Katrina Prado - The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

In all the years we’ve been married, I’ve never once seen Rob cry. Seeing his weakness stirs a mix of pity and embarrassment inside my heart. And also fear. How can he say it’s never been okay? What does he mean? Do I really want to know?

“Just stop, alright?” I say. “We’ve got to stay focused. Our daughter is out there somewhere and we have to do whatever it takes to get her home.”

He closes his eyes, but the tears keep coming. His jaw hangs open, slack, making him look older than he is. He huffs out a subdued breath.

“There’s something I never told you,” he whispers.

I feel the blood drain from my body. A stab of fear pierces my heart.

“What are you talking about?”

He sits up, wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

“About six months ago, I came home early.” He pauses, takes in a deep breath and then continues. “It was a little after three in the afternoon.”

“Why did you come home early?” I say, interrupting him.

“When I opened the front door, Robyn and a man were coming out of her bedroom,” he continues, ignoring my question. “They were laughing, you know joking around.”

I cannot believe my ears. Immediately I feel sick to my stomach. I can’t move or talk. I sit, rigid with shock.

“When Robyn saw me, she acted real nonchalant, you know, like it was no big deal.”

I open my mouth to say something, but no sound comes out.

“She said the guy was one of her professors who was tutoring her; getting her ready for a mid-term test.” He looks down at his shoes. “I believed her.”

I swallow down my rage. Screaming at Rob will help neither of us.

“Was he Hispanic?” I ask, thinking of BLU BOY.

“No. He was a white guy. Middle-aged. Tall, wearing a suit and gold framed glasses. He looked like a teacher for criminy’s sake!”

“You didn’t think there might be something wrong with the fact that a middle-aged man was in our thirteen year old’s bedroom?” I bite my lip. “And you never thought to tell me about all this?” I ask, barely able to maintain my composure.

“What do you want me to say, Margot?” He looks at me and then back down at his shoes. “Of course I thought about telling you. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought that maybe Robyn was telling the truth and it was no big deal.”

“Or was it that you came home early because you were drunk and you didn’t want me to find out?” I stand up, fists balled on my hips. “Isn’t that the real truth?”

“No,” he says weakly, shifting in his seat.

“ No? ” I snort out in a sarcastic breath.

I open my mouth to let out a tirade of fury, but am stopped up short by the ring of the telephone. The cordless is still on the coffee table. Rob looks up at me with hooded, hang-dog eyes. I snatch the cordless from the table.

“Hello?”

“Margot?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Sister Margaret, dear. Listen, something’s happened. There’s been,” she pauses, “an incident.”

“What happened?”

“It’s Chevy. She’s been beat up. She’s at the hospital. San Francisco General. And she’s asking for you.”

I glance at my watch; nearly nine at night.

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

The hospital corridors are dimly lit and quiet. A helix of industrial grade disinfectant curls around us as we walk down the hall, Sister Margaret whispering quietly as we go.

“The police found her. She’s beat up pretty bad. Some cuts and bruises, of course; also a dislocated shoulder, three broken ribs and a fractured skull. The doctors said the CT scan revealed a severe concussion.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“Well, at this point, they say there’s no bleeding inside the brain, but she’ll need to be monitored for awhile to make sure no bleeding starts. She might have short-term or long-term memory loss, or both. And depending on the severity of the concussion, she could require occupational or speech therapy.”

“Who did this?” I ask.

Sister Margaret gives me a peculiar look and I realize that I am holding my stomach as we walk, trying to mitigate the pain from the surgery.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I give her an overall gloss about my ulcer and recent operation.

“Should you be out of bed?” Sister Margaret asks in alarm.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Really. What about Chevy? Do you know who did this to her?”

A man with a goatee wearing a white lab coat breezes by us, carrying an armload of patient charts.

“Chevy told the police she didn’t know her attacker, but between you and me, she admitted it was Antonio Peña.”

“BLU BOY,” I say, more to myself than to her.

Sister Margaret nods. “But without a positive ID, the police can’t arrest him.”

Sister Margaret punches a large, square button on the wall and suddenly we’re inside ICU, where the atmosphere turns immediately somber. We are in front of a door, but before we go in, Sister Margaret looks over to the nurse’s station, where a petite, young woman with curly blond hair gives the nun a pointed look. Clearly, visiting hours are over as it is past ten o’clock at night.

“Five minutes, Sister, not one second more,” the nurse says in a heavy New York accent.

Sister Margaret smiles, giving her a nod. The nun obviously has some pull around here. I reach to open the door for both of us, but suddenly feel Sister Margaret’s firm grip on my arm. I turn and look at her.

“Chevy’s hurt pretty bad. She could use a real friend right now-not just someone who’s using her as a means to an end.”

“I understand that,” I say.

“Do you?”

I push past the nun and make my way to Chevy’s hospital bed.

Nothing Sister Margaret has said prepares me for what I see. In spite of the guttering light I can easily see that Chevy’s face is cut and bruised. Her left cheek from chin to eye socket is swollen. She has tubes everywhere and behind the bed, a monitor pings softly with each beat of her heart. She appears to be asleep.

As I draw closer, my heart slowly breaks as my eyes catalogue every appalling wound on the young girl’s body. A deep gash on the left side of her forehead is covered by Steri-strips stained by dried blood. Her left eye is swollen shut and is the color of eggplant. Both arms are mottled with abrasions, and her left forearm bears bruising that is visibly the shape of someone’s fingers. A jagged swath of her beautiful black hair has been razored away at the top of her head, revealing more Steri-strips and more dried blood.

I reach out to touch her, but realize that there probably isn’t a single spot on her young body that doesn’t hurt. She stirs faintly and her right eye opens. Her lips form a nearly imperceptible smile.

“You came,” she mumbles.

She lets out a pained breath. Tears well in my eyes and spill onto the blanket. She looks so helpless and small in the hospital bed. A thousand thoughts ricochet through me. Does she know where Robyn is? Why does she do this? Why do girls let monsters like BLU BOY control their lives? And then Sister Margaret’s admonition about Chevy needing a friend rushes back into my mind.

“Yes,” I whisper. “I’m here, Chevy.”

She mumbles something I can’t make out.

“What?” I say.

“ Phoenix,” she murmurs.

“Sometimes pimps move their girls to different cities to stay one move ahead of the police,” Sister Margaret says.

“Is Robyn in Phoenix?” I ask Chevy.

My heart pounds in my chest as I wait, straining with every nerve in my body to hear her response. But she only lets out a faint cry that sounds like the mewl of a kitten.

I reach out and gently ease her hair back from her forehead. I let my hand linger, softly stroking her head. Her hair is snowflake soft, and the bones of her skull seem so small and frail. I am filled with compassion for this little girl who has risked her life for my daughter.