by Helga Zeiner
“I guess so,” I say, a bit bewildered. “They found me nearly a week later, and I’m not sure how I survived the storm. I must have hidden somewhere, I had scratches on my arms and remember climbing over a fence and through bushes into a garden shed. I couldn’t have stayed there all week but yes, I made it.”
“Oh dear, of course you did. But that’s not what I meant when I said, you made it. You have managed to open the lock to stored memories; that is excellent. I’m so pleased with you.”
I am pleased with him too. Trust him not to feel sorry for me.
“Do you want to continue?”
Suddenly I feel exhausted. Letting go can be very draining. All I want to do is sleep.
Chapter 46
Dr. Stanley Eaton’s pre-trial report was waiting on Macintosh’s desk. It must have arrived after he had left the previous day or, God forbid, even earlier. It wasn’t marked urgent, so it could have taken days for its bureaucratic in-house journey between the mail arrival and his department. The report, addressed to the Presiding Judge of the Family and Youth Court, Vancouver, BC, was only five pages long.
He sat down and opened it. His hands were shaking a little and he had to steady himself before he started. He speed-read over the introductory part and highlighted what he found important:
…Tiara Brown is charged following an incident where she was observed by multiple witnesses and on video stabbing an older female individual multiple times without any apparent provocation …
…has not cooperated with investigators and has only provided information to myself up to the time of this dictation …
…was raised by her mother … homeschooled and isolated from her peers … from age four, she was enrolled in beauty pageants … put under significant pressure by both her aunt and her mother to succeed in these competitions …
…indicates that beginning at an early age Tiara Brown was photographed …pictures became increasingly sexually explicit … at times drugs were administered to her to sedate her for purposes of taking the pictures …
…became socially isolated … refused to attend school … became increasingly estranged from her biological mother …
…Psychological testing was done … indicates high intelligence … being highly defensive and unwilling to disclose details about herself … consciously suppressing emotional responses …
…indications of a significant tendency towards dissociation … noted to isolate herself … demonstrated extreme reluctance to being touched … depression with difficulty sleeping and obvious neurovegetative slowing …
…as time went on, she became somewhat more disclosive …
… at age 10 was sexually assaulted …
…shows some degree of agitation and emotional distress if attempts made to discuss emotional details of her life …
So far, all this had been clear to Macintosh, but now that he came to the psychiatrist’s all important conclusion, he put his yellow highlighter aside and concentrated on every single word.
Your Honour, Tiara Brown has been charged with a serious assault, without apparent provocation.
Our assessment has demonstrated significant emotional numbing, withdrawal, and dissociation. We do not have significant evidence of a psychotic disorder but she is demonstrating significant symptoms of depression.
Tiara Brown herself is unable to understand her behavior and in that context we cannot provide the courts with any assurance as to her safety or the safety of the public should she be released.
If Tiara Brown is remanded in custody, she will continue to have access to mental health services. She will be seen on a continuing basis by members of the mental health team and will continue to have access to myself for ongoing psychiatric care and assessment.
If the courts were to choose to release this young woman, given the history made available to us, it would not be appropriate for her to return to the care of her biological mother. If she was to be released to the community, we would ask that she be subjected to very strict conditions that would include regular attendance for ongoing assessment and treatment through Youth Forensic Psychiatric Services and if she is in the public she should be accompanied by a knowledgeable and responsible adult.
Until we get a clear understanding as to what provoked Tiara Brown’s behavior, final diagnosis and treatment recommendations cannot be made.
I trust this report will be of use to Your Honour in making an appropriate determination at this time. If you have any questions or concerns, please feel free to contact us at Youth Forensic Psychiatric Services, Inpatient Assessment Unit, South Burnaby region.
Respectfully submitted,
Dr. Stanley Eaton, M.D., F.R.C.P.
Good and bad! The shrink seemed to have his suspicions if Tiara was really completely unaware of her actions, but at least he opened the door wide for the judge to consider mental and emotional problems. But with this report, Tiara would never get probation. She would stay locked up indefinitely.
Macintosh still digested this rather bleak outlook for the girl who had so unexpectedly captured his heart, when Harding rushed over to his desk. Macintosh put the report aside.
Apparently good old Josh had tracked down Tony Alvares.
“He’s living in Phoenix now,” Harding said, “giving so-called dance lessons to young girls again, the sick bastard.”
Macintosh laughed. “You never learn, do you? The accused is innocent until proven guilty.”
“Sure, the prick deserves to be treated with kid gloves. I bet he’s the one with the black leather gloves. Josh thinks so too. He’s already dripping saliva while getting the search warrant organized. Unfortunately it’s in Phoenix, which ain’t Texas, so it’ll take a tad longer.”
“Wow, they got something on him?” Macintosh was all ears now.
“You bet. There have been four Antonio Alvares spread over several States, that’s why it took a few days to figure out who is our man. The one in Phoenix is not only a dance instructor, he also used to own a photo studio in Texas City. He sold it three years ago. Nice coincidence, isn’t it? Three years ago, Melissa brought Tiara back here. Anyway, the Sexual Offense Squad analyzed some of the Princess Tia video clips, one of them showed a partially covered window in the background. The prick, excuse me, the accused, wasn’t overly careful. They enlarged the window and matched the shape of the building outside to the view from the window of the Texas City studio.”
Harding paused but Macintosh didn’t interrupt. His partner deserved to spell out his vulpine conclusion.
“It’s definitely our man in Phoenix who’s made those clips.”
Chapter 47
Fireworks for my lost birthdays
I slept like a log. Solid, unmoving, undreaming, like a chunk of wood left on the ground, too heavy to roll. Stanley let me sleep, I guess he was making phone calls or seeing other traumatized resident-inmates in the medical unit of this extraordinary establishment—I can’t be the only one he needs to assess—until the hourly security check alerted him that I was awake.
One would think that I’m still drowsy after such a death-like slumber, but I’m refreshed beyond explanation. Stanley’s face reflects his surprise when he registers my quirkiness.
“I see you are ready to carry on.”
As always, he reads me like an open book. Yes, I want to keep talking. I have turned on a tap and now the memories are gushing out under enormous pressure. A wild waterfall of words. He settles down and listens, this time with his notebook open, ready to record the things done to me.
After Hurricane Ike had passed, the population of southern Texas began to rebuild their lives out of the destruction it had left them in. Our small household was no different. For several weeks, or months, I don’t recall how long it was, I stayed in my room.
Deep inside, I knew that Gracie had been responsible for that terrifying scene in the motel room. There was no point in telling Mom. Maybe she didn’t know that Gracie had sold me to this guy, but she must
have known what Gracie and her photographer friend and the Purple Shadow made me do for their pictures and videos. Mom had always ignored it. Hard to understand? Well, Connie once told me when children are abused by a relative, quite often mothers cope by pretending it’s not happening. And when they get confronted with the truth, they prefer not to believe their kids. Connie should know. Her mom beat her to a pulp when she told on her stepdad.
Now that I remember what happened on that day, I understand why I don’t want my mom to visit me. I understand where my intense dislike stems from. One day, I should confront her with it, but I can’t handle this now. Maybe in a million years.
She had always taken Gracie’s side, and if I’d confide in Mom, tell her what Gracie had done, I’d only lose them both, Mom and Gracie. They were the only family I had. They were part of me, like my arms or legs. I wouldn’t chop off my arm or leg because they hurt, and for the same reasons I wouldn’t cut myself loose from Mom and Gracie. It wasn’t an option. I was ten years old then, I had been hurt and couldn’t deal with the fact that somebody from inside our triangle had betrayed me.
Sure, deep, deep inside, I must have hoped Mom would come to my room and demand that I explain what’s wrong with me. She should have insisted that I answer her truthfully. She should have protected me. But as I lay in my room I knew I was waiting in vain for her to hold me and comfort me and gently extract the horror of what the motel-man had done to me.
And so I slipped into a state of utter uncaring, unfeeling passivity. It was another girl that got up in the morning, got fed and dressed, that sat in front of homework without reading or writing a single line, that answered Mom’s simple questions with a nod or a shake of the head. I lost my ability to communicate any other way. Mom tried only half-heartedly to snap me out of it, she had other things on her mind and often said, “don’t worry princess, next time there is a storm, I’ll take you up north before it starts.”
She was occupied with getting the house in order again, arguing with Gracie over money and hanging around the house waiting for the phone to ring. I knew she waited for that to happen because she never ventured far from the phone and she jumped every time it did ring, excited-like, pressing one hand over her bosom to hold her heart in, and always exhaling resignedly after she picked it up.
Quite often I could hear Gracie’s voice, shouting at Mom or being on the phone, but she didn’t come to my room until about two weeks after my return. Then she sat down on my bed and put her hand on my arm. I tried to pull away from her but she tightened her grip.
“Mija,” she said, “I know you’re upset with me, but I had no idea.”
I wanted to scream at her. You brought me to the motel. You left me alone in the dark. You let that man come to the room. You let him hurt me. But the words couldn’t break though the barrier of shame and turned inward instead.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
I couldn’t.
“You got to believe me, I would have stayed if I’d known.”
She started to cry and I turned my face to her. I wanted so badly to believe her.
“Please,” she said, “please, I’m your Gracie. I do love you so much.”
She was all I had.
“This will pass, and then, one day, you’ll understand it all. It’s not as bad as you think. It’s all part of growing up. But I promise you, in future I’ll take better care of you. Soon you’ll feel like a real beauty queen again. Big promise, cross my heart.”
The last bit of rebellion smoldering underneath my shame died altogether. Gracie was smiling again and I knew I would be her good girl again. Mom had failed me. Gracie was all I had.
Months went by. I stoically accepted Gracie’s presence and listened to her chatting about whatever she thought might get me out of my dark mood, but I couldn’t react to it. I was in a deep freeze and barely registered what was going on around me.
Now that the ice has melted, everything that happened then becomes visible and presents itself to me—and to Stanley—with amazing clarity.
At the end of those months, Gracie said it would do me good to participate in some photo sessions again.
As soon as she suggested it, Mom agreed. It’s about time I do my bit, she said, to get them out of their current financial bind. Darkness engulfed me more than ever when she said it.
“So the photo sessions started again?” Stanley asks me, not really throwing me off track. “When you were still ten?”
“Yes, and I didn’t even put up a fight. I let it happen because I saw no way out. They were stronger than me, they relied on me—and I didn’t have the guts to refuse their demands. Mom didn’t matter any longer, but I finally understood that I needed Gracie and that she needed me just as much.”
“Do you remember what happened to you in those sessions?”
Of course I do. It has been on my mind since I woke up. The sessions always followed the same pattern: Gracie takes me there, makes me placid with her drink and pretty with her paints and brushes, places me on a chair and leaves the room.
The Purple Shadow glides in. I never see a face or hear a voice, it is only a flowing, rolling fog, assisted by the photographer friend who tells me what to do. Sometimes I have to do things to myself, like getting undressed and touching myself in areas and in a way that would feel wrong, if I could feel anything. But I don’t. It’s not me.
The Purple Shadow films everything. The photographer friend is always there too, behind the smaller camera, click-clicking away. Sometimes the Purple Shadow comes over to me and does things with me before filming again.
I have no will power. I’m not really there.
It was another girl, one I knew and didn’t like very much, my ugly other, that went through those sessions. The original me-part didn’t care, she retreated to hide underneath or behind my good shell, mysoul, more and more as time went on. Part of me was ugly and despicable, I felt that every waking moment, but I learned to live with it. With every session it became more acceptable to do what they asked me to, even as their demands got more outrageous.
“What about Gracie? She had promised to protect you.”
This is hard to admit, but Stanley deserves to know. My heart beats faster and my lungs compress, trying to keep the confession locked in.
“Over time, the sessions made me feel … I began to feel like a beauty queen again, just as Gracie had promised. They called me Princess Tia when I did good. Gracie said I’m her best … her favorite … girl.” That’s my girl. That’s my girl. “I wanted Gracie to love me again … like before … I … started to understand what they wanted from me … and I … I gave them whatever they asked of me. That went on for nearly two years … until … until one day when …when a session went really bad.”
Silence. Are there even words to explain?
“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” Stanley holds my glance, searching behind my eyeballs to find both of me. He is not scared of the ugly other, and I shouldn’t be either, his inaudible acceptance offers.
Yes, there is, but my increased heart rate begs me not to confront it. Suddenly my hands cramp into fists.
Now my heart races even faster, cold sweat makes me shiver. This is a lot harder to tell than to think. Yet the cascade of my wordfall shoots over the cliff and cannot be halted.
“Gracie had prepped me in one of my contest dresses. I had outgrown it and she had worked on it for days, adding a middle section to accommodate my longer torso and had cut off the sleeves altogether. As far as I was concerned, whatever they dressed me up in was inconsequential, it never stayed on my body for long.”
Before Gracie left, she said: “You’re such a good girl, I know you’ll do this for me. Just this once. Let the man do what he needs to do to get this video done. I owe the sponsors. They’ve been very patient. But I insisted, wanted to wait for my little girl to be ready for it again. Wouldn’t do anything to upset you, you know that. But you’re twelve now, soon you’ll be too big. If
you don’t do it, I’d have to pay back a lot of money, and I can’t do that. And I know you’re into the whole thing now—you’ll enjoy it. Here, drink some more. Just relax, then it won’t hurt.”
I can’t go on. It is not necessary. Stanley knows.
All he asks is if I was raped again. Two years and a promise later, it happened again. One quick question, one nod, and the wordfall finally comes to a trickle.
“I couldn’t … I couldn’t fight him. The Purple Shadow behind the camera filmed it all.”
A sudden realization hits me. It’s like a lightning bolt strikes my cerebral cortex. Electric charges fire up those parts of my gray matter that have been dormant for so long and lift the fog that has enveloped my every waking moment since I’ve attacked the woman at Starbucks. In one brief instant I’m catapulted from comfortable none-and-then-partial remembering into the horrific realization that I do remember it all.
All of it!
I remember.
I see what has been leading up to the attack, every single detail, every sordid and shameful step toward the ultimate inevitable explosion. I can see and understand it all, and the images which penetrate my memory shield at nail-gun speed are so shocking, I cover my face with my hands. A simple gesture meant to hide the monstrous moment of enlightenment not only from myself, but also from Stanley. If I don’t see you, you don’t see me.
I know who I stabbed now.
And I know why.
“You have no idea who that person is?” Stanley probes gently. “The one you call the Purple Shadow?”
I’d love to tell him, right here and there, but I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I’m still reeling and can only hope Stanley attributes it to my earlier account of my rape. I need to concentrate on his questions, deflect from the mad race inside my mind. Time—please, give me time.
I can’t lower my hands. I can’t look at him.