“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “Please don’t tell Daddy what happened.”
“It’s my fault,” Hannah replied. “I wasn’t thinking. I never should’ve taken you there in the first place.”
I started crying. “Will I ever be normal, Hannah? How am I ever going to fall in love if I can’t stand a man touching me?”
“That’s what your therapy is for. It takes time.”
“It’s been six years!” I dried my tears with my sleeve. “This is never going to end.”
“Everything ends eventually, or at least improves,” she reassured me. “You’re going to have to learn to forgive them. They were kids, like you, and made a huge mistake.”
“A mistake? What they did to me wasn’t a fucking mistake!” My chest tightened as memories of the past rushed through my mind. “They ruined my life!”
Hannah took my hand. “We’ve been through this. Your life is not ruined, Ladonna. You’ve been given an opportunity for a new beginning. Richard loves you and he’ll never let anyone hurt you.” She ran her fingers from her other hand across my cheek where my scar had been removed by several plastic surgeries. “You’re stunning, you’re talented, and you’re famous. I only wish that you would let the world see the real Wicket. You shouldn’t hide behind that veil onstage.”
“But what if someone recognizes me?” I asked as tremors shot through my body.
“Think about it. Who on earth would put two and two together? As far as the world is concerned, Richard adopted you nearly a decade before it actually happened. You don’t look the same. Money talks, and Richard has made sure that the truth will never come out.”
“Maybe it should come out,” I said. “Maybe I should go back and fuck up their lives like they fucked up mine.”
“That’s not truly on your heart.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know you. There’s no reason for you to go back there . . . ever!”
I leaned back in the seat. “I should’ve been there for Grandma when she . . .”
“You can’t change that. I’m sure she only wanted you to be happy. You used to write her letters. She knew you loved her.”
“Yeah, letters with no return address. That was so immature of me.”
“It was the only thing that made sense at the time. Stop beating yourself up. It’s not easy living a triple life.”
I let her words sink in: a triple life. That was exactly what I was doing. I was three women living inside one body.
There was Caprice Tatum—a scared, scarred young girl suffering from intermittent explosive disorder.
There was Ladonna Sterling—the world-traveled, seemingly confident daughter of billionaire Richard Sterling.
And then there was Wicket—the veiled, sensual singer taking the music industry by storm with her first hit album in constant rotation at radio stations around the globe.
No wonder I was so fucked-up in the head!
Sunday, October 25, 1987
2:36 a.m.
Atlanta, Georgia
As I approached the doorway, three college-aged guys were lingering around, smoking cigarettes and carrying backpacks. They had probably come from other HBCUs for the Morehouse homecoming game and were headed back after the parties ended so they could attend class on Monday. One of them had a large boom box. Prince’s “Sign o’ the Times” was blasting through its eight speakers. That was the thing back then; the bigger the sound system, the better. Nowadays, the smaller the MP3 player, the better. That boom box truly was a sign of the times.
Another guy glanced down at his Swatch impatiently as I brushed past them without a word. I could sense them staring at me and heard one of them whispering something, undoubtedly something ignorant about the scar running down the left side of my face, but I could not have cared less. I was more concerned with the excruciating pain between my thighs, the lacerations on my breasts, and the fact that, hours earlier, I had endured the greatest humiliation of my entire life.
There were fewer than two dozen people scattered around the downtown Greyhound depot; half of them were asleep on benches. All of their worldly possessions were crammed in trash bags, grocery bags, or in stolen carts from local stores. Through my blurred vision, I could make out the ticket counter directly ahead of me. It took all the deliberation within me not to pass out.
Halfway across the lobby, my knees felt like they were about to collapse. It was akin to being on stilts. Pulling my brown bomber jacket tighter around me, I didn’t want anyone to see my mutilated body. I tried to persuade myself that if I could make it to the counter, purchase a ticket to anywhere with the $56.78 that I had in my purse, and get the hell away from Atlanta, everything would be okay. I had no clue how far $56.78 would get me or how I would get additional money once I arrived or even afford to eat, but none of that mattered. I had to leave . . . either leave or kill myself. Those were the only two practicable options.