Vengeance(84)

He shrugged. “I’ve never offered up an explanation. I’m sure they speculated about a lot of different scenarios, but who cares? That’s not their place to be concerned with the who and why, just the money.”

“Maybe she doesn’t even remember she has a daughter,” I said, halfway disappointed.

“Actually, paranoid schizophrenics tend to have excellent memory. If she has mentioned it, they probably didn’t believe her.”



* * *



Marcella was waiting for us when we walked in the back door, escorted by a security officer. Then all three of us were taken to a room that was nothing but four walls and a table with four chairs. I paced the floor impatiently while I waited for a male nurse to go get Momma.

Once he walked her in, Daddy told him to leave and wait outside. He did as told without saying a word.

Momma stared at me. I stared at her. Marcella and Daddy stared at both of us.

Marcella broke the silence. “Denise, do you—”

“Caprice,” Momma whispered.

I took a step back. “You know who I am?”

“Of course. A mother always recognizes her child.” She ran her fingertips down her left cheek. “What happened? Why’d you let them do that to you?”

“Denise, maybe you should sit down,” Marcella suggested.

Momma looked at Marcella and then at Daddy. “Who are you people?”

Daddy cleared his throat. “Actually, I’m her—”

“Lawyer,” Marcella cut in. “Mr., um, Langford is Caprice’s lawyer, and I’m her, uh, friend.”

I furrowed up my brow, wondering what Marcella was doing, and she made a gesture toward Daddy to go along with her lies. Then it dawned on me why she had done it. If Momma slipped and said that Richard Sterling was my father, and also told people that her daughter had come to see her, all of the damn cats would be out of the bag.

Momma walked toward a chair but never took her eyes off me, to the point where she almost missed the chair as she sat down and would’ve landed on the floor. Daddy rushed over to help her and held the chair for her.

Momma didn’t ask why I needed a lawyer, and I’m glad she didn’t. I was already working over some scenarios in my mind in case she did. She was now in her late fifties but looked all of eighty. Her hair was brittle, her skin was dry, and she had several missing teeth. All of a sudden, I cared.

“I thought you said they were taking good care of her in here?” I asked Daddy.

He looked her over as well and then replied, “I’ll have her moved tomorrow.”

I sat down across from her, trembling. “Momma, do you ever regret what you did to me?”

“You mean your face?”

“Yes.”

She continued to stare at the side of my face where the scar had once been. Then she shook her head vehemently. “No, no, no, I don’t regret it. I did it to save you.”

“Save me from who?” My voice was cracking. “Uncle Donald was already dead. He couldn’t hurt any of us anymore.”

“No, he’s not dead. I see him all the time.”

“What?”

Marcella and Daddy just stood there. They were both there more for moral support than anything else. Moral and emotional in case I lost it right then and there. It was difficult not to.

“Donald comes into my room every night and pulls down my panties and . . .” She lowered her eyes to the table. “He does nasty things to me.”

I looked at Daddy, who kind of widened his eyes and nodded as if to say, “I told you so.”

“Momma, Uncle Donald was killed in prison long before you ever came to this place.”

She banged her left fist on the table. “That’s a lie!” She looked around the room, moving her head back and forth while her head was tilted toward the ceiling. “Don’t you hear them?”

“Hear who?”

Daddy interrupted. “Caprice, maybe we should go. This is pointless.”

I held my palm up toward him. “Just one more minute.”

“Who’s up there?” I asked Momma, pointing at the ceiling.

“Donald, and Momma, and Elvis, and Abraham Lincoln, and Martin Luther, and Jesus.” She looked at me. “Don’t you hear Jesus?”

Marcella motioned to me that we should go.

“You promise you’ll get her out of here tomorrow?” I asked Daddy.

“I promise.”

I stood up. “Momma, I have to go now. You take care of yourself.”

“You should’ve kept the scar. Now you have nothing to protect you.” Momma let out a soft hiss. “They’re going to hurt you. You’re too pretty.”

“Actually, they hurt me even though I had the scar,” I informed her. “But I’m never going to let anyone else hurt me.”