Birthdays of a Princess Read online

  “You should never have gone down there. Don’t say I haven’t warned you!”

  Melissa sighed again, heavier.

  “You could have had that job at the elementary school, it was as good as yours. A steady job! How could you throw your whole education away, all that studying for nothing, as if it hadn’t cost me a bundle!”

  Now Melissa could feel the familiar anger rise, but this time despair reduced its fire to a barely smoldering heap of ashes.

  “Stop it, Mother. You’re not helping.”

  “What do the police say?”

  “They haven’t contacted me yet.”

  Louise put on an indignant face. “What? Why not? How can they not speak to you? You’re her mother!”

  “Maybe they don’t know who she is.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! They’ll ask her for her name. This is unacceptable—”

  “Mother!”

  “I’m just saying. You’ve got to call them right away—”

  “I don’t have their number.”

  Louise brought the filled mugs to the table and sat down.

  “Then call 911.”

  “No.”

  “You must. They need to know.”

  “Leave me alone and stop meddling.”

  Louise stared, sniffed. Tears welled up.

  Melissa envied her mother. She herself had no tears—it was all too sudden. This fury on the TV, how could this be her daughter?

  “I’m sorry,” Louise said. “But look at it my way, if you hadn’t left me, if you hadn’t run away with that man, you wouldn’t have had to suffer so much.”

  As usual, her mother had it all wrong.

  “If Mike hadn’t died,” Melissa said, “nothing like this would have happened.”

  “But he did die!” Louise said. “And you had to bring her up on your own. And now look what came of it.”

  The women withdrew into silence, each one in her corner of the ring.

  Melissa sipped her tea. How could her life have derailed so badly? Where had it gone wrong? Was it when she packed her bags to join her new love in Texas? Or was it when she lived with his sister Gracie at their family home in Galveston, while he had to go fight a war on the other side of the world? Or was it when she had found out that she carried his baby? No, she had been happy then. It must have been when she was told of his fatal accident, so unfortunate, so unnecessary. That was when she had felt most vulnerable. That was when she had needed her mother most.

  “You weren’t there,” Melissa said. “You have no idea what I’ve gone through!”

  “I know, honey. I’m so sorry. I would have come much sooner if I’d known.”

  “You knew perfectly well I’d just lost a husband! You never called back!”

  “Can’t we just leave all this behind?”

  “I’m not the one who brought it up.”

  Louise looked lost. “You’re here now. You’re back home.”

  Melissa turned away from her mother and stared out the window.

  “Then how come I don’t feel welcome?”

  Louise got up to make fresh tea. Twelve long years of silence had dragged them down to a level where communication was difficult at best.

  Chapter 6

  Their machinery is well oiled—they bring me before a judge the same day I’m arrested. This time I stare at a hole in the wall. The judge orders me to be held in custody until my mental fitness is established, which—he points out with a weary voice—is normal procedure.

  They transport me to prison. It has a fancy name, the Burnaby Youth Secure Custody Center, but it’s a prison all the same. A place for people like me: dangerous to the public but too young to be thrown in with adult offenders who’d make mince-meat out of us aspiring criminals.

  BYSC is a modern, low rise brick building, from what I can see through the window slit of the prison van. The driver reverses into a loading bay; shutters go down, then they open the van doors and let me out. Two security guards assist me down the steps and into the building, making sure I won’t slip and hurt myself and tell a lawyer later on they roughed me up.

  I arrive at a processing area and am asked to stand in front of a fishbowl counter. The guy behind the bullet-proof, convex glass asks my name. I say nothing. He shrugs, doesn’t give a damn, has difficult customers all the time, I guess.

  They usher me to the next room. Three different security guards, female this time, unprotected—brave heroines of the system—take my cuffs off and unshackle me, watch me undress, ask me to shower, and then they let me decide which color sweat suit I want to wear. There are four different colors in the Center which help the staff categorize their ‘residents’ (yes, I’m told we are residents) and normally the inmates, oops, sorry, residents, can’t choose, but as I’m transferred to the Inpatient Assessment Unit for my mental fitness tests, it doesn’t matter what color I wear there. I choose green.

  The IAU is like a hospital. My room is big enough to accommodate a bed, a desk and a chair. Suddenly there is peace around me. Silence. I stretch out on the mattress, hands behind my head, very pleased with myself, at least for the next little while. I’m still a bit worried I might not be able to transport myself into a dream world. If I can’t control my thoughts, I’ll fall into darkness with a concrete block attached to my legs which drags me deep into murky inability, incapability. Depression.

  I just want to lie here and savor the sweet memory of my outburst, but being unable to remember any more than the action itself drains all pleasure out of it. On top of that, a new feeling seeps into my satisfaction, a dark and intense feeling of hostility. Every fascicle of my nervous system carries one simple but powerful message to my brain: I hate her. My brain is suddenly swamped with pure, unadulterated rage.

  I hate that bitch I hate that bitch I hate that bitch.

  A guard comes in, takes me to another room where I’m interrogated by a psycho-doc who pretends to have ‘my interest at heart’. He asks me all sorts of questions so he can better understand me. He says it’ll help my case.

  I answer every question with: “My name is Princess Tia and I refuse to answer any questions.” I think this reaction is more commonly used in war movies, but who cares.

  The psycho-doc takes it in stride. This guy is smart. He even looks smart. Middle-aged, swinging either way, depending on your perception of age. I decide he is young, even with his hair, beard and all, so grey it’s shining white. He isn’t like anybody I have ever known until now. I think of a dove when I watch him move his hands with soft swings to underline a mellifluous comment.

  “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” he says, “but if I were you, I’d think it over. It’s totally up to you, but it might be in your own interest to cooperate with me. It’s your life.”

  Now, fool that I am, that got me hooked. Before I can stop myself I say: “My life is over anyway.” God, I sound whiny.

  He closes his notebook, gets up. “If you say so.”

  He is at the door already.

  “They told me it might be murder.”

  He stops.

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I lost it.” Suddenly tears well up. I’m so ashamed to cry in front of this strange man. I’m terrified he might come closer, put his hand on my shoulder.

  He stays where he is.

  “The court has asked me to offer an opinion if you are fit to stand trial or if you are NCRMD. I won’t be able to help you if you are non-disclosive.” When he realizes I don’t understand his jargon he clarifies: “The court wants to know if they can put you on trial or if you are not criminally responsible due to a mental disorder.”

  “So that’s what it stands for.”

  “You’re quick.”

  “Criminals don’t have to be morons.”

  “Since you’re so clever, you better try to remember what you’ve done. Try hard. It might all come back to you. We don’t need to talk about the alleged offence, but I need to understand what
makes you tick or I can’t recommend that you get out on bail.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “You don’t want to talk?”

  “I don’t want to get out on bail.”

  “Why not? You could go back to your mother until trial starts.”

  “Shit, no! Leave her out of it! I don’t want to live with her and I don’t want to see her!”

  ”Not even if she visits?”

  I glare at him. How often do I have to repeat it?

  “You have a right to refuse her visit.”

  He gives me a moment but can sense that I’ve shut down. He shakes his head, goes back to his desk, takes out another notebook, an unused one, and a pencil from his desk drawer and slides both over to me.

  “If you don’t want to talk to me, you might find it easier to write things down.”

  “Like what? I don’t remember anything.”

  “Just a thought. Sometimes things come back while writing.”

  I’m back in my hospital-like room inside the prison, and it is so quiet I can hear my mind ticking and clicking. The psycho-doc got under my skin. He’s got me uptight and emotional before I even knew what he was up to. Nicely played, doc, I won’t let my guard down so quickly next time.

  But he did dangle a carrot in front of me, and like a dumb rabbit I’m reaching for it.

  Sometimes things come back while writing.

  This hatred still burns inside me. I want to, no, I need to know why I tried to kill the bitch. Not knowing drives me crazy. But maybe I am crazy. I must be, or I’d know the reason why furious orange flames scorch my insides.

  For an endless time, I contemplate what the psycho-doc has offered—If you don’t want to talk to me, you might find it easier to write things down—and stare at the still closed notebook. Finally, I reach for the pencil and let it roll between my fingers. It is round, with a sharp tip, I’m surprised they let me have it. I could do damage with it. Another eye? Can you blind someone with a pencil?

  I slowly open the notebook. If I find out when and how it all began, it might douse the fire. I need something to hold on to while trying.

  My hand tightens around the pencil.

  Birthday Zero

  So, you don’t remember anything before age five or six? Bullshit, I say. If you try hard enough, you remember. I do! Shall I tell you what happened when I was born?

  It was a hot day in 1998, August 21, to be exact, the same day my father, Miguel ‘Mike’ Rodriguez, died during a goddamn stupid cruise missile strike called Operation Infinite Reach. The US bombed an obscure terrorist camp called Zhawar Kili in Afghanistan. Officially, the attack was in retaliation for the bombings of the American Embassies in Kenya and Tanzania, but unofficially the CIA suspected Osama bin Laden to be there. Bad luck. They found out later that he’d left a few hours prior to the attack. At least no US soldier had lost his life—none other than my father, and even he wasn’t really a casualty. The less said about it, the better. It hadn’t been the ultimate sacrifice, it had been a goddamn stupid accident.

  At about the time he blew his brains out, my mother was doing what I assume expecting mothers do while waiting for their belly to pop. Don’t know that one for sure because I wasn’t born yet—(not like my birth, which I do remember, remember?). Presumably she was knitting some tiny shoes or sewing little toddler’s outfits. I wasn’t due for another month, but when she got word of her beloved Mike’s unfortunate demise, she went straight into shock. They took her to a hospital in Houston and performed a caesarean to make sure she wouldn’t lose me too.

  When she woke up, she couldn’t even look at me.

  Next day, my father’s sister Graciella, or Gracie, as Mom called her, dropped by with a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates. After they had cried together for a while, Gracie carefully placed me on my mom’s cut-and-stapled-back-together-again stomach.

  My mom said to Gracie: “At least it’s a girl. I couldn’t bear it if it were a boy. I’m sure he’d look just like Mikey and remind me of him every single day.”

  And Gracie nodded in agreement and said: “Yes, it’s a blessing. A girl is so much easier. We can make pretty things for her.”

  Mind you, I was lying right on my mom’s now empty belly, listening to every word the two ladies said. You believe that? Ha, ha—got you there. Of course I didn’t. I was a newborn, for crying out loud. But I’ve heard it told so many times that I can’t say if I know it from hearing or from experience. In any case, it’s true, unless their account of my birth has been twisted to suit their own memories. Could be a figment of my mom’s imagination because she doesn’t want to admit that she didn’t even look at me, the red-wrinkled premature bundle of obligations. It could well be that she cried and lamented and cursed me for being born and becoming a burden to a young, widowed woman. Wouldn’t surprise me, the way she always went on about her suffering and how much she’s given up for me and so on.

  Whatever. That was my Birthday Number Zero.

  A big, fat Zero!

  Chapter 7

  “Are you Melissa Brown?”

  The women at the door shook her head and glared at the detective in front of her. “About time somebody from the police showed up!”

  Macintosh had to hold back not to snap at her.

  “Are you?”

  The woman pointed toward the open kitchen door.

  He walked past her. If the other one was as belligerent as this one, he’d have a tough time staying professional. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why some relatives thought it was the duty of the police to get in touch with them right away. Accidents were a different matter, but a crime? If they didn’t care enough about the girl to rush to her side as soon as they found out, they shouldn’t act all indignant later on.

  The woman sitting at the table looked up, blank, confused. She was big. A sloppy, sweaty mass, compressed by spandex tight slacks, spilling out of every opening of her summery top. She was thirty-ish, hard to say. Traces of former beauty were still detectable in her face. A delicate nose, smooth skin, full lips, shiny blonde hair. Her face was that of a twenty-year-old, balloon-tight skin, ready to burst at the next mouthful of cream cake.

  “Ma’am, I am Detective Pete Macintosh from the Vancouver Police Department, District One.”

  No reply.

  He didn’t expect to exchange pleasantries, so he soldiered on. “I’m here about your daughter. You have a daughter named Tiara?” Stupid, stupid question, but he had to ask.

  The woman waved it away. Of course she had, and of course she knew already.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to ask you a few questions. Do you mind?”

  The older women took charge. “Please, Officer, sit down. I’m Louise Brown, Melissa’s mother, Tiara’s grandmother. Please, tell us what happened. We don’t really know anything. Only what has been on the news. My daughter wanted to call you but we couldn’t figure out whom to contact.”

  How difficult was it to call the local police station? Macintosh sat down, took his small manila colored notebook out of its leather cover and opened it.

  “At approximately 7.30 this morning a young woman we believe to be your daughter attacked a female customer inside Starbucks on Robson Street.”

  “I know all that,” Melissa said, standing up. “I’ve seen it on TV. Shall we go?”

  Macintosh didn’t move, except for a faint shake of his head.

  “I thought you were here to take me to her.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “The young woman has been processed and a judge has ordered her to be taken into custody for further evaluation. I’m here to confirm her identity.”

  Melissa just looked at him.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to make sure.” He put a picture on the table. It showed the mug shot of a young girl. “Is that her?”

  Melissa put her hand over the picture. “Yes. That’s my daughter. Is she in prison now?”

&
nbsp; “Yes, ma’am, at the Youth Custody Center in Burnaby, at least until her exact age is established.”

  “Tiara is fifteen.”

  “Right. Thank you.” Macintosh explained that the girl, being under-age, would definitely stay at the Center until a psychiatrist had checked her mental state.

  Melissa’s mother interfered again. “The woman? How is she? I mean, the one who…, is she…? Did she…?”

  “The victim was alive when they transported her from the scene of the crime. She’s in emergency care.”

  Melissa Brown, still standing, cringed when he mentioned ‘victim’ and ‘scene of the crime’.

  “Please, Mrs. Brown, sit down again. There’s nothing you can do for your daughter right now, except help us understand by answering a few questions.”

  She sat down again. Her eyes were dry, but her face was scrunched up in a silent bawl.

  “How can I? I don’t understand it myself. My Tiara, my baby! What has she done?”

  He stared at the lined page of his notebook. “Please, ma’am.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  He scribbled Tiara Brown on the empty page. It was important to take notes. “You said she’s fifteen?”

  “She turned fifteen this August. August twenty-first.”

  “Right.” Macintosh took a consent form from his notebook. “Her being a minor, we’ll need parental permission to interview your daughter.” He slid the form over to the mother, then he coughed uncomfortably. “And do a drug test.”

  The two women shot ping-pong looks at each other. Melissa Brown seemed to hesitate, the older one nodded and took over.

  “Yes, of course, my daughter will sign it. Just her. Tiara’s father died fifteen years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The older woman continued. “He was a US soldier. Got killed in the line of duty.”

  Macintosh turned to the mother. “What nationality is your daughter then?”

  “Canadian,” the older woman said.

  “Please, ma’am, I’d appreciate if you let Tiara’s mother answer.”

  “Both”, Melissa said. “She was born in the States, so she’s got dual citizenship.”