Vengeance (9 page)

“There are enough cars in the lot to play it off, but you’re right. I would never go to a crowded spa, unless I was there to do an appearance.” I shrugged. “Well, it’s the best that I could think of.”

She grinned. “I imagine that it’s not easy being you.”

“Millions of people around the world crave fame and fortune, but if they only understood the true price of fame, they’d quickly develop another outlook.” I kicked off the slippers and put my feet on the lounger, tucking them underneath me. “I want you to know that this wasn’t totally my idea.”

“No?” Marcella took a sip of the infused water that was prepared for her arrival. “Then whose idea was it?”

“My father’s.”

Daddy had practically had a heart attack all the way from Australia that day on Skype. He could read my intentions, despite my efforts to fool him over a computer screen. He insisted that I speak with Dr. Marcella Spencer, who had come highly recommended to him by a business associate. Unlike me, Daddy often had business in Atlanta.

“He’s in Australia for the next couple of weeks, then he has to head to Hong Kong for a month. He was quite upset when he found out that I was here in Atlanta.”

Marcella looked confused. “And why is that?”

I sighed. “He
assumed
that I’m here for a single purpose. You see, I haven’t been in Atlanta since 1987.”

“Oh? So why are you here, in Atlanta? The news outlets made it seem like you wanted a slower change of pace from New York and that you viewed the city as progressive and eclectic.”

“I see that you’re up on things.” I chuckled. “All of that was bullshit, hyperbole, and embellishment.”

“I
assumed
as much, but when your assistant called me to request a session, I caught up on recent press. As you know, this is a big deal for Atlanta. A lot of celebrities have homes here, but you’re arguably the biggest entertainer in the world at this point.”

“Yes, arguably, I am.” I stared into her eyes and pondered about ending the entire thing right then and there. “The irony is that I should have been dead a long time ago. In fact, I should’ve never been born. My mother should’ve aborted me the second she realized that she would hate me and treat me like a monster under her bed. It would’ve saved everyone a lot of drama.”

Marcella’s expression quickly changed as she set the water down. “I don’t know much about you, yet, Wicket, but I want you to recognize that I want to assist you. Anything you say to me will be held in complete confidence.”

I struggled to find any words, but the tears started to flow.

“If you want to sit here today and just breathe, we can do that,” she continued. “Maybe next time you’ll feel like talking.”

I still couldn’t speak.

“Would you like me to leave you alone for a few moments?”

Nothing came out, so she stood up.

“I can wait out in—”

“Please, sit back down,” I finally managed. When she had done that, I said, “Dr. Spencer, I mean, Marcella, I’m sure that you’re very suitable with what you do but, like you said, I’m not your average client and it’s not only because of the fame and money.”

“What does your father think you’re here in Atlanta for?”

Now she was cutting straight to it. I could appreciate her candor.

I didn’t hesitate again. “Vengeance. He thinks that I’m here for vengeance . . . and he’s right.”

“Vengeance against whom?”

“Are you aware that Richard Sterling adopted me?”

“Yes, I believe
Wikipedia
said around age six.”

I smiled. “Good old
Wikipedia
with only half-accurate information that anyone can put up. He did lie and tell everyone that, but Daddy never laid eyes on me in his life until I was fifteen. He adopted me legally on my sixteenth birthday but had them doctor the paperwork.”

Marcella was stunned. “And why did he do that?”

“To protect me from my past. So that no one would ever know who I really am.”

“And who are you?”

“I haven’t told anyone my real name in decades, but it’s Caprice. Caprice Tatum, and I was born right here in Atlanta.” I paused. “You’re in for a long afternoon, Marcella.”

Saturday, May 5, 1979

Atlanta, Georgia

I
t was a Saturday. I remember that well. No school, no plans, only space and opportunity. My best friend, Bianca Lee, had come over early that morning, banging on the back door by eight. I had rushed to the door, hoping that she had not woken my mother. Momma was a drug addict, pure and simple. She had me when she was only seventeen and hated the fact that I was born.

Back then, I did not know what drugs my mother was using, but she was definitely smoking something stronger than weed. We lived with my grandmother, Alice, who did the best that she could . . .
considering
. My mother, Denise, had named me Caprice seven years earlier after the model of car she was raped in by her uncle Donald. Her pregnancy with me was a result of that horrific act. He was convicted and sent to prison, where he was found beaten to death in his cell less than a year after sentencing with an asshole wider than a baseball bat, but that did not negate the fact that an abomination had been created . . . me.

My mother never let me forget that. She would constantly curse me and call me a little bitch. She would beat on me and my grandmother, who was weakened by pleuropulmonary blastoma—a rare form of lung cancer—and would always have to pull her off me. Being so young and having known nothing but Mother’s schizophrenic outbursts since my memory allowed, I actually thought it was normal back then. That all children had to suffer at the hands of their parents and then, once they became adults, it would be their turn to chastise and cause pain to their own kids.

Since I was only in the second grade, I was rarely allowed to visit other kids. Mother never took me to the birthday parties that the entire class was invited to, and that was just as well. I was withdrawn in school and barely spoke two words to anyone other than teachers. Bianca was my one exception. She was a vibrant, outgoing little girl who lived two doors down. One of her parents would stand guard and watch her as she skipped down the sidewalk over to my house to see if I could come outside and play.

Mother only let me go out with her because she did not want to be bothered with me. But I would see her constantly peeking through the sheer curtains in the living room, not in a protective way, but almost in a menacing way, like she hoped someone would drive by and snatch me up into a nondescript white van, never to be seen or heard from again. To make an extremely long story short, Denise Tatum hated the one person she should have loved the most—her daughter.

Despite her hatred of me, I was a stunningly pretty little girl. I was Mother’s spitting image. While most women would take pride in having a miniature clone of themselves, it was obvious that she could barely stand to look at me. Little did I know when I woke up that Saturday morning in May that my life would change forever.

Bianca and I were standing in the driveway, trying to decide what to do next. We had already gone through Mother May I, Red Light Green Light, Simon Says, and had done three rounds of Miss Mary Mack by slapping hands and chanting the rhyme. Kids back in the day had to actually play outside and come up with ideas instead of becoming zombies to the Internet and video games. We were debating about playing jacks, doing hopscotch, or Bianca going to get her Etch A Sketch while I went to retrieve my Slinky. Playing Lite-Brite was out of the question because there were no plugs outdoors close enough to play and neither one of us could enter the other’s house. Her parents would have allowed me to come into theirs, but Mother had made it clear that I could never do that.

I often wondered what Bianca’s room looked like. Mine was four plain white walls, dirtied over the years from no fresh paint, a twin-size mattress on the floor that rarely had sheets on it, rather less clean ones, and four dolls with broken parts strewn about. I had only about five complete outfits that my grandmother would wash on the weekends for me to wear to school and two pairs of shoes, with holes in them. Grandma had had to quit her job as a waitress when she fell ill and had no savings to speak of. Mother refused to work and, at twenty-four, was getting food stamps from the state. Otherwise, none of us would have eaten.

“So, do you want to play hopscotch or not?” Bianca asked, smacking on a large piece of bubble gum. “It’s getting kind of hot out here.”

“It’s up to you.” I kicked my size-three shoe around in the grass, like I was scaring a colony of ants away. “I’m not hot, but it’s probably going to be too hot this afternoon to be outside.”

“Do you know your math facts? I always get stuck on the twelves.”

“I kinda do,” I replied. “You just have to—”

“Bianca! It’s time to go!”

We both turned to find Bianca’s mother, Mrs. Lee, standing by their Mazda Cosmo with white gloves on and a summery dress.

Bianca sighed. “Shoot! I forgot that I have to go shopping with Momma for vacation clothes. We’re going to Disney next month once school lets out.”

“That’s cool,” I said, trying to hide my jealousy. I started walking toward my door. “Have a good time shopping.”

“You want to go?” Bianca yelled behind me. “I’m sure Momma will say it’s okay.”

I wanted to go with them more than I wanted to take my next breath. I glanced up at Mother’s window and noticed that she was staring down at me, as if to say, “Don’t even think about it.”

I turned to Bianca. “Thanks for asking, but I have to go do my chores.”

“But you were ready to play hopscotch a minute ago.”

“I forgot that I have to do chores,” I said harshly, fighting back tears at the same time.

Bianca giggled. “We’re in second grade. How many chores could you have? I can ask Momma to wait until you’re done.”

“No!” I took her off guard with my tone, so I lowered it. “You go ahead. I don’t have any money to shop anyway, and it’s not like I’m going on any vacation.”

Bianca forced a smile and walked away from my house slowly as her mother grew more impatient by their car. I fought back tears, rushed into the house, and slammed the door behind me. Big mistake!

“You little bitch!” I heard my mother scream from upstairs. “You slammed that fucking door again!”

“I didn’t mean it,” I said in a loud whisper as she practically catapulted downstairs from the upper level. “I didn’t mean it.”

I ran into the kitchen, hoping Grandma would be able to protect me from the beating that I saw coming a mile away.

Grandma was standing over the sink, using a paring knife to peel potatoes that she had a pot of water on the stove to boil them in. “What’s wrong, Caprice?”

Before I could reply, Mother came rushing in and started slapping me in the face and all upside my head. She was screaming something, but I was too busy trying to shield my body to understand any of it.

Grandma walked over from the sink and tried to pull Mother off me, but Mother knocked her backward into the table. She slipped on something and fell onto the floor, with the paring knife still in her hand.

Mother turned to Grandma and this time, I could make out her words since the slaps ceased for a moment. “Momma, she’s the Devil! She’s the Devil! She never should have been born!”

“Stop talking crazy, Denise,” Grandma said, struggling to get up. “We need to get you some help. You can’t keep beating on that baby like that. I won’t allow it.”

“What the fuck you going to do about it?”

The two of them stood there staring each other down for a moment. Looking back on it, I understand that Grandma could not have possibly begun to comprehend the mental issues my mother had, exacerbated by the heavy drug use. Mother’s eyes were bloodshot and she was trembling like she was coming down from something.

Grandma spanned out of her shock. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that, after everything I went through to raise you. You’re an ungrateful—”

“Ungrateful? Ungrateful? Your brother raped me.” Mother pointed at me. “And this is the result. Having to raise his little demon.”

“I’m not a demon,” I said, not really quite sure of the definition of the word, but I knew it was akin to being a devil. “I’m a girl.”

“Donald’s paid for what he did to you,” Grandma said. “He’s dead and gone. I’ve done the best that I can by you. I had no idea your uncle was capable of such a thing.”

“You’re a damn liar!” Mother moved toward Grandma, who inched back. Fear was apparent on her face, and I could see her tightening her grip on the paring knife in her right hand, just in case. “You’re a liar! You knew he was sick. All of you knew he was a sick pedophile and that I wasn’t the first; probably not the last. You wouldn’t have even pressed charges if I had come to you first. You didn’t press charges when he did the same thing to you when you were younger.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Grandma said. “Donald never did anything to me.”

“Liar! He told me all about it. How he used to make you suck his filthy dick and lie there in your bed while he fucked you into oblivion.”

Grandma stared down at me. “The baby’s in the room. Stop talking nonsense.”

“Caprice is
not
a damn baby. She better learn quick what kind of world we live in. A world where men use us as interchangeable pieces of meat and where any pussy is for their taking, whether the woman wants to give it willingly or not. I’m not sugarcoating shit for her.”

“Denise, stop it. That’s enough.”

“No, it’s not enough.” She glared at Grandma. “Look at you. You laid down with some man and made me and he left you before I was born. I wouldn’t be surprised if Uncle Donald is my daddy, too.”

“That’s blasphemy! Shut the hell up, Denise!”

“You shut the hell up, Momma!” Mother pointed at me. “If it weren’t for you, none of this would’ve happened. If you had put a stop to him, this little bitch on the floor would’ve never been born. I asked you, begged you, to let me have an abortion. You cursed me for life. For life.”

“I’m not sure what kind of drugs you’re taking, but I will not have you talk to me like this.” Grandma raised the paring knife. “Not now. Not ever.”