Fiona Childs Quotes

People say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. They say that when you been through something terrible ... But it doesn't. It breaks your bones, leaving everything splintered and held together with grubby bandages and yellowing sticky tape. Creaking along the fault lines, Fragile and exhausting to hold together. Sometimes you wish it had killed you.

Dangerous to think you know too much, sometimes, because who really knows someone else? You can scratch the skin, but you never get to the meat of someone else. Into their bones.

It’s time to expand our view of the household, and throw off the shackles of gender oppression. I can work, I can have a child, and I can love whomever I like. Just as you can.

The problem is that a secret takes on a life of its own over time.

We always know our firsts: the first faltering steps a child takes; a first day at school; a first kiss. But we rarely know our lasts until it’s too late.

But Bella’s disappearance brought us together. Made us a real couple. I always said we needed a child.

There have always been two standards,” Rutledge answered. “People called Fiona a whore, but there’s no name for a man who has an illegitimate child.

I invited Miss MacFarlane because I could see that there was something between the two of you." "Something that I longed to avoid." Fiona eyed him a moment, obviously fascinated. "Would you explain what you mean?" "No." She pursed her lips. "What if I promise to name my next child after you?" Dougal lifted his brows. "Won't Jack dislike that?" A smile quivered on her lips. "Yes. Which is why I though it a wonderful inducement for you." "I don't believe you'd do that." "Well,I would," Fiona said firmly.

People say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. .But it doesn't. It breaks your bones, leaving everything splintered and held together with grubby bandages and yellowing sticky tape.Creaking along the fault lines. Fragile and exhausting to hold together. Sometimes you wish it had killed you.

When she was one, Snoopy lost his nose. Her first words were ‘no nose’ as she held Snoopy up for us to see his injury – which was swiftly repaired with cotton and needle. Later, when she broke her wrist, he accompanied her to the operating theatre. She ended up with plaster of paris from palm to armpit, poor child. So did Snoopy – he emerged with his left paw plastered!

One year later the society claimed victory in another case which again did not fit within the parameters of the syndrome, nor did the court find on the issue. Fiona Reay, a 33 year old care assistant, accused her father of systematic sexual abuse during her childhood. The facts of her childhood were not in dispute: she had run away from home on a number of occasions and there was evidence that she had never been enrolled in secondary school. Her father said it was because she was ‘young and stupid’. He had physically assaulted Fiona on a number of occasions, one of which occurred when she was sixteen. The police had been called to the house by her boyfriend; after he had dropped her home, he heard her screaming as her father beat her with a dog chain. As before there was no evidence of repression of memory in this case. Fiona Reay had been telling the same story to different health professionals for years. Her medical records document her consistent reference to family problems from the age of 14. She finally made a clear statement in 1982 when she asked a gynaecologist if her need for a hysterectomy could be related to the fact that she had been sexually abused by her father. Five years later she was admitted to psychiatric hospital stating that one of the precipitant factors causing her breakdown had been an unexpected visit from her father. She found him stroking her daughter. There had been no therapy, no regression and no hypnosis prior to the allegations being made public. The jury took 27 minutes to find Fiona Reay’s father not guilty of rape and indecent assault. As before, the court did not hear evidence from expert witnesses stating that Fiona was suffering from false memory syndrome. The only suggestion of this was by the defence counsel, Toby Hed­worth. In his closing remarks he referred to the ‘worrying phenomenon of people coming to believe in phantom memories’. The next case which was claimed as a triumph for false memory was heard in March 1995. A father was aquitted of raping his daughter. The claims of the BFMS followed the familiar pattern of not fitting within the parameters of false memory at all. The daughter made the allegations to staff members whom she had befriended during her stay in psychiatric hospital. As before there was no evidence of memory repression or recovery during therapy and again the case failed due to lack of corrobo­rating evidence. Yet the society picked up on the defence solicitor’s statements that the daughter was a prone to ‘fantasise’ about sexual matters and had been sexually promiscuous with other patients in the hospital. ~ Trouble and Strife, Issues 37-43

Good men have only to do nothing, for evil to conquer" (137).

At first, Madalena didn’t mind accompanying her. There were plenty of shops and stalls for her to frequent, all the while lamenting Marco’s absence. “He told me he wanted a child. How are we supposed to do that if he doesn’t spend any time with me?” Mada wailed. She waved an onyx fan embellished with amethyst in front of her face. Behind Madalena, her maidservant, Eva, rolled her eyes. Cass stifled a smile. “It’s not as if he won’t return to the palazzo later,” she said soothingly. “Later after I’m fast asleep.

Why don’t you go talk to the mask makers? See if you can find out the identity of the man in the falcon mask. And ask around a bit at the markets--see if you can find out anything about Angelo de Gradi, too.” Falco’s relaxed demeanor seemed to cloud over for just a second, but then he smiled lazily and gave her a mock salute. “As you command, Signorina Avogadore. I’ll come by the villa later tonight and let you know what I found out.” “How about we meet someplace on San Domenico,” Cass said. It wasn’t smart to have Falco strolling the grounds of Agnese’s estate. Just because Siena was going to keep her secret didn’t mean the rest of the staff would be as discreet. Falco didn’t question her. “Come by Il Mar e la Spada. I’ll even buy you a mug of their finest swill.” “Deal,” she said as he leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek. Her eyes focused on the scar beneath his right eye. “What happened?” she asked, running one finger over the slightly raised edges. “A friend dared me to dive into the canals when I first came to town. I had no idea how shallow they were.” He rubbed at the scar. “Obviously.” Cass smiled. It sounded like something she might have done as a child. She pressed her lips to Falco’s just for a second, and then slipped quietly out the door.

Something sharp slashed at Cass’s left arm and she cried out. Snapping her head around, she searched for her assailant, but the crowded alleyway blurred into a sea of arms and hands all reaching out toward her. She gasped, beginning to panic, struggling against the current of faceless flesh. “What? What is it?” Falco pulled her from the tangle of sweaty bodies and pressed her up against the side of a small bakery shop. Cass looked down at the sleeve of her teal chemise. Someone or something had sliced right through the silky fabric. Falco separated the torn material to examine Cass’s skin beneath. He lifted her arm to show her the swollen pink line just below her elbow. “Look, no blood,” he said. “You probably just got your sleeve caught on a sword hilt or belt buckle.” Or a knife. Cass searched the crowd again, but no one was paying her any attention. Falco’s hand felt hot on her flesh, almost burning. She pulled her arm away, turning to look back at the entrance to the alleyway. It seemed impossibly far away. Unreachable. Falco traced his finger along one of the delicate fishbone braids that framed her face. “It was just an accident,” he said. Cass felt the blood return to her face. She glanced down at her torn sleeve. The scratch on her arm was already starting to fade. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I’m being silly. It just scared me, that’s all.” “It’s all right,” Falco said. His voice was surprisingly gentle. Cass had been certain he would mock her for being a child, a spoiled little aristocrat afraid of her own shadow.

Hello, Cass.” The words fell stiltedly from Luca’s lips. Cass had never heard him call her by her nickname before. He stopped several feet from her, probably waiting to see if she would bolt out of the garden and into the graveyard rather than be close to him. Cass smiled in response. She gathered her skirts and sat on one of two stone benches near the garden’s center. Luca approached her. He walked stiffly, as if he were still getting accustomed to his long arms and legs. “Sometimes I think we use more water in a day for our gardens than peasant families use for a month’s worth of cooking and washing.” Cass looked up at him. “Is there a water shortage I don’t know about?” She hoped he couldn’t tell she’d been crying. “No.” Just the faintest French accent colored the single word. Luca reached out to examine the beginning bud of a ruby-colored rose. The bloom snapped off in his hand. He twisted it around in his fingers. “I remember when you were a child. You used to have a nickname for all the flowers. You called the marigolds ‘fireflies,’ I recall, and lilies were ‘ladies’ purses.’” “I can’t believe you remember that,” Cass said.

I remember when you were a child. You used to have a nickname for all the flowers. You called the marigolds ‘fireflies,’ I recall, and lilies were ‘ladies’ purses.’” “I can’t believe you remember that,” Cass said. “You hardly even played out here with me.” “Remember how I used to hide things for you?” Cass remembered. Before they were engaged, Luca would bring her little treasures, things he found when he was out wandering around. Once it was a string of green ceramic beads. Another time he left her a smooth stone shaped like a heart. He used to mark the hiding places with lilies stolen from Agnese’s own plants. Cass had forgotten about the game until Luca mentioned it. “I liked that game,” Cass said. “I was sad when you got older and stop playing it. You practically quit talking to me.” “I got nervous around you after our arrangement became official,” Luca said. “I used to watch you sometimes, though.” “That’s kind of creepy, don’t you think?” Cass raised an eyebrow, and couldn’t help but crack a small smile. “You stopped being just a little girl.” A red flush crept across Luca’s high cheekbones. “I wasn’t very good at talking to women. I’m still not.

Learned and lovely,” he said. “I see now why you’ve been spending time with her, Falco. Just because she cannot be your bride doesn’t mean she cannot be your muse.” Cass’s good mood faded instantly. Even in the dingy taverna, the reality was obvious to everyone. She and Falco could never be together. “Let’s get out of here, my lovely muse,” Falco said, as if sensing that Paolo’s words had upset her. He pulled her chair back for her, and she stood and adjusted her skirts. Cass bid the other artists good night and let Falco lead her to the door. “Falco.” Paolo’s sharp voice cut through the hazy darkness. Falco turned around. “Yes?” “I trust she knows little of your line of work?” Cass felt Falco’s body tense up momentarily, and then relax. “We’ve spoken briefly about the work I do for Tommaso, if that’s what you mean.” Paolo stared at Falco without speaking. Nicolas and Etienne looked up as well. Cass could have sworn they were having an entire conversation without words. “Let’s go.” Falco broke the spell by turning away. He pulled Cass through the door and out into the night. “What was that about?” she asked, shivering in the damp air. Falco put an arm around her and pulled her close. “Who knows,” he said. “Paolo feels the need to make himself a pain to everybody. I just let him pretend he’s in charge.” Falco led Cass behind the bakery where a small batèla was tied. “Are you ready for our next adventure?” he asked, untying the ropes of the wooden rowboat as though he stole boats every night of his life. “Skulking about the outskirts of a few wealthy palazzos should be child’s play compared with some of the work we’ve done.

Are you ready for our next adventure?” he asked, untying the ropes of the wooden rowboat as though he stole boats every night of his life. “Skulking about the outskirts of a few wealthy palazzos should be child’s play compared with some of the work we’ve done.

Skulking about the outskirts of a few wealthy palazzos should be child’s play compared with some of the work we’ve done.” Cass tried to smile but found she couldn’t. Paolo’s words kept running through her mind…She cannot be your bride…she cannot be your bride… She let Falco help her into the small rowboat and went through the motions of adjusting her skirts and settling herself against the side of the batèla as if she were sleepwalking. Falco pushed the boat away from the dock as he hopped over the side. He manned a set of warped wooden oars, their hinges crusted over with dirt and rust. She cannot be your bride. The words cut her like a scalpel. She looked up, unable to meet Falco’s eyes. A handful of stars glimmered through the haze. “What are we doing?” Cass asked. Her voice sounded broken, like a stranger was speaking through her. The oars made a groaning sound with each stroke, so Falco had to pause to answer her. “We’re going to the Rialto. I thought that’s what we agreed.” Cass looked at him. Of course they were going to the Rialto. Was he being evasive on purpose? “Not now. I mean us. What are we doing?” “We’re trying to find a murderer before he finds us.” “And that’s it. That’s all?” Cass waited for him to confirm what she was afraid of, that she was his partner in the investigation, but nothing more. Falco didn’t answer at first. He steered the boat between the Giudecca and San Giorgio Maggiore. “I’m not sure what you mean, Cass,” he said slowly. Cass stared out at the choppy water. It was her turn to go mute. She had thought seeing Falco tonight would fix everything, but she felt more confused than ever.

And it infuriated her, too. She’d been just like Freddie. And she couldn’t see where Jake’s lack of motivation came from. Both she and Steve had the work ethic in spades, but Jake just stood at the foot of the ladder, looking up and shrugging at the idea of climbing.

She’d probably describe it as shabby chic but it’s more shabby shit.

Dangerous to think you know too much, sometimes, because who really knows someone else? You can scratch the skin, but you never get to the meat of someone else. Into their bones.

But today, I study the stranger’s face. The brown hair half pulled up on top of the head in a frantic work bun, naked skin, shadows and lines creeping towards the eyes like subsidence cracks.

Poor little thing,’she said out loud. Her head was suddenly full of her own babies –Jake and Freddie, born two years apart but known as ‘the boys’in family shorthand –as sturdy toddlers, schoolboys in football kit, surly teenagers and now adults. Well, almost. She smiled to herself. Kate could remember the moment she saw each of them for the first time: red, slippery bodies; crumpled, too- big skin; blinking eyes staring up from her chest, and her feeling that she had known their faces for ever. How could anyone kill a baby?

Wednesday’s child is full of woe. The

People say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. They say that when you’ve been through something terrible. My mum, Jude, used to say it. But it doesn’t. It breaks your bones, leaving everything splintered and held together with grubby bandages and yellowing sticky tape. Creaking along the fault lines. Fragile and exhausting to hold together. Sometimes you wish it had killed you. Paul

Kate wondered what an alien would make of the scene. Dozens of people sitting in isolation in front of computers, not speaking or looking at each other. It was a bit like the lost souls in Las Vegas casinos, perched for hours at the slot machines, with dead eyes, mechanically pressing buttons in the hope of a jackpot.

Time did strange things in hospitals. Sometimes it stretched minutes into hours and sometimes it vanished altogether.

Nu pot suferi să mă văd pe neașteptate. Uneori nu mă recunosc. Crezi că știi cum arăți, și iată străina aceasta care se uită la tine.

Lumea zice că ceea ce nu te omoară te face mai puternic. Dar nu-i așa. Îți rupe oasele, lăsând totul făcut țăndări și ținut laolaltă de bandaje mânjite și leucoplast

Împrăștiind cu mâna fumul și ispita.

A zis că aveam nevoie de el mai mult decât orice altă femeie pe care o cunoscuse.

Bărbații urăsc să te agăți de ei. Face să-ți piară tot cheful.

A înflorit și i-au crescut spini

June is such a child,” Fiona muttered to me. I could still feel anger radiating off her. “Can you imagine being the sexiest woman in Hollywood and complaining that no one wants to see you play Lady Macbeth?

The world always looks brighter from behind a smile.” ~Author Unknown

You see how deviously the institution of marriage threads itself through a woman’s life? If she does not marry she is perpetually a child—until she is suddenly an old woman, that is.

I’m taking thirty to shower and give myself a full body lift. You’ll thank me later,” she parroted back to her sister. “Says the sister who was born looking like an Olympian. Wah-wah.” Kerry stood and stretched, stifling a groan as every muscle in her body protested. So much for the restorative powers of sleep. She grabbed her last fresh pair of khaki shorts, decided which of her already worn T-shirts was the least questionable, made a mental note to take her laundry basket with her when she left, then sighed as she caught sight of her restless night, wild-child hair once again in the mirror. If only Cooper could see your oh-so-sexy self now, she thought, he’d book the next flight out. “Kerry?” “Well,” she said, making a face at herself in the mirror, “if there was an Olympic even for bed head, I’d take the gold right now, no question. Even the Russian judge would have to cave and give me a ten.” “I’d say give me a break, but come to think of it, I have seen you in the morning.” “Bite me.” “Oh, and because you brought it up,” Fiona added, her voice dripping with sugar once again, “make sure you book some extra time to tell us every last detail about your dead-sexy Aussie fiancé.” “He’s not my--” “Hurry!” Fiona interrupted as group laughter echoed through the phone from somewhere behind her; then she hung up. Kerry looked at the dead phone, then tossed it on the bed, mumbling swear words in several languages under her breath.

I loved them too and while you might lay a greater claim to them, I defy you to miss your wife any more than I’ll miss my best friend or your child, who was every inch a son to me.

Who really knows someone else? You can scratch the skin, but you never get to the meat of someone else. Into their bones.

I realize that my memories...are like one of those home movies, where a jerky camera records slices of the action, then breaks off suddenly before picking up again at another point. There are gaps. Gaping holes.

Fiona presses hard into Nora, two pieces fitting together like small countries in a private continent.

Then again, what child cares about their parent’s life before they were born? It’s not until it’s too late that the resonance of the earlier times, and how they echo through the next generation, are deemed valuable.

Since Henry’s death, I have focused any fundraising I’ve done on both Rainbow Trust and Noah’s Ark. I have not, as some might have suspected I’d do, done any fundraising for pediatric brain cancer. The reason for this is that I saw how far a pound (or a dollar) goes in helping kids who are definitely going to die, and their families—and it is astonishing. An hour with a Fiona or a Lucinda or a Kirsty brings immeasurable peace and joy to a child who is grappling each day with pain, frustration, boredom, and fear. It gives solace and bubbling happiness to the parents who are watching their child suffer day in and day out. I’m forty-five as I write this, and so far I haven’t seen a better or more instantly effective use of money.

People say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. They say that when you’ve been through something terrible. My mum, Jude, used to say it. But it doesn’t. It breaks your bones, leaving everything splintered and held together with grubby bandages and yellowing sticky tape. Creaking along the fault lines. Fragile and exhausting to hold together. Sometimes you wish it had killed you.

My teenage years. Funny how I divide my life into blocks of time. Like I was different people. I suppose I was. We all are.

she was still a child who had to carry the legacy of war and it was a legacy that bestowed upon her burdens of her own: the burden of embodying happiness;

Her skin hadn’t seen much light in the past week, and she could feel her face burning in the afternoon sun. For a moment, she heard Aunt Agnese’s voice in her head, scolding her. Don’t you know freckles are the surest sign of a wayward nature, child?

...while riot grrrl is part of the punk rock/alternative rock feminism of the 1990s, it's by no means the majority of it. Despite the slogan, not every girl was a riot grrrl, and there's a huge swath of awesome women in '90s music who aren't riot grrrls. In no particular order: L7, Hole, PJ Harvey, Belly, Throwing Muses, Seven Year Bitch, Babes in Toyland, Liz Phair, Bjork, Juliana Hatfield, Gwen Stefani/No Doubt, Shirley Manson/Garbage, the Breeders, Luscious Jackson, Elastica, Sleater-Kinney, and may more women were part of either the alternative or indie rock music scene. Beyond that, the decade was pretty amazing for singer-songwriters like Tori Amos, Sarah McLachlan, Jewel, Fiona Apple, Alanis Morissette, Tracy Chapman, and Melissa Etheridge; for the R&B and hip-hop artists like Salt-n-Peppa, Queen Latifah, TLC, En Vogue, and Missy Elliott; and, at the tail end of the decade, all the pop you could ever want with the Spice Girls, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, and Destiny's Child. So, if you read this book, then run to Spotify to listen to riot grrrl bands, and find they're not for you, remember: there's more than one way to be a girl, and there's more than one kind of music to power you to your goals. What you listen to will never be as important as what you do.

Maybe he's not ready to be found.

So we ring each other on birthdays and at Christmas, that sort of thing. It’s a routine that allows us to stay in touch with the aid of a calendar, not our emotions.

I look round the room and see faces I almost know. Familiar but I can’t quite place them. Then they say their name and they come back into focus.

Kate said. “I had a funny phone call the

Is there something important you’d like to say, Fiona, or will you continue to try to attack me, unprovoked, for no other reason than you’re a child who can’t understand why you’re really throwing a tantrum?” Frederic’s sharp tone stabs through me.

hate seeing myself without warning. Don’t recognize myself sometimes. You think you know what you look like and there is this stranger looking at you. It can frighten me.

She needed a moment. She needed an adult voice to tell her everything was going to be okay. I need my dad, she thought and almost laughed. Pull yourself together, for God’s sake.

In the porch of one house Jake saw a skateboard and it made his heart jump: a Santa Cruz, one of the expensive ones. He’d begged for one for years. He looked at the house, its closed curtains. There was a child in there, maybe a boy same age as him, dreaming in a bed, who had a Santa Cruz,

How shocked Fiona was when she saw me the day after Michael’s funeral. How she asked in that peculiar tone, “So you’ll be staying in the house?” How all the people at the grief group ignored Madison, the woman whose child was abducted years ago. How she sat alone in the circle, as if she were invisible to everyone except me.