Birthdays of a Princess (24 page)

“Do you mean she never once paid you for selling your daughter into
the sex trade?”

“What …?”

Harding opened the lap top.

Macintosh pressed the start button. The video ran.

Melissa watched for all of ten seconds. As soon as she recognized
Tiara, she lowered her head and refused to look at the screen. That was so
disgusting, how could they do this to her?

Macintosh watched her like a hawk. He thought she knew. He thought
she’d been part of this … this disgusting, horrible … how could anybody think a
mother would be part of…? She couldn’t handle it.

That’s when she broke down. It was the last straw, she couldn’t
handle any more of it. When she finally stopped crying and shaking, she was
weak and spent.

“You knew nothing of this?” Macintosh asked.

  “I knew Tony had tried to sexually assault Tiara,” she said, too
weak to fight any longer. “My sister-in-law told me. But honest to God, I hadn’t
known about …, about what’s on that video. That was at the studio. I’ve never
been there. Only Gracie took her there—I had no idea. I didn’t know anything
was wrong, not until the day Gracie brought Tiara home in such bad shape. I
called my mother in Vancouver right away and asked her to help me get Tiara out
of there. To safety. It took only a week before we left Texas. I did all I
could.” Melissa kept sobbing in between sentences. “I wanted to get my daughter
away from a child molester like Tony. It broke my heart but I’ve acted as fast as
any good mother would.”

Macintosh sneered at her. “Sure, he broke your heart,” he said.
“He’s been your lover. You let it happen because you couldn’t stand to lose
him.”

“No, honestly, I didn’t know. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. You hear
me!” Melissa cried louder. He could see she was falling apart. “Everybody
always blames me. But it has been Gracie all along. She always acted like Tiara’s
mother, always put me down. I never had a say in anything. Talk to Gracie if
you need a scapegoat!”

The detectives looked at each other. Did she really not know? Could
she put on such an act?

Harding took over. “This could prove difficult. She is dead.”

“What?” Melissa leaned toward him. “She is?”

“Dead, yes,” Macintosh confirmed.

“Well, that’s too bad, but it won’t change a thing. I’ve done my
duty by Tiara and that’s all that counts.”

Chapter
53

Candles on a birthday cake

Not knowing is a blessing when it comes to the bad stuff, some
people say. Total BS, I say. That’s the ostrich syndrome. Stick your head in
the sand and pretend it’s not there. I tell you, when you lift it up again, the
bad stuff is still there and, to make matters worse, you’re coughing up grit.

I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Coughing and splattering.
Verbal cleansing of my corroded memory pipes. Serves me right for keeping my
eyes closed and my head buried for so long. I’m feeling a lot better now that I
got over the initial shock. It all makes sense to me now and I can concentrate
on the future and not poke around the past.

Macintosh asked if I would see him again. Poor guy, he just can’t
stay away from my case. As much as I’ve enjoyed his company so far, I’m not
sure I’m ready to talk to him, or to anybody else except myself for the time
being. In fact, I’ve talked all night, alone in my cell to get my story in
order. It’s amazing, every quietly spoken sentence hangs in the dim light, does
a few rotations so I can inspect it from all angles, then withdraws into a
corner where it joins all the other sentences I have brought out into the open.
Each sentence is a brick. There are so many, I’m building a fortress.

The morning routine interrupts the formation of my magic structure.
I have to conform to their system, suffer through the closeness of my four
resident-inmates while eating a mediocre breakfast. Then they announce my
visitor, and I hope we don’t have to share the meeting room with other girls
and their eager parents who were responsible in the first place that they
landed in here.

We are alone. Obviously nine in the morning is too early to allow
family members to visit, while police have access whenever they want.

“Good morning Tiara,” Macintosh says, painfully formal. The bearer
of bad news?

He comes straight to the point, which makes my forehead relax.

“Tiara, Detective Harding and I have met with your mother and your
grandmother yesterday. It’s been a very interesting talk, to say the least.
Would you be willing to hear me out on what we’ve discovered so far, the idea
being that you correct me whenever you feel my account is not accurate or if it
becomes too distressing for you?”

Jesus, there I was, thinking that he’ll ask me all sorts of
questions I won’t be able to answer, and now he’ll be doing all the talking. Still,
I mustn’t let my guard down.

“As I said, if anything upsets you, just let me know and I’ll stop
right away.”

“Shoot.” I realize what I said and quickly look at his side. No gun,
of course not, he wouldn’t come in here armed with a deadly weapon.

“You’re pretty daring, talking to me unprotected.”

“You pose no threat to me.”

“Aren’t you brave?”

“What’s the matter with you today? Trying hard to be the bad girl
again?”

“That’s what I am. So I’m told.”

“So there is still nothing?”

Nothing of what? Nothing happening in here? Nothing I remember?
I decide how to interpret his open-ended question. “Nope. Nothing
that might help you to get me out of here.”

He smiles, kind of amused. “Your bad girl attitude doesn’t exactly
encourage me to go out of my way to help you.”

“Then why don’t you stay away?”

“Because I got a job to do. And because I like you.”

What can I say to that. I go all mushy inside.

“So, how about it? Play nice again?”

We’re both been grinning by now, but he turns serious again, ready
to get started.

Before we do, I need to quickly clarify my position.

“Are you here to tell me whom I stabbed? Have you finally figured
out who the victim is?”

“I’m afraid we still don’t know. We didn’t get anywhere with that. And
to be honest, there’s a good chance that she doesn’t regain her brain function.
If that happens and
you
don’t remember, we’ll never know.”

I breathe in and exhale slowly, visibly. It helps to hide my relief.
All I can hope is that Macintosh reads it wrong. He does.

“Sorry about that. We do what we can and we’ll keep at it. Promise.”

“Don’t stress yourself. I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually.”

“Yeah, I know, not just a pretty face,” he says. “Here’s what we do
know: Your aunt Graciella Rodriguez had been dealing with drugs. Your mother
has been aware of some of your aunt’s activities and has been siphoning money
off from those illegal funds, although we’re pretty convinced that she didn’t
know until yesterday that your aunt is deceased.”

“Of course she didn’t,” I say, “and I bet she didn’t exactly break
down when you told her.”

“Those two didn’t get along?”

“Love-hate at best.”

“We strongly suspect that Antonio Alvares, your dance instructor,
was also involved in your aunt’s activities. In fact, we consider him the
mastermind.”

“Who, Tony? The Stick?”

“Yes.”

I can barely suppress a giggle. “What has he done?”

“Well, I’m not so sure Dr. Eaton would want me to go into that.”

“Because it concerns my past?”

“Yes.”

“If you don’t tell me, I can’t help you.”

“Tia, it’s better if you don’t—”

“Look, Mister Detective, I’m not a child any more. If I remember
rightly, my childhood has been exploited—”

He jerks his head up. What’s the matter with him? Has he forgotten
what I told him yesterday?

“—and I have been more or less living on the streets the last three
years, so don’t hold back on what you know. I’ve been wracking my brain ever
since I’ve come in here to figure it all out. Whatever you tell me will help me
as much as I might be able to help you with my answers. So let’s help each
other!”

“Deal,” he says, without extending his hand, thank God. “Your mother
and grandmother told us about the day they took you back to Canada. Let’s start
with that. Do you remember anything about that day?”

“Yes.”

“Can you please tell me?”

“Sure.”

“Do you mind if I record it?”

“No.”

He takes a pocket-size recorder out, clicks a switch, says
one-two-three-test, rewinds, listens, clicks again, puts it on the low coffee
table in front of me and says, “go.”

Instinctively, I lean forward. I close my eyes.

I haven’t left my room for a week, not since Gracie brought me home
after the session when they shot the rape video. Mom comes to my room and tells
me it’s all my fault. She calls me a cheap tease. After that, she only comes in
to ask if I need anything, with a detached voice, like she is afraid of getting
too close to me. As if I have hurt her. She never comes to my bed, she never
touches me or holds me, like I so badly need. She stands in the doorframe when
she talks to me and she deposits a tray with food and drinks on the bedside
table, keeping her distance and hurrying out as fast as her considerable bulk
allows. My body hurts, and my soul is desperate. I don’t understand why she is
angry with me. I’m like a stone in her presence. I can’t move and can’t speak.

Gracie doesn’t show up at all. She has disappeared from the face of
the earth and I don’t miss her. I dread the thought that she might come through
the door at any time.

One day, maybe a week later, Mom comes in and says: “Remember what I
told you. You better not breathe a word about what happened—to anyone.”

She hands me a glass of the stuff Gracie calls dream-juice.

“Here, drink this. All of it. I got to leave the house for a while,
and when I come back, I’ll take care of things. All will be well again.”

I must have gone back to sleep. When I wake up again, I hear two
female voices, Mom’s and another. It’s not Gracie, I’m sure, and that makes me
more awake. A stranger in the house is enough to shake me out of my stupor.
When the door opens, I pretend to be asleep.

I hear Mom saying “Shhh, don’t wake her, Louise, I can carry her.”
Wow, who is Louise? Where does she want to carry me? What is happening to me
now? I’d like to ask her, but, as always, my throat is swollen tight and won’t
let the words escape.

They leave the room. After a short while, Mom is back, alone, and
she does lift me up and take my night-dress off. I go all limp to make it
harder for her to dress me. She pulls and tugs and slides until I’m ready, all
the while sighing and moaning, then she lifts me in her arms and carries me
out, just like she said she would.

I’m kind of dumped on the backseat of a car I don’t know. Mom puts a
thin blanket over me and disappears again. I open my eyes a tiny slit to look
at the car. Why am I not in Gracie’s car? What’s going on? Fear grips me again
and I don’t know why. The reason for the fear I have felt all week has flown
into the sky, like one of those kites I have seen other kids play with when we
drove by the park. The kite is still attached to me, there is no escaping the
fear, it is holding me by its thread, but the kite itself is so far away that
it is only a dot in the clouds. I dare not move.

Mom comes back with this Louise woman. She is shorter than Mom and much,
much slimmer. Her face seems somewhat familiar. I can watch and hear them
because they stand close by the car without paying attention to me, who is
sleeping on the backseat. They argue over what to take with them.

Mom says: “I should look for the money, there must be at least a
little bit.”

Louise sneers at her for not taking care of it in the morning.

“Damn it, mother,” Mom says, and that’s when it dawns on me that the
smaller woman is my grandmother, and I remember that Mom had mentioned the name
Louise before. “Damn it, I forgot, alright! You can’t expect me to think of
everything!”

Then they go back in the house and another car turns into the
driveway and stops next to the car I’m in. Tony jumps out and I close my eyes
again. I hear him rush up to the house and slit-peek again. He rings the
doorbell, Louise opens, then Mom comes out and drags him along with her,
stopping right next to the open car window.

Now those two argue. I don’t understand what’s going on, with him
wanting to know what she is up to, and her saying he’s a monster and she hates
him and crying, and him then yelling and stomping his foot and slamming his car
door. This is all too much for my fuzzy brain and I’m getting sleepy again.

Shortly after, the car starts. I open my eyes and Louise, sitting in
the passenger seat, says “sleep, sweetheart,” and I close my eyes again and
pretend. We are driving for quite a while before they start talking.

“Did you really take it?” Mom asks, and Louise must have nodded
because Mom says: “Oh my God, I don’t know. Maybe you should’ve left it there.
If Gracie finds out that her money is missing, she’ll kill us all.”

I shiver on the back seat. Gracie will kill us. I must stay very
quiet and be a good girl.

The air stands still between us. Macintosh makes no attempt to stop
the tape recorder, so I do. Click. No more record. I’m not ready to expose what
inevitably comes now beyond those quiet walls.

Here it goes. “Do you want to know what happened a week earlier? Do
you want to know why I was so miserable?” He is holding his breath, I can see
that. “Do you want to know why I spent a whole week in bed, lonely and
hurting?”

Slowly he exhales, eyes fixed on me, not daring to interrupt,
worried I might change my mind.

I begin in the middle of it because there is no beginning to
remember. All my life has been leading toward this.

“We want you to look like the beauty queen you used to be, mija,” Gracie
said.

There I was, standing on a platform in the middle of the studio like
a miniature statue, in my frilly former pageant outfit, with loads of make-up
covering me like plaster. I’m supposed to look
wanting
—kind of yearning
for something.

“Imagine you very much want an ice cream,” Gracie said before she
left. “Close your eyes and imagine how wonderful it’ll be to taste it.”

I do, and then she leaves and soon after the Purple Shadow comes in,
moves a sofa behind my platform and positions the camera in front of the
arrangement. I hear a man’s voice. It instantly freezes my wanting expression
and changes it into a not-wanting one.

“Start filming,” the man says to the Purple Shadow behind the
camera. Then he throws me on the sofa behind us. The Purple Shadow has the
camera rolling. I’m looking at the black hole, at the hand adjusting the lens,
fingers turning the focus on me, making sure I’m sharp and visible and … the
man starts … I know I should fight … but I can’t … I’m mesmerized by the hand
on the camera, I concentrate on those so I don’t feel the other hand, doing …,
the man, his hand …”