of lace and sausage-curled hair. The little girl was someone that Beatrice always dreamed about. She always had this nightmare about this little girl. And no one knows why.

Beatrice would come home from emergency surgery and carry Gia back to bed. But still she'd come back down, obsessed by the painting of that gorgeous little girl who somehow looks like her. Maybe that's the reason why Beatrice adopted her.

One day she declared. She was Gia. A flesh-and-blood girl, not a porcelain doll to be used for dress-up games. So she needs to pick her own clothes and her own room and her own style.

Those words probably saved them both. Gia left the master bedroom suite for a sunny third-story bedroom across from Beatrice's room. Gia liked the bay windows and low, slanted ceilings, and the fact that the room could never be mistaken for, say, a hospital room.

And she discovered, during a clothing drive at school, that she liked hand-me-downs best. They were so soft and comfortable, and if you did spill or rip something, no one would notice. She became Goodwill's best customer for years. Then came the trips to garage sales for furniture. She liked things banged up, scarred. Things that came with the past, she realized when she was older. Things that came with the history she didn't have. She doesn't remember her past, just like Beatrice. They are both empty shells.

Beatrice was amused by her taste. She was aghast, but her new mother remained supportive. Beatrice kept loving her. And they grew whole.

In the years since, Gia liked to think they both learned from one another. Her well-bred southern adoptive mother taught her which fork to use for which courses. In turn, Gia introduced her depression-prone mother to the reggae songs. Beatrice instilled in her daughter the need to work hard, to consciously and proactively build a life. Gia taught Beatrice to stop and smell the roses every now and then, even if just for a change of pace. Beatrice showed her how to survive in high society. And Gia showed her unconditional love, that even on her bad days, Gia would always be a hero to her.

The doorbell rang just as she unearthed her shoes. Damn it, she was cutting it close tonight.

Hair and makeup, quick. At least her pale features and baby-fine blond hair didn't require more than the lightest touch of color and a simple stroke of the hair-brush. A little blush, a little gold eye shadow, and she was done.

Gia took a deep breath and permitted herself one last assessment in the mirror. The event was coming together in that crazy way each one did. Beatrice had volunteered to greet the guests, a definite overture of peace, and her mother was appearing more composed than Gia had expected. Things were working out.

“It's going to be a great evening,” Gia assured her reflection. “We got rich patrons, we got a blood donor room. We got the best food money can buy and a stack of rare books to collect. Your family is doing better, and to hell with those bashers — it's gonna be a great night.”

She gave herself a smile. She pushed herself away from her bureau. Took a big step toward her door. And suddenly the world tilted and blurred in front of her eyes.

Black void, twisted shapes. Weird sense of déjà vu. A little girl's voice, pleading in the dark.

“I want to go home now. Please, let me go home….”

Gia blinked her eyes, Her cluttered room snapped back into view, the fading spring sun streamed through the bay windows, the hundred-and-ten-year-old floor felt solid beneath her feet. She discovered her hands pressed against her stomach, sweat on her brow. She glanced around immediately, almost guiltily, hoping no one had noticed.

No one was upstairs. No one knew. No one had seen or suspected a thing.

Gia quickly descended the stairs where the sounds of gathering people and clinking champagne glasses beckoned gaily.

Four spells in three weeks. Always the black void. Always the same little girl's voice.

Stress, she thought, and walked more briskly. Delusions. Neuroses.

Anything but memory. After all this time, what would be the point?

Just like Beatrice, she would always have this moment wherein she could hear voices, see weird scenarios and now she wanted to hit her head.

Damn! She's just stressed.

But sometimes, Gia thinks that maybe they are right. Birds with the same feathers flock together.