Birthdays of a Princess (3 page)

Chapter
7

“Are you Melissa Brown?”

The women at the door shook her head and glared at the detective in
front of her. “About time somebody from the police showed up!”

Macintosh had to hold back not to snap at her.

“Are you?”

The woman pointed toward the open kitchen door.

He walked past her. If the other one was as belligerent as this one,
he’d have a tough time staying professional. He couldn’t for the life of him
understand why some relatives thought it was the duty of the police to get in
touch with them right away. Accidents were a different matter, but a crime? If
they didn’t care enough about the girl to rush to her side as soon as they
found out, they shouldn’t act all indignant later on.

The woman sitting at the table looked up, blank, confused. She was
big. A sloppy, sweaty mass, compressed by spandex tight slacks, spilling out of
every opening of her summery top. She was thirty-ish, hard to say. Traces of
former beauty were still detectable in her face. A delicate nose, smooth skin,
full lips, shiny blonde hair. Her face was that of a twenty-year-old,
balloon-tight skin, ready to burst at the next mouthful of cream cake.

“Ma’am, I am Detective Pete Macintosh from the Vancouver Police
Department, District One.”

No reply.

He didn’t expect to exchange pleasantries, so he soldiered on. “I’m
here about your daughter. You have a daughter named Tiara?” Stupid, stupid
question, but he had to ask.

The woman waved it away. Of course she had, and of course she knew
already.

“I’m sorry, but I have to ask you a few questions. Do you mind?”

The older women took charge. “Please, Officer, sit down. I’m Louise
Brown, Melissa’s mother, Tiara’s grandmother. Please, tell us what happened. We
don’t really know anything. Only what has been on the news. My daughter wanted to
call you but we couldn’t figure out whom to contact.”

How difficult was it to call the local police station? Macintosh sat
down, took his small manila colored notebook out of its leather cover and
opened it.

“At approximately 7.30 this morning a young woman we believe to be
your daughter attacked a female customer inside Starbucks on Robson Street.”

“I know all that,” Melissa said, standing up. “I’ve seen it on TV. Shall
we go?”

Macintosh didn’t move, except for a faint shake of his head.

“I thought you were here to take me to her.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then why are you here?”

“The young woman has been processed and a judge has ordered her to
be taken into custody for further evaluation. I’m here to confirm her
identity.”

Melissa just looked at him.

“I’m sorry, but I have to make sure.” He put a picture on the table.
It showed the mug shot of a young girl. “Is that her?”

Melissa put her hand over the picture. “Yes. That’s my daughter. Is
she in prison now?”

“Yes, ma’am, at the Youth Custody Center in Burnaby, at least until
her exact age is established.”

“Tiara is fifteen.”

“Right. Thank you.” Macintosh explained that the girl, being
under-age, would definitely stay at the Center until a psychiatrist had checked
her mental state.

Melissa’s mother interfered again. “The woman? How is she? I mean,
the one who…, is she…? Did she…?”

“The victim was alive when they transported her from the scene of
the crime. She’s in emergency care.”

Melissa Brown, still standing, cringed when he mentioned ‘victim’
and ‘scene of the crime’.

“Please, Mrs. Brown, sit down again. There’s nothing you can do for
your daughter right now, except help us understand by answering a few
questions.”

She sat down again. Her eyes were dry, but her face was scrunched up
in a silent bawl.

“How can I? I don’t understand it myself. My Tiara, my baby! What
has she done?”

He stared at the lined page of his notebook. “Please, ma’am.”

“What do you want to know?”

He scribbled Tiara Brown on the empty page. It was important to take
notes. “You said she’s fifteen?”

“She turned fifteen this August. August twenty-first.”

“Right.” Macintosh took a consent form from his notebook. “Her being
a minor, we’ll need parental permission to interview your daughter.” He slid
the form over to the mother, then he coughed uncomfortably. “And do a drug
test.”

The two women shot ping-pong looks at each other. Melissa Brown
seemed to hesitate, the older one nodded and took over.

“Yes, of course, my daughter will sign it. Just her. Tiara’s father
died fifteen years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

The older woman continued. “He was a US soldier. Got killed in the
line of duty.”

Macintosh turned to the mother. “What nationality is your daughter
then?”

“Canadian,” the older woman said.

“Please, ma’am, I’d appreciate if you let Tiara’s mother answer.”

“Both”, Melissa said. “She was born in the States, so she’s got dual
citizenship.”

 “Her father’s name?”

“Mike.”

He wrote that down too.

“And when did you and your daughter come back from the States?”

“About three years ago.”

“So, your daughter Tiara has been living here in British Columbia,
in Vancouver, the past three years. Where did she go to school?”

Now both women looked at him, Melissa spoke.

“She’s done her eighth grade in the States—before we came back.
Since then, well, she’s kind of looking. I’m homeschooling her to do her GE.”

 “To your knowledge, is your daughter taking drugs?”

“No, she isn’t.”

“You sure?”

“Look, Inspector—”

“Detective.”

“Detective. She’s a teenager. They’re a bit wild sometimes, but she’s
a good kid. Always has been, honestly. She’s going through a phase just now. If
you have kids, you understand. Let me tell you about her. Just so you
understand.”

Macintosh didn’t want to understand. Christ Almighty, he should have
insisted on Harding handling this. He couldn’t deal with stuff like this anymore.

Melissa didn’t seem to notice his discomfort. She went on
relentless.

“My Tiara is bright and beautiful. She always got top marks on all
her tests! I home-schooled her, you know, I used to be a teacher. Every single
day I sat with her for hours on end and read to her and practiced writing and
counting. I always insisted Tiara speak properly, so she wouldn’t adopt that
dreadful Texas drawl, and she didn’t. My little girl was such a quick learner.”

Finally, she needed to catch her breath and Macintosh took over
again.

“If your daughter is such an intelligent girl, how come you didn’t
enroll her in high school when you came back to Canada?”

 “I told you, I’m homeschooling her.”

“We didn’t find any registration for this.”

“I didn’t get around to it. Good Lord, what else am I supposed to
do? I can’t handle everything all by myself.”

“It’s the law.”

“So charge me.”

Macintosh’s face turned to stone.

“What about your daughter? Didn’t she want
to meet kids her
age?”

“She was twelve years old, had never been in Canada before. When we
left Texas she left her whole life behind her. I can understand why she refused
to go to school. Can’t you?”

“That’s not my position, ma’am,” he said.

“And that is not the point, right? The point is, what happens now? What
will happen to her? What will happen to me? When should I go and see her?”

“I really can’t say, ma’am.”

“Then find out, for crying out loud. Somebody has to know! Get your
supervisor on the phone. Talk to somebody who knows. You can’t just leave me hanging
in there. I’m her mother!”

Macintosh thought she had a point there. He had come here to do the
preliminary interview with the woman who was the mother of a crazy druggie gone
wild. He had expected a run-down, anti-social milieu, not a clean, neat flat
with all the signs of low-income suburbia—table and chairs cramped into a
claustrophobic kitchen with cracked linoleum tiles, a pot of herbs on the
windowsill, a bank calendar with red circles around several dates, tea cups
that didn’t match, seat cushions that did
.
But all this didn’t silence
the voice in the back of his head.
There is something wrong with this whale
of a mother. And the meddling granny.

“Tell you what, ma’am,” Macintosh said. “Let me call my superior and
see what can be arrange.”

Both women nodded vigorously. He called Sergeant Tong at Homicide and
read out what he had written. It wasn’t much.

His boss didn’t sound too happy, which was understandable. In a
serious case like this, with a minor committing attempted homicide in front of
fourteen witnesses who would all have a different view of what had happened, a
hell of a machinery would kick into gear.

He listened to the Sergeant with growing incredulity.

“I’m sorry,” Macintosh said, after he finally hung up. “We thought
we could keep the lid on this one, with her being underage and all. You know,
the press isn’t allowed to mention her name, and with the victim not…I mean,
with it not being a homicide…we didn’t think it would be an item after the
initial excitement…”

“So what?” Granny asked. “Did she die?”

He shook his head. “Not as far as we know.”

“So, that’s good, isn’t it?” The two women exchange a conspiratorial
look of relief. “Nobody will know Tiara’s name. Nobody will know who she is.”

“Wrong,” he said. “It’s all over the internet. Somebody posted a
full, unedited clip of Tiara’s attack on YouTube, and it’s gone viral.”

“Oh God,” Melissa sighed. “I guess I need to see her right away.”

“I’m so sorry again,” Macintosh said. “You can’t.”

“What are you talking about? She’s my daughter! I’ve got rights, as
a mother. You can’t just ignore me.”

“I understand, ma’am, but your daughter has rights too. And right
now she refuses to see you.”

Chapter
8

My psycho-doc makes a fresh attempt to get me talking. Beware! Remember,
he is dangerous. I’m back in his IAU office and stare at him with crossed arms
(I know, that’s such a childish gesture, but how else can I demonstrate the
insurmountable frontier I wish to establish).

He pretends not to notice and carries on with his monolog as if we
were having a perfectly normal conversation. Continues to stress again and
again how important it is for me to find myself.

I don’t tell him that I have already made an attempt to untangle the
twisted fibers of my childhood and moor some of their frayed ends—or
beginnings, whichever way you want to rope them in—in the notebook he gave me
for exactly this purpose.

“Leave me alone. I told you already, I don’t remember a thing.”

He tries a different angle. “Nothing? You know who you are, don’t
you?”

“Maybe.”

“Tell me about your childhood. Surely you’ll remember where you grew
up. Let’s talk about that.”

“Talking is not for me, it is too unstructured.” Will he understand
that? I can’t drag fragments of memories to the surface and explain them at the
same time. Writing them down seems to help me get them in order. When I hold
onto a pencil, it seems much less threatening to follow a sequence of thoughts.

So I cross my arms, press my lips together and watch his reaction.

With a casual shrug of his shoulder, he closes his own empty
notebook.

“I’m sorry then. You leave me with no choice. My assessment will
state that you are unwilling to cooperate. I will recommend that you should be
remanded until a more comprehensive assessment establishes your mental state
and until the police have been able to complete their investigation. I’ll
forward my recommendations to the court in the next few days. This means bail
is out of the question for the time being.”

Hallelujah. I will not be sent back to my mom.

“It’s over,” he says. “You played your card, and you wasted it.”

After the interview, they take me back to the prison part of the
complex.

I have to surrender my green sweat suit and am given a purple
combination. Can you believe this,
purple
, the color I hate even more
than pink—then they dump me in a cell block they call Living Unit. Again, can
you believe this? A living cell! Is that the opposite of dead cell?

According to the instruction booklet they gave me—together with a
hygiene pack (toothbrush, toothpaste, soap) and one set of bedding—there are
many Living Units in the prison. For security reasons each unit is isolated
from the others. I will have to share my Living Unit with up to seven other
girls.

Lucky for me, I’m the only inmate, oops, resident, in this
particular Living Unit for the time being, due to the current low adolescent
crime level in the Province. They tell me this might change any day, and I hope
my luck will hold indefinitely. I can’t stand other girls around me. If another
Living Unit resident-inmate does arrive, and they pair her with me, I’ll make
sure I’ll be locked into solitary faster than the speed of light.

My cell is similar to the one in the medical assessment ward, except
for one rather disgusting element. Next to my bunk bed is a stainless steel
toilet. The door has a narrow glass window inserted for the guard to peek
through it. There is no way I can cover it. I own nothing. That’s why, I guess,
there is no wardrobe in here. I have a small desk with a chair in front, and
there is a window between the bed and the desk. I can actually look through the
metal bars if I stretch my neck. The outside is segmented into neat squares.

Lying on my bunk bed, I study my rights and responsibilities in the
instruction booklet. I am a Level 1, which means, no privileges. For me, it’s
lights out at 8.30 pm every night.

A very faint Vancouver night shines into my cell. Thank you, city
lights. I can’t sleep yet, it’s too early. A conversation forms in the dark,
and as much as I try, I can’t stop asking questions and giving answers. It’s a
vicious circle, a merry-go-round of nonsense.

To appease my carousel mind, I take my journal and scribble along in
the semi-dark.

Birthday One

Okay, I’m not trying to fool you again. I know that you know by now
that I wouldn’t remember that particular birthday either. But according to
Gracie, this birthday number one was an important one. It was the day my mom
turned around.

You see, until then, she’d been deeply depressed, which is
understandable for several reasons. Her husband didn’t leave her any money (first
reason) because he hadn’t really been her husband. In all the excitement of
their youthful passion, this formality hadn’t been on their priority list. And this
with a baby at home (second reason) which wasn’t even her home (third reason)
but belonged to my aunt. Get the drift?

In that first year and for many years to come, Gracie was much more than
an aunt to me. She fed me, bathed me, sung me lullabies and took me for
stroller outings along the ocean front, next to the highway, where the noise of
the cars racing by gets lost in the seagulls’ fierce battle-cries over the
surf’s decaying spoils, and the smell of the salty breeze overpowers the stench
of the car fumes. You see, Galveston is considered a sea-side town, while in
reality it is a freeway-side town. All the houses and shops are on the northern
side; south of the four lane concrete snake lies only the beach and a few forlorn,
dated tourist attractions.

Lovely walks she took with me, along this chopped off piece of a
struggling make-believe ocean-beauty, stopping whenever she met somebody she
knew. Who would expect the handy little bags of white stuff underneath my
pillow to be anything but baby powder?

How do I know this? I’m making an educated guess here, having had
enough opportunities to notice her illegal activities later on in life.

Above and beyond her struggles to provide for me and Mom, I know Gracie
did love me. I picture myself neatly tucked into the pink stroller with a pink
foldable roof framed with pink ruffles to keep me protected from sun and wind
and seagull-shit, with naked legs paddling in the fresh air, Gracie’s torso
darkening my vision ever so often when she bent down to go
tickle, tickle,
my mija—
she always called me mija, which means something like ‘sweetie’ in
Spanish—her generous bosom dangling in front of my pink happy face. Pink was
her thing. She loved that color and she loved me. I was her pink baby, and she
couldn’t have been happier than in that first year when my mom was so
miserable.

On my first birthday she dressed me in my best pink attire and took
me to a photographer. Gracie didn’t mind spending money on me. She always had
enough money for the three of us to get by and for the up-keep of our drab but
homely single-story structure in third row north of the all domineering
oceanfront-freeway. In those days neither I nor my mom cared where the money
came from—although Mom might have snapped out of her depression faster if she
would have taken on the responsibility of providing for her infant.

When Gracie came home with me from the photo session, she was still
so excited that she forgot how catatonic my mom usually was when it came to her
daughter.

“Look, look,” she waved the picture in front of her, “look at her!
She’s an angel!”

The photographer had done me up with fluffy wings made of plastic
feathers sprinkled with silver glitter. I’ve seen this picture often. He had
captured an expression in my puffy baby face that was a mere fluke for sure,
but made me look almost grown-up. There was purity and goodness—adorable,
unspoiled beauty.

My mom stared at this picture, and I don’t know what crossed her
mind but I like to imagine something snapped.
Is this child really mine?
Even better:
That child is Mike’s gift to me from heaven.
Or better
still:
I love this little angel of mine.

Gracie gushed on.

“He didn’t take any money. Imagine, the photographer refused to get
paid. He gave me money instead. Here, fifty dollars he gave me. All I had to do
was sign a form that he could use the picture for his front window display. My
mija is so beautiful, he said, people should see her. He wants to take more
pictures. And he’ll pay for those too. I should come back, he said. Next week I’ll
go—”

“No!” my mom said.

Gracie stared at her, dumbfounded.

“You can’t just take her. She’s
my
daughter!”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

“Anyway, I don’t believe people pay so much money for baby
pictures.”

“Then come with me and find out for yourself.”

And so the path of fate was corrected. Mom had woken up and joined
the living again—if only to punish Gracie for not having a mija of her own.