Katrina Prado - The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

“Robyn. Don’t talk to me like that young lady.”

She opens the door and then stops and turns towards me. The crush of heat from the morning air rushes in, bringing with it a glimmer of the oppressive summer day to come. The lingering smell of exhaust floats into the house from nearby Highway 4. With an insolent glare she says:

“I want my own life.”

The front door shuts. She is gone.

Memories of fights with my mother come to mind. The exchange of angry words followed by the inevitable door slamming of my youth clang in my memory. I blink back the sting of tears. It is one thing to construct a barricade of anger to live behind. It is quite another to be on the other side of that barrier.

I have never been hated and despised with such an absolute, pure fervor by anyone before. I wonder if I can withstand the crucible of her scorn. I hope that I will emerge on the other side shined and purified. But fear wells within my heart that more likely I will come out a molten, misshapen charred carbon shell.

I look down at my watch. Almost eight. Already I am going to be late for work. I cannot think about any of this right now.

“No,” I say aloud, as I grab my car keys, my purse, and my tote, and head for the front door.

I hit the print button and check my watch, nearly seven. Everyone else has gone home for the day. Carmelita wants a vendor transaction list for every single vendor account on her desk when she comes to work in the morning.

From the corner of my eye I spot my poor houseplant I bought months ago to cheer up this dismal room and its flat, institutional gray walls. The plant, a coleus, is now mottled with drooping ocher and brown leaves. I can never seem to remember to water it regularly.

As I wait for the printouts I pick up my coffee cup and down its remnants. I frown slightly as I swallow because the coffee is so stale and cold that its taste reminds me of modeling clay. As awful as it tastes, the noxious liquid quells the burn that quietly roils in my stomach.

I had planned on dinner out tonight to celebrate Rob’s birthday. But he called at four this afternoon to tell me he was going to have to work late. His birthday dinner is ruined even before it got started. As I staple together the vendor reports I think about how Rob sounded on the phone. He sounded unhappy. Not unhappy about having to work late; just unhappy in general.

I look at my watch again. I bite my lip and pick up the phone, dialing home. I listen to a steady tattoo of thrums as the phone at home rings over and over. The answering machine does not pick up, which means one of two things: Robyn has turned off the answering machine, or she is on the phone and is ignoring the call waiting feature, figuring it is probably me on the other end calling to harangue her about something she’d rather not hear about.

I hang up the receiver and sigh, releasing an ordinary hope that she isn’t answering the phone because she’s too busy doing her homework.

I drop the vendor lists off on Carmelita’s desk and then head back to my cubicle. I gather my purse, my canvas tote, and my jacket, making sure my computer is off before leaving. The hallway is filled with shadow, lit only by tiny courtesy lights. It smells of cheap air freshener. I am struck by how empty this hallway feels and suddenly I find my thoughts shadowed by my earlier conversation with Rob and my nebulous, clouded feelings about him. Why is he not happy? Why is it that discontent seems to cling to him like shrink wrap? Like an automated recording, my head repeats these questions.

I strike out across the parking lot and unlock my car. Clots of bus exhaust languish in the air. A car alarm trumpets from a distance. I toss my bags and jacket into the passenger seat of the old, worn Corsica and head for home.

Pulling into my driveway I shift the car into park. From the corner of my eye, I spot our neighbor, Mrs. Cotillo gawking at me from behind her dogwood shrubs. I manufacture a smile as I crawl out of the car.

“Sure is hot,” I shout over the hedge, pointing out the obvious.

“um-hmm,” she responds weakly, not wanting to be drawn into a lengthy conversation about nothing in the stifling evening heat.

“Working late?” she asks, her eyes peer over gargantuan peach framed glasses.

“Just a little,” I say, gathering my things and shoving the car door closed with my hip.

She glances at the darkened windows of our house, one hand absently fluffing the back of her curly gray hair.

“First one home,” she muses.

I can’t tell if she means it as a statement or a question.

I manage a weak laugh. “It sure looks that way.”

She glances at her watch.

“Everything okay?” she asks. Her eyebrows knit in the hopeful anticipation that everything is not.

“Just fine,” I say over my shoulder as I clear my stoop and plunge the key into the lock of the front door.

Pickles is curled on one end of the couch. She meows once and then returns to her nap.

It’s now after eight o’clock. I flip on the living room light and peek at the thermostat; eighty-eight degrees. I jerk the lever down to eighty-three. I stand just beyond the closed front door and take stock. Along the air is the smell of old coffee. Just behind that, if I close my eyes, I think I can smell faint traces of Robyn’s latest scent. The perfume is too heavy for a girl her age, but I had been able to keep those thoughts to myself when Robyn brought the stuff home from Jenny’s a couple of weeks ago. I set down my gear and walk to the kitchen and the answering machine. It’s just as I had thought; off. My eyes scan the kitchen table and then the counters for a note of some kind, but the surfaces contain only the mundane detritus of our lives: unopened bills, pens, a couple of loose screws, and empty gum wrappers among other things. I grab a handful of Cheese-Its from the box on the kitchen table and move to the refrigerator. The salt from the crackers coats my tongue and makes me think instantly of wanting something cold to wash them down.

I am so exhausted I can barely think. Grabbing three potatoes from the crisper, I toss them into the microwave and then move to the living room, giving a cursory look over the couch and coffee table for Robyn’s backpack, but it’s not there. Her purse is gone too. I frown and move to her room. All I see is the usual hurricane of clothing and CD covers, and a few empty cups from fast food restaurants. The brush she tossed on her bed this morning is gone. I survey the mess again and shake my head.

“Typical,” I say beneath my breath, as if I’m afraid that even her room might hear my disgust.

I find myself wondering how I have come to this place in time.

The day after Rob was laid off from Conoco, I had found myself at Angel Peak, a tourist spot for those passing through Aztec, New Mexico. This place is not the parched and barren desert region that most people think. Angel Peak has a rich and verdant quality that engages the senses. The rock formation is forty million years old and the variegated ribands of rock in acorn browns, and fir greens combined with the mysterious scent of history make it a magical, living place. The Navajo considered this place sacred; one rock formation in particular strongly resembles a kneeling angel with a broken wing. I had found this place not only sacred myself, but oddly appropriate. I stood and stared at that angel with her broken wing. Fighting back tears, I spoke one word aloud: please.

And yet here we are, not even a year from that day, and already something about our life seems spoiled. Rob stays out drinking nearly every night. Robyn appears to be on a path towards self-destruction and it seems the only thing I can do is sit and watch as each catastrophe unfolds.