Katrina Prado: The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

© 2010

I’d like to thank my parents, Ray and Nancy for their eternal and extraordinary love and support. Thank you to my husband and son for their unfailing encouragement. To Dan Hoover, thank you for your keen eye. Thanks to the Sisters, Januaria, Guadalupe, Ilse, and Nirma for your invaluable examples of love and courage.

Thank you to Margaret, my inspiration for Sister Margaret; and quite possibly the best boss in the entire world.

And to Tammy: “A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words.” This quote by Donna Roberts says it all.

“You are not going out in public in that outfit young lady!” I scream. “You look like the whore of Babylon!”

My teenage daughter Robyn scowls at me. At five feet seven inches, her long, strawberry blond hair streams down her shoulders in silky ribbons, hugging her statuesque body. Her dark obsidian eyes burn with fierce intensity. Lithe, bubbling over with a sexuality well beyond her years, which I’m certain she’s not aware of; she is the definition of lovely. At least before she dressed herself in that ridiculous outfit.

“There’s nothing wrong with what I have on!” Robyn says.

She’s wearing a shell pink nearly see through tube top that ends above her belly button, and a skirt so short I’d have bet money that the manufacturer used scarcely half a yard of fabric to make it. Fish net stockings cling to her thin, beautiful legs and are finished off by spiky, black heels I can’t believe she can wear and remain vertical. Costume silver bangles and hoop earrings the circumference of cantaloupes complete her ensemble.

“I cannot believe you,” I jab a pointed finger accusingly. “You look cheap and trashy.”

“I hate you!” Robyn shrieks. “I hate this place.” She glares at me, fists on her dainty hips. “Why did we have to leave Aztec? All my friends are there. My life is there!” she shouts.

Robyn is of course, referring to our move to the chaotic, writhing sprawl of the Bay Area from the hushed quiescence of Aztec, New Mexico. As I fight the sting of tears, glaring at my daughter, I marvel at how my small, fragile family has begun to unravel.

“Daddy lost his job at Conoco,” I say defensively. “When Tasco offered him this job, we had no other choice.”

My name is Margot Skinner, and this is my story. I have decided that setting pen to paper is the only way to properly chronicle the events that so altered our lives. God knows there were enough salacious rumors circulating in town that distorted everything from my and Rob’s marriage as having been open and bi-sexual, to downright lies that we produced pornographic videos of young teens engaging in sex with older men.

And, I suppose, also to assuage my own personal sense of guilt. The guilt that all mothers experience when they feel responsible, seeing their children make bad choices. Horrendous choices.

Robyn clenches her fists. For half a second I think she might try to punch me.

“It’s my birthday. I’m fifteen years old! I’m not a baby anymore, Mom.”

“Robyn, I do not have time for this young lady. I have a test to study for and homework to complete.”

“So?” Robyn sasses back.

Where is Rob when I need him?

Always this question of how to respond to my beloved daughter. It has always been this way.

Robyn proved to be a challenge from the day we brought her home. Colicky, she cried for weeks, seemingly non-stop. Ear infections had us in the pediatrician’s office more often than at home.

When she was five, her Kindergarten teacher suggested testing, saying Robyn was “lagging a bit”. Her tests came out low, but too high to qualify for any special help. Not that anything like that was available in Aztec, anyway. By the time she was in third grade, Robyn had a reputation in school for being the problem child. The psychologist in Santa Fe diagnosed Robyn as having ADD and a non-specific learning disorder and put her on thirty milligrams of Ritalin. By the time she was in fifth grade she was taking 40 milligrams of Ritalin and 300 milligrams of Wellbutrin and cutting all her classes half the time. Her grades were in the toilet. We hired private tutors, I made the two hundred mile round trip to Albuquerque for her to see “best counselor in the state” twice a month, and we even sent her away to a private boarding school for one semester, almost driving us to bankruptcy, but nothing helped. Rob began drinking, sometimes heavily and some nights it seemed we fought until the sun rose. I had hoped the move to California would mean a fresh start. For all of us.

“You can’t stop me,” Robyn declares. In her eyes is the steely resolve that all fifteen of her years can muster.

She spins around and yanks open the front door. I blink as the door slams shut. Silence spills into my ears with such force it makes my head hurt.

Should I have tried to physically restrain Robyn? Would that have saved her? Looking back, I think the answer to that question is yes. I should have done whatever it took to rescue her. The problem was that I truly didn’t know what saving her included at the time. Or that I might need as much rescuing as my beloved daughter. On so many occasions I have pondered my choice of words that fateful night; the night that was the beginning of the end, and I have wondered. Did I drive her to it?

Later that night I am lying in bed talking with Rob about the argument. He’s cuddling next to my limp form, his body smells of aftershave and sweat; my favorite combination. The lingering smell of old beer and an even older bar also linger on the air but I choose to ignore that.

“You should have seen her,” I say between silent tears. “She looked awful. Like a hooker,” I sob.

Rob sighs. It is the sigh of the defeated. One who believes any future effort will be wasted.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” he says.

“I know,” I add. “She’s always been such a headstrong girl.”

We remain silent a moment. Then Rob says,

“I guess being a teenager means she’s just going through that rebellious period. They all go through it.” He presses me closer. “We did; remember?”

I nod but don’t say anything. My greatest act of rebellion had been watching Rob and his high school buddies cruise the Aztec UFO Information Center ’s gift shop as they shoplifted alien head key chains.

“Did I tell you, Thompson at work said his fourteen year old daughter Trish came home last week with her tongue pierced.”

“Lord,” I murmur.

“It’s probably just a phase. Hopefully she’ll grow out of it.”

“Hopefully,” I sigh.

Little did we know how tragically wrong we would be.

The kitchen clock ticks just past five in the morning. My eyes open suddenly and at the same time, a sharp pain shoots down my neck settling into my shoulder, a result of falling asleep in the living room chair, waiting for Robyn to come home.

I throw off the afghan I used to cover myself, my body rebelling at the sudden movement. I wipe off a sheen of sweat already gathered on my face. Instinctively, I know my daughter had not come home yet, and I fight down that bowel-wrenching panic that she lies dead in some gutter, or else unconscious in a hospital room somewhere. Thoughts that bloom in my mind like tenacious weeds; unwelcome and unbidden, yet doggedly persistent.