Katrina Prado - The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

His palm is clammy to the touch and his fingers feel limp against my own reminding me of string cheese that has set out too long.

“I was wondering if you could help me,” I say, deciding to get right to the point.

“My daughter has mentioned a girl by the name of Krista several times,” I begin, a lie forming in my mind as a talk. “I’m having a surprise birthday party for Robyn and Krista is the one friend of hers that I seem to have lost what information I had on her. You wouldn’t happen to have a last name and a phone number?” I ask, giving him a helpful smile.

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

I can’t go into it with Mr. Thornton.

“Everything’s fine,” I say. I force a brightness into my voice. “About Krista?” I finish.

He frowns deeply, creating an auburn-colored unibrow and looks upwards scanning the surface of the ceiling a few moments. I find myself wondering if this man is on Quaaludes.

After what seems an eternity his eyes find my own and he cants his head a little.

“Well, Krista’s last name is Jefferson, but I don’t believe that I have her telephone number. You might try the office,” he suggests.

I plaster a smile on my face and thank him for his time. Before I go I ask, “By the way, was Krista in class today?”

The unibrow breaks into two half crescent caterpillars. He adjusts his glasses, and I can see his cheek moving; his tongue working over his back teeth.

“Why, yes, I believe we did have the pleasure of her company this morning.” He smiles and folds his arms. “We were all about quadratic equations, and whether or not, ‘x’ equals the square root of-”

“Thank you very much,” I say, interrupting him.

I find the school office and try my ruse with the secretary, a pudgy, dour-faced woman with a permanent frown ironed to her chubby face, but it’s no use. I’m sure they’ve heard every excuse in the book. I am turned away with a polite but firm refusal to give out any information on any student. What. So. Ever.

I drive all over town, scouring the East County mall in Antioch, slipping into and out of its stores, hoping against hope I might find my daughter, playing hooky, skipping school to spend the day shopping and goofing off. No luck. Brendan Theaters in Pittsburg yields the same results.

It is now after five o’clock in the evening. The first thing I do upon my arrival is to check the answering machine for any messages from Robyn. But there is only a series of increasingly desperate messages from Carmelita as to my whereabouts.

I sit in the same kitchen chair I sat in this morning. Involuntarily, my hand reaches for the back of my neck, sponging the sweat from my skin. The house feels nearly ninety degrees but I refuse to turn on the air conditioner. The fading sun glares at me through the kitchen window, the sheer curtain worse than useless for the overpowering heat that radiates into the room. The freeway noises from Highway 4 throb against the quiet and I imagine I can smell the exhaust even though all my windows are closed. I have called and left messages for Rob but he hasn’t called me back yet. My chest is tight with exasperation. In three hours it will begin to get dark. My daughter is out there somewhere in the world. And I don’t have the slightest idea where to find her.

I debate with myself in my head. Am I being overly concerned? Too laid back? What to do next? Lurking in the back of my mind is the thought of calling the police. If I do call the police, I am admitting something. I am escalating this drama that is ticking on with each sweep of the second hand. Has she been kidnapped? Has she run away? And where the hell is Rob? I know the dispatch operator at Tasco transfers messages when they get them if it’s a family emergency. Why is he not calling me back?

I stump my elbows onto the table covering the bottom half of my face with my hands. I close my eyes to think. Something in my mind detonates. This moment in time is the turning point of everything that is to come. What if I do nothing? What might happen if I don’t call the police? My eyes fly open against a series of nightmarish images.

I rise and go to the phone and dial 9-1-1.

Two policemen stand in front of me. Surrounding them, like an aura, is the scrupulous scent of duty; their posture erect to the point of looking painful. The one asking all the questions is older, with graying sideburns and chapped lips. His cheeks glow with a robust effervescence, as if he has just returned from a ski trip. His thumbs are hooked into the waistband of his polyester pants, among a cornucopia of law enforcement gadgets, the most obvious being the gun; very black and very large, it seems to me. The faint smell of leather from their belts reminds me somehow of my father.

“Has your daughter ever not shown up at night before?” He frowns.

I clear my throat.

“Well, sometimes Robyn stays at her friend Jenny’s house,” I say. “But I’ve already called there looking for her.”

The younger officer, not looking up to meet my eyes lets out a sigh.

“Several times.” I add, tucking stringy wisps of dirty hair behind my ears.

The older officer exchanges a glance with his younger partner who writes onto a form attached to his clipboard. I can imagine the thoughts that are darting through their minds. The wayward daughter; the absent, non-involved mother. A wave of guilt blooms red across my cheeks. I look down and see the flecks of food and dirt on my old sweat pants. I must look like a mess. I prop up one arm in front of me, one hand in front of my mouth, wishing I’d brushed my teeth before they got here.

“You have to understand,” I begin. “It’s not like my daughter to be gone this long. She always calls or comes home.” I bite my lip to stop myself.

The older officer nods, pursing his lips. He’s heard this all before, I am sure. His partner, the younger man continues scribbling notes. He hasn’t once met my gaze. I wonder what he is thinking.

“Any other friends she could be with?” His brow knits.

In fact, he frowns every time he finishes asking me a question.

“I’ve called everyone that I know,” thinking of my earlier endeavor of having called twenty-two out of the thirty-four Jefferson’s listed in the Contra Costa County phone directory before finally finding Krista Jefferson’s house. She said she hadn’t seen Robyn in over a day and had no idea where she might be. “But no one’s seen her,” I finish. My hand travels to my throat. The skin on my neck feels parched, like onion paper.

“Did you two have a fight?” The older officer asks, his voice is noticeably droopier, all Father Knows Best. He frowns.

I look down. Pickles is busy making figure eights between the older officer’s legs.

“No.” My eyes seem to involuntarily fill. I look up. “Well, yes, sort of. But we seem to fight a lot lately.” I swallow my tears, willing myself to stop crying.

I watch the younger officer’s nostrils flare as he breathes in. I want him to look at me. I think that if only he would see this anguish that is crushing the breath out of me, he would understand.

“I found some money,” I say; it’s almost a whisper.

This provokes the young policeman’s eyes up from his clipboard.

“A little over three hundred dollars.”

“Does your daughter have a job?”

I shake my head.

“Does she use?”

“Use?”

“Drugs, Mrs. Skinner. Does your daughter use drugs?”

My hands have found the armrest of the couch behind me. The fabric is scratchy to the touch from where Pickles has sharpened her claws. I back away from these men and sit in order to steady myself.

I must look as if I’ve just been slapped because the older cop’s face softens.