Katrina Prado - The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

“I’m not accusing anybody of anything. It’s just when teenagers have that kind of money lying around it could mean they’re dealing in order to support their habit.”

I search my mind for any evidence that Robyn might have started recreational drug use, but I can’t think of a single instance where I either smelled anything on her or suspected as much.

“I don’t think so,” I cede.

There seems to be so much about Robyn that I do not know. My eyes travel back down to the floor. Flakes of lint and dirt swimming the surface of the carpet remind me that I can’t remember the last time I vacuumed. Why on earth would I worry about my carpet when my daughter is missing? I shove the thought from my head. I swallow down the acid burn that flickers in my stomach, wishing momentarily, that I had a Rolaid.

“You mind if we take a look around?”

I blanch inwardly at the request, but can’t make myself refuse. What if they find something I missed? Some telltale sign that might lead them to answer the riddle about where Robyn went that might help them find her?

“Sure,” I say, and lead them to her room.

“Anything missing?” The younger officer asks.

“Maybe some clothes,” I say, “I’m not really sure,” I add almost beneath my breath.

“Her purse here?”

“No.” I say.

I wince as they walk into Robyn’s bedroom. Traces of her sweet smell are soon obliterated by the sterile odor from their uniforms; probably chemicals from the cleaners. Their boots are heavy and thick on the carpet. Her room is just as I left it; in a shambles. I have the sudden thought that the state her room is in is in some way a representation of our life. Chaotic, messy, undisciplined.

Their presence in Robyn’s room seems somehow obscene to me as they mull about, pawing through her drawers, peeping beneath her bed, slipping meaty hands between box spring and mattress. In the middle of their search I hear the front door. The officers look up at me as I bound from the room.

But it is only Rob.

“What the hell’s going on?” he asks.

“Robyn’s still gone,” I say. I give him a rundown of events to this point as I lead him to where the police are finishing up their search of Robyn’s room.

The older cop is talking to us in measured tones. All about how Robyn will probably show up in a day or two, after she cools down. How kids this age can be impetuous, hasty.

“So, like I said Mrs. Skinner, we’ll put out a runaway bulletin. It’s local, but if anyone outside Coco County runs her name they’ll see our bulletin and give us a call. Since her purse is gone and maybe some clothes, she probably just took off. Here’s my card. Feel free to call me if you remember anything more or if she turns up back at home.” He thrusts his card into my hand and gives me a wink.

The young cop has stopped taking notes and is sliding his pen into his front shirt pocket. His thumb hikes to a thin, dark eyebrow and he scratches absently, eyes blank, his mind already far away.

“But isn’t there anything you could do?” I ask.

“In the case of a child that’s been kidnapped the F.B.I. would be called.”

“But maybe she was kidnapped,” I argue.

“From what you’ve told us, I think it’s much more likely she’s just angry and is hiding out at a friend’s house for a couple of days.”

He gives me a patronizing smile and pats me on the shoulder like he would the family cocker spaniel. “I wouldn’t worry too much, ma’am. I’m sure your daughter will be home before the weekend.”

“He’s probably right,” Rob says, staring at the front door after the cops leave.

I walk up behind him, slip my arms around his torso and lean my cheek against his back, breathing him in. He smells of sweat and cigarette smoke. My hands move upwards, finding his chest. Pressing him to me, the flesh of his chest feels soft, flaccid.

“Oh God,” I whisper and begin to cry.

Rob turns around. I can see that his jaw is tight. He’s gritting his teeth, damming up his emotion.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “She’ll be home soon.”

I nod but can’t talk as I swallow down the acrid bite of fear fiercely roiling in the pit of my stomach.

Beneath the tenor of his voice I hear an unmistakable note of doubt.

It is four-ten in the morning.

A week has elapsed. I can scarcely believe that seven days and seven nights have come and gone with no word or sight of Robyn. I’m amazed that the world continues grimly on; Rob and I have gone to work, managed to eat food, taken showers. Each day feels surreal, has become its own miniature horror to be endured, like an out of control amusement park ride skidding towards destruction.

Sleep eludes me most nights. I brush my teeth and don an old nightgown as if everything were normal. I fold myself into my bed, enveloping myself in the familiar smell of nylon and cotton. Tucking myself between old, too-warm sheets I maybe glance at my nails; perhaps pick up the emery board that sits on my nightstand to file an errant fingernail. But before the job is done, tears cloud my eyes and I stop. I lie down, eyes burning, the familiar heavy-handed grip of fatigue holding me firmly in its grasp; and I will the telephone to ring. I stare at the ceiling and think about praying, and maybe my lips move discreetly, air from words that feel empty and meaningless dribbles out as a small and stubborn hope dares challenge a gauntlet of despair. Where is my daughter?

I am watching Rob as he sleeps. His dark eyebrows are soft, his mouth slack, lips slightly parted. Robyn was born with his eyebrows. I remember her coming out with fierce, darks tufts of hair above her luminescent dark eyes; she reminded me of Groucho Marks. As she grew into a toddler they lightened up a little bit. But other mothers at playgrounds always commented on Robyn’s Brooke Shields eyes.

When we were first married, I used to always love watching Rob sleep. Secretly, I used to let my fingers steal across the smooth bands of hair as he slept, amazed at how soft eyebrows could feel. I used to think of Rob’s sleeping face as a perfect replica of one, perfect man at peace. But now I see different things in that calm, undisturbed face. A word, ‘failure’, flashes into my mind. I jerk my head away from him in a quick, violent motion, shaking that word from my mind.

I throw back the covers, and slip to the window. The carpet is cool against my feet even though it will be another hot day. From the bathroom, the steady plink of the leaky sink faucet marks the passage of time. I draw back the curtain and gaze out through the glass.

Somewhere out there, beneath this same slate blue-black sky is Robyn. Is she asleep? Safe? My stomach churns with a heavy sickness contemplating the alternatives. I rest my hand against the windowpane, as if this action might somehow allow me to communicate my love to my daughter.

Yesterday I had finally managed to get one local television station interested in our plight. A scraggly cameraman and a field reporter from a local channel, both of whom stank of cigarette smoke, came out and interviewed Rob and I. I was calm and did my best to speak in a slow, still voice. With clammy hands we held the eight by ten of Robyn’s freshman picture along with our phone number in twenty-six-point courier font in front of the cold, uncaring lens and were promised a spot on the six o’clock news. But due to a head-on collision that killed six on the Bay Bridge, Robyn’s story was relegated to little more than a flash of her picture on the screen after the sports highlights. Nearly the entire interview had been deleted.

Still, hope clings to me like an orphan. Her picture is out there now. Though I’d made up flyers days ago and stapled them to every telephone pole I could find in the greater East County area, I feel that having the television exposure, however brief, is a step in the right direction. I went to bed last night with the unreasonable expectation that Robyn would see herself on TV and come right home.