But I can still close my eyes and see it, so I’m holding on to it. My mom tells me that’s impossible-our car doesn’t have a sunroof. My first memory is the smell of hot pavement and the sky through the sunroof, whipping by in a river of blue. My mother was raised on fairy tales, but I was raised on highways. “The Queen of the Hinterland,” Vanity Fair, 1987 “You’d need breadcrumbs, or a spool of thread.” “You’d get lost on the way to finding me,” she says. I ask if I can come talk to her in person, and her laugh is hot whiskey on ice. When I get her on the phone, her voice is as alluring as her most famous photo, the one with the ring and the cigarette. Now she’s gone again, fled to a turreted house in the deep dark woods, where she lives with her five-year-old daughter and her husband, an actual royal-she just can’t quit fairy tales. Then she came back, and achieved an odd kind of fame, glittering from some angles but dark from others. Once upon a time she was a girl named Anna Parks, one of the legion of midcentury dreamers who came to Manhattan with their hopes tucked into a suitcase. Althea Proserpine is raising her daughter on fairy tales.
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