by Helga Zeiner
“See what you’ve done. You’ve upset her!”
“Tia…wanna…cake!”
That does it. Gracie swoops me up, I stop crying because I can’t breathe and she shushes me and tells me her little angel will get cake as soon as she says I’m sorry. All I need to do is say two little words. So sorry.
Gracie lets go a little, enough for me to breathe.
“Soo…”gasp, sniff, gasp “so…soddy!”
She gives me cake. I’m on her lap, protected by her softness.
“My poor little baby. Don’t cry. Gracie loves you.”
Mom wants to say something but the words of comfort she should be saying stick in her throat. Instead, she apologizes. In the end she always apologizes to Gracie, that is part of all my birthdays and in-between. Every single day in between birthdays there is something to apologize for, and I learn very quickly that this is the fastest way to get the cake.
Of course, Gracie makes the dress she wants, in lime green with white teddy bears printed on it, and the bonnet too. For me, and for a doll with a painted porcelain face. I put the doll in a corner and forgot about it, never touched it again, and I soiled my new lime green dress with grape juice on the first day they made me wear it. I think of getting angry inside, getting soiled. I think of slow death. Now, the psycho-doc would have a field day with this line.
Psycho-doc dropped by yesterday for another visit.
“May I come in?”
“Do you have an appointment?” I wondered if I could—should?—demand this, or if I was doomed to constant, unwanted interruptions.
He smiles, sits down. “I know I’m bothering you.”
“You don’t say.”
“After receiving my rather inconclusive assessment of you, in which I have expressed my opinion that there are underlying issues, as well as my suspicion that your uncooperative conduct might be self-serving, the court has now asked for a full assessment of your mental capabilities.”
“You think I want to be here?”
“I think you may be hiding certain aspects of your motivation.”
“How can you think that if I haven’t told you anything?”
“You might not be consciously aware of it,” he says. “But I strongly suspect your lack of cooperation is because you don’t want to go home.”
“Sure, psycho-doc, you know everything!”
“I know as much as you allow me to.”
I refuse to answer that.
“As I said, the court asked for a full assessment and it will be a lot easier if you’re responsive.” He pauses. “I hope you cooperate.”
“Maybe.”
I bet they move me back to the IAU for this, and they wear green in there. This purple suit gives me the creeps. The this color seeps through my pores and poisons my insides kind of creeps. Plus, when I’m in the IAU, I don’t have to attend morning classes. That’s a big deal for me. I drop my arms.
“Depends what’s involved.”
“A comprehensive assessment includes full psychiatric interviews, with multiple full psychology assessment with IQ, personality testing and interviews, as well as a psychosocial assessment by a nurse and social worker,” he says.
“You are kidding!”
“I kid you not.” He actually grins.
“You mean a bunch of strangers will want to talk to me?”
“I only dropped by on my way home to let you know. I usually don’t do those kind of assessments. Your lawyer will ask for an independent assessment, and, if you can afford it, a private psychologist.”
He wasn’t joking when he said I played my card wrong. I don’t want another shrink. I can barely handle him, but at least he doesn’t invade my space. Even in my compact Living Unit he leaves as much space as humanly possible between us.
“Can’t you do it?”
“You have a right to refuse and to choose.”
“I do?” Who would have thought criminals have rights? “If that’s true, I won’t talk to anybody but you.”
Chapter 13
He called Harding before he left for work Monday morning and told him he’d be running late.
Then he drove to BYSC.
When the warden brought the girl in, she looked every bit as sullen as last time in the interview room at the station.
“I’m Detective Pete Macintosh,” he said.
“You don’t need to say that every time.”
“Oh, that’s great. You remember.”
“Only what’s happening right now. Sorry to be such a disappointment.”
His scalp was itchy, right along the neckline. He scratched it, thinking the gesture would make him look indecisive. But he had to get rid of the itch.
“I didn’t expect anything else from you.”
A tiny spark lit up in her eyes. But she didn’t contradict him or try and defend herself or –God forbid—start to explain herself. She just looked at him.
“I understand you like to be called Princess Tia.”
“Says who?”
“I’m the one to ask questions here,” he said. “You’re the one to answer.”
“Make me.”
He took a deep breath. Christ Almighty, where were his interview skills? Bullying an uneducated girl her age to extract some kind of reaction wasn’t exactly textbook. She’d outsmart him again by simply refusing to cooperate.
But she didn’t this time.
“You know it from the psycho-doc,” she said, “but you can’t tell me because he isn’t supposed to give out information. Right?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“If it helps our investigation,” he said evasively. “It’s his decision.”
“So all the movies get it wrong? About the confidentiality and that kind of crap, I mean.”
“While an assessment is ongoing, we don’t have access to it, but once it’s done, the court hands his report over to us.” She didn’t seem to understand. “He’s finished his initial assessment. I’ve read it.”
“What does it say?”
Macintosh leaned back and shook his head.
”Nothing that’ll help me.”
“Help you with what?”
“You really ask too many questions. But I’ll give you an answer anyway. It’s because I want to wrap up this case as quickly as possible so I can get on with my life.”
“But that is your life, talking to criminals like me, isn’t it?”
There was that curious expression again, flitting over her face. Was she baiting him? He had to smile; a little bitter, but still.
“I’ll be done with this soon and then I go up north to my home in the country and forget bad things and bad people exist.”
She smiled back at him, without any bitterness but with a sadness that dulled the little spark in her eyes again.
“You know I can’t help you. I don’t remember anything.”
“That’s what you say.”
“No,” she said, involuntarily kicking her heel on the linoleum flooring. “That’s how it is. I wish I’d remember, even the bad stuff, but you, you just want to forget everything.”
“Are you saying bad things have happened to you?”
“I don’t know. If they did, I have forgotten about them. I wish I wouldn’t have. And neither should you. Whatever bad stuff happened to you, you shouldn’t forget anything. It’s really quite awful, this not remembering thing.”
With that, she closed down altogether and went back into the private retreat she had created for herself. He knew he wouldn’t be able to break through this barrier. At least not today.
On his way to the station, he went over the conversation—one couldn’t call it an interview by any stretch of the imagination—again and got angry. Her final comment annoyed him and he mused over its meaning. Was it really so bad to forget? How else would he carry on living and get some enjoyment out of his golden years if he didn’t at least attempt to forget the tragedy of his life. He pictured himself on his porch
—sitting on what his wife had always called the old couples bench—with the sun setting behind the cluster of fir trees on the opposite hill. Its last rays were supposed to warm his bones but sitting there he shivered from the loneliness and emptiness inside him.
He got angry, first at fate, and then at the girl. She was right. At least, if he kept the memories alive, he’d have those to take with him and he wouldn’t be alone.
Back at the station he made an effort to shake himself free of the looming despair. This was his life, right here and now. He had cases to solve and should save the philosophical ruminations for the years when he had nothing better to do.
But damn the girl, she had touched a nerve that wasn’t hers to expose.
“Where’ve you been?” Harding saw him come in, waved and pointed at the stack of files in front of him. “We got to get through this shit before lunch time.”
“Nowhere,” Macintosh said. “Just private business.”
Chapter 14
Monday morning is turning into a social whirlwind for me. As soon as the detective left, the psycho-doc arrived and I’m sent straight from the visitor’s room to a small office inside the prison unit for our first session. To my deep regret, I am not allowed to change from purple to green this time.
“For the time being, there is no need to move you back into IAU,” he explains. “We’ll do morning sessions only until I’ve assessed your mental health.”
Well, at least I’m avoiding school.
“I guess that’s penalty for my refusal to be tested and probed by anybody but you?”
“Do you feel guilty about that?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“No, it’s not penalty. It’s procedure.”
“I don’t feel guilty.”
“Never?”
This is our first real, doc-to-patient, man-to-girl session. I don’t answer his last stupid question and we do a staring-sparring match for a few minutes, until I cave in like a sink-hole.
“Stop staring at me!”
“Do you think you lost?” he asks as soon as I have closed my mouth again. Which of course is precisely what I’m thinking, and when he can read this in my sulking expression, he says: “Don’t ever think that. When you are silent, you lose, when you talk, you win!”
I dwell on this for a while and decide he is right. Whenever I talk, I win. The point is, I got nothing to say. The stuff I do remember by now is nothing but second-hand. (Second mouth, to be correct). It’s like I have a safety-valve installed that blocks all of my own memories and only allows passage to whatever other people told me about my childhood. What good is that? It certainly doesn’t explain why I wanted to kill the bitch.
“Are you making progress with your memoirs?”
That’s how clever he is, he makes even the cheapest crap sound important and classy. Just like Gracie and Mom always wanted to be, and never were.
“Not really.” Young girl, trying honest and hard, not getting anywhere. “A murderer ain’t no writer!”
He smiles, which makes him less serious. “I know, just like a criminal doesn’t have to be a moron.”
Did I mention he has a beard? It’s a fine moustache on his upper lip, dripping on both sides into the beard on his chin. A white beard in a white face which nearly swallows this gentle smile of his. Mexican men have those type of beards quite often, but they are dark-skinned with coarse, black hair and so very different from my smart, white psycho-dove-doc. I wonder if the rest of his body hair is as white.
“We shall see about that.”
Oops, did he read my mind—embarrassing—or does he refer to my ability to express myself? He does.
“You might be a writer after all. I bet you have a talent for it. You are quite articulate for your age.”
“When I talk.”
“When you talk.”
“What do you want to talk about?” I relent even more. Sink-hole that I am.
“What do you want to talk about?”
Such a see-through psycho-doc. “How about, why did you come to see me today?”
“What do you think?”
Oh shit! Not the silly question game. “Because you want to crawl into my brain. Because you want to know why I did it.”
“Why did you?”
Now, this I can tell with all honesty. “I know, I stabbed that woman—”
He makes a face like a dog in front of an empty bowl. When will you give me something?
“—and can’t for the life of me think of a reason. Maybe she just looked at me, and that pissed me off.”
“I’m looking at you now. Do you want to harm me?”
“Maybe. I’m crazy. I stab people for no reason.”
“Have you ever hurt someone before?”
“I don’t hurt! I kill!”
“By the way, I’ve just talked to the doctors at St Paul’s Hospital. Do you want to know what happened to the woman you stabbed?”
Hallelujah! This round goes to me. I knew he had a know-it-all face when he came in.
“She is still hanging in there.”
How disappointing.
Chapter 15
The past days had been the worst days of her life. Ever since she had stumbled through that stupid interview at the police station, she was on edge. It didn’t help that a small but rabidly excited press mob practically camped in front of her Eastside building and made it impossible for her to venture out without being harassed. There was always somebody who yelled out to her as if she was a celebrity. Melissa, how is Tiara? Has she confessed yet? Why did she do it? Come on, Melissa, talk to us.
It was like that since she had come back from the police station. Louise had offered to keep her company, but she couldn’t handle her mother’s chirpy insistence of all-will-be-sorted-out-we-just-need-to-be-strong-now.
Nothing would ever be sorted out again.
She couldn’t go back to work, and she couldn’t go outside if she didn’t want to face the mob, so she spent the days wandering up and down the hallway, absentmindedly stuffing herself with chocolate chip cookies. Her little Princess didn’t want to see her! Tiara should be seeking the comfort only a mother could give. But does she beg the authorities for a visit? No! Worse, she tells this terrible detective that she doesn’t want her mother by her side. If she could only see her and talk some sense into her.
If only.
Melissa had not turned on the TV for days, but she couldn’t go to sleep and needed to distract herself. Of course that was a mistake. Even after several days, Tiara was still a news item, although this time as part of a report on the shocking rise of teenage violence. They aired the Starbucks’ clip again, edited from material they had collected from various eye-witnesses. It showed the attack from several different angles. Horrific. Merciless. Inhuman in its brutality. And there was something about the shape of the woman on the floor, something vaguely familiar. Corn-fed country types, cleaning homes or chatting on park benches, that’s what came to her mind. Could it be—? No way, what was she thinking! She moved closer to the screen and tried to make out the face of the woman but there was either too much movement or Tiara’s arm or the victim’s hand was in the way. Oh my God, did the knife just poke into her eye? Melissa couldn’t stop watching—she had to sit through it.
The anchor said, the victim was still listed in critical condition. The police had not yet been able to identify her, and the alleged suspect could not be named, being a minor, but their investigative team (Global, not the police) had learned that the suspect was a 15 year old Canadian citizen who had lived most of her life with a single parent in the States.
That did it. Melissa turned the TV off.
Sleep was impossible. The clip had been too explicit; her mind ran it on an endless tape. Over and over again it ran and mocked her. Tiara was the daughter of a single mom. Tiara was a criminal. So it must all be her single mom’s fault.
First thing in the morning she would go downstairs and tell that press mob
down there that Tiara’s father would have married her if he hadn’t died.
She could have sworn she was awake all night, but when the phone on her bedside table rang, she was surprised to see that it was already eight-thirty.
Detective Macintosh was at the other end and asked if he could come over and see her. He’d like to talk to her. Just a few more questions. Good. Around noon then.
She hung up, got dressed and made herself a mug of tea. She took the mug to her kitchen window spot where she always sat and looked into the morning sun, wishing it would rain today. Why had she promised the detective she could prepare a list of Tiara’s friends? She had to fight down a panic attack and told herself again and again to keep it together, but by the time the doorbell rang she was a sniffling, snorting, bawling mess.
The detective took a step back. They both took a second to gather themselves. His moment was faster, but she saw the disgust.
She opened the door and waved him inside.
“Excuse me.” She went into the bathroom and blew her nose hard. Then she washed her face and hands and stepped out again to face this uncaring son-of-a-bitch.
“How can I help you, Detective?”
Chapter 16
When Melissa opened the door, Macintosh could see she’d been crying. Her face was swollen and wet. Damn it, he should have ordered her to come to the station. But she lived in a complex close to Chinatown where he purchased his favorite Po-Lai tea and quite regularly enjoyed a Dim Sum lunch. Mother, lunch, tea—that had seemed like a good idea, until he was faced with her suffering-mother act.
“So Tiara wants to see me now?”
“No.”
Did he detect a glimmer of relief in her red-rimmed eyes?
“We need to talk,” he said.
She asked him into the kitchen but didn’t offer him a seat.
He sat down anyway.
“I didn’t get around to do that list for you yet. With all the heartache and stress I have to endure, I can’t concentrate on anything.”