Vengeance (2 page)

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.

A kaleidoscope of thoughts, accompanied by vivid and horrific images, cascaded through my memory bank as I stood there, weakening by the second. Killing myself would have made the most sense, but I was too cowardly. I had made several attempts; always chickening out when it came down to it. Maybe I would die there on the spot from what they did to me. I would have welcomed such a blessing. I was not meant for this world. They should have made me the poster child for the term “fucked at birth.”

People were staring. One woman with big hair, fluffed up so much that it looked like a second head, was clutching on to her purse on the bench like she anticipated me flying across the room like a vampire and snatching it. She shouldn’t have been traveling so late if she was petrified of strangers. Crazy people frequented bus stations at night. I was fifteen years old and even I understood that.

Someone else entered the automatic doors behind me. I could tell it was a woman by the sound of her voice. Her perfume was impenetrable and intoxicating and flooded the entire area with her scent. She was speaking with someone, a man.

“I can’t believe we have to take the bus back to New York! Why can’t we rent a car?” Her voice was indulgent, almost lyrical.

“I don’t feel like driving in the middle of the night, Hannah,” the man replied. “If we leave on the three-fifteen, we’ll be there by dinnertime.”

“Shawn, I am
so
not feeling you right now. So not feeling you.” She paused and sucked on her teeth. “You’re being a cheapskate, as usual. Let’s call a spade a spade.”

Shawn sighed. “You just want to hear yourself yack. I’m paying for the bus tickets. It would probably be cheaper to rent a damn car.”

“So now you’re going to start cursing at me?”

“ ‘Damn’ is not a curse word, Hannah. Could you please chill out so I can check and see if there are any seats? All of this back-and-forth might be a moot point.”

I attempted to move again but I remained stuck in place halfway to the window. I wondered if I could get to New York City with less than sixty dollars. His comment about it being cheaper to rent a car than to purchase two tickets had me concerned. Then he had mentioned something about all the seats possibly being taken. I wanted to beat them to the counter and purchase a ticket; I didn’t want them to take up the last spaces. New York was the kind of city that I needed to get lost in. From what I had seen on TV, with millions of degenerates and glamorous people mixed together on an infinitesimal island, I could undoubtedly drop off the radar. Not that anyone in particular would be searching for me. That was for sure. No one cared whether I was even breathing. Only my grandmother, and she was better off without me. I was a curse in her life, and truth be told, she was also a curse in mine. There was a generational curse in my family that needed to stop someplace, and that
someplace
would be with me. Bringing a child into the world was out of the question. There was no way that I would ever subject another innocent person to the insanity of our family. No damn way.

I would eat out of trash cans if I had to. Sleep in subway stations or on bus benches. I would do all of that until I inevitably starved to death, froze to death, or got up enough audacity to dive directly in front of a train one day. It did not even need to be that melodramatic. I would simply stride off the platform like I was taking the next step on a sidewalk and get it over with. Or maybe I would get a running start off the roof of a skyscraper. Maybe some lunatic would drag me into an alley, slash my throat from ear to ear, and save me the trouble. I would be a mention on the local evening news, might even be a featured scroll on the bottom of the screen on CNN, and would be in a small story on the police blotter and listed on the murder-victim list for the year—and that would be the end of it. “An unidentified black female was discovered in an alley in Manhattan with her throat slashed. She had a preexisting scar on her face, which leads officials to believe she had been disfigured for some time. If you have any information, please call the NYPD at blah, blah, blah, blah . . .”

Somehow I managed to walk to the counter. The couple was behind me, right on my tail. Shawn and Hannah. Hannah and Cheapskate Shawn.

“Can I help you?” the man with the salt-and-pepper beard asked from the other side of the bulletproof glass. I always wondered what they thought could prevent a true maniac from putting the tip of his gun through the transaction slot and pulling the trigger.

“Um, yes,” I muttered. “How much is a ticket to NYC on the three-fifteen bus?”

He started typing and suddenly I started shivering like I was in the middle of a snowstorm.

“That will be . . .” The man took one look at me and acted like he had seen a ghost. “Young lady, are you all right?”

“I’m . . . I’m . . .”

I felt someone touch me on my shoulder and then materialize next to me. It was the woman: Hannah. She was striking. She had skin the color of buttermilk, blond hair, blue eyes, and high cheekbones. She reminded me of a model who I had seen one time in a commercial for shampoo. Her hair was fluffed out and big, too.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” she asked, but I could not respond. I was shaking like a leaf and my vision was going in and out. The throbbing between my legs was indescribable. She looked at the man at the counter. “What’s wrong with her?”

He shrugged. “Beats me. She asked for a ticket to NYC, and when I looked up, she was looking all sick and crazy.”

“Hannah, maybe you shouldn’t touch her,” Shawn suggested.

I did not even turn around to see what he looked like. I couldn’t move.

“Fuck you, Shawn!” Hannah stated with aloofness. “This baby’s hurt.”

“All I’m saying is—”

Before Shawn could finish his statement, Hannah was gasping at the sight of blood gushing down my legs and onto the floor.

“Oh my Jesus!” Hannah exclaimed. “Call an ambulance!” she instructed the counter man. She looked into my eyes. “Baby, baby, we’re going to get you some help!”

“This is insane!” Shawn said. “We’re going to miss our bus. Now we won’t get back until Monday.”

I could not see Hannah, but I heard her curse Shawn the hell out. “Shawn, what part of
fuck you
did you not understand? I’m not leaving this baby here like this. Help me get her to a bench.”

“I’m not touching her,” Shawn said.

“And you’re not touching me, either, never, ever again, you bastard!”

Hannah tried her best to guide me to a bench across the lobby. My eyes were like slits and I could see the three young guys from outside rushing in, toward us, and could hear the man on the phone calling 911. Then everything faded to black.

11:12 a.m.

My eyes flickered at first and then I managed to keep them open for a few seconds. All I saw was a bright light and wondered if all the rumors were true about death. Was I seeing “the light”? Was God going to allow me to go to heaven even though I was tainted, scarred, and worthless? I shut my eyes and prayed for Him to take me instead of sending me to hell. I had lived there for fifteen years already and I desperately needed a break. As I got to the part about walking through the valley of death, I heard Hannah’s voice.

“You okay, baby girl?”

I opened my eyes and saw her getting up from the chair beside my hospital bed. Ah, an overhead light? Now I could make things out more clearly.

“Let me go get the nurse.” She started toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”

“Wait!” I exclaimed in a panic.

Hannah turned to look at me. “They need to check you out, ask you some questions.” She dropped her eyes to the floor. “They did a rape kit on you. It was kind of obvious; a lot of tearing.”

“I don’t want to answer any questions. I want to leave this place.”

“The hospital? They’re not going to let you out of here until you’ve improved. Not a chance.”

I stared at her and fought back tears. “I don’t want to be here, in Atlanta. That’s why I was at the bus station. I’m not answering any questions and I’m not pressing any charges.”

“So you
were
raped?”

I fell silent and then attempted to sit up, searching the room for my clothes. “Where are my clothes?”

“They were ruined, covered with blood. They disposed of them.” She walked back over to the bed. “Look, we’ve yet to even be formally introduced. I’m Hannah.”

“Yes, I know. I heard Shawn say your name.”

She grinned. “Did you hear me call him a cheapskate?”

I smiled. “Yes.”

“We’ve established that I’m Hannah—and you are?”

“Nobody.”

“Seriously, you didn’t have any ID on you. They gave me your money, though. I put it in the side pocket of my purse.”

“Thank you.” I lay back down. It was too painful to sit up. “Thanks for everything.”

“Can I go get the nurse now? I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

It felt strange to have someone care about my welfare. Until the night before, I thought that two of my so-called friends had my back. Instead, they had set me up to be brutalized. I couldn’t understand why they would do such a thing. I had never done anything to them.

“Before you go out there, can I ask you a favor?”

Hannah looked uncertain. “And what might that be?”

“If I let them check me out
one time
, will you help me sneak out of here?”

She frowned. “Are you crazy? I already gave them my name and information. I lied and said that I was your aunt . . . by marriage. I started to say that I was your mother but being that I’m white, not to mention my
other issue
, I knew they wouldn’t buy it.”

I was curious. “What did you tell them my name was?”

What other issue?

She smirked. “Rose Cleveland. First name that popped into my head.”

“Rose is an old-fashioned name.”

“You don’t know who Rose Cleveland was?” She chuckled. “Apparently the person at the registration desk didn’t pick up on it, either.”