The Whore of Babylon, a Memoir - By Katrina Prado Page 0,3
daughter. Her mascara is smudged in thick, dark smears beneath her eyes, giving her face an innocent, panda-like quality. Her lipstick, too dark to begin with, has left her lips stained, looking almost as if she has a Kool-Aid smile. A tear the size of quarter scars the left thigh of her fish net stockings. In her hand, she dangles her shoes in the air by their straps. She looks tired and bedraggled. She meets my eye and in that first instant a jagged pain slices my heart. I find myself wanting to comfort her so badly I literally feel my arms ache.
“Hello, Mama,” she says.
I cross my arms in front of me.
“Where have you been, young lady?”
She scowls and rolls her eyes.
“I know,” she says in a suddenly snotty voice. “I’m grounded. Big deal.”
“Why can’t you at least call?” I ask. “Is that too difficult?”
“I told you I was going to Jenny’s. She had a party for me. You know I always spend the night at Jenny’s.”
“You do not always spend the night at Jenny’s,” I say. “And another thing. You ruined Dad’s brush. He spent twenty-eight dollars for that brush!” My voice rises with each word. In my head I see dollar bills whirling madly out an opened window.
“Well have you noticed all his beard hairs in the sink?” she shoots back. “It’s hella gross.” She throws her shoes on the floor in a dramatic fashion. “Besides, you said when we moved that we’d buy a house with a swimming pool. And that I’d have my own bathroom. It’s not my fault we have to share. I hate Pittsburg!” she yells at me.
“Don’t you swear!” I scream back. I take a deep breath in a futile effort at remaining calm. “Yes, you are grounded. And I want this room picked up and the whites put away, as I asked you to do yesterday,” I say, looking at the laundry basket teetering on the armrest of the couch.
Robyn rolls her eyes again and huffs out a breath of disdain. The coffee machine hisses and coughs as if commiserating with her.
“Robyn,” I say, calmer now. “We can’t live like this. Not knowing where you are; who you’re with.” I fold my arms in front of me, feeling suddenly cold by images of an injured Robyn lying on a hospital gurney. “What if you get hurt? You didn’t even take your ID with you last night. If you were knocked unconscious or something, the police wouldn’t even know who to call.”
“I’m not going to get hurt! My God, is that all you do at night is sit around and like, think of all the different ways I could die? Get a life why don’t you?” She flips her hair back with a fling of her wrist. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
“Did you make it to summer school yesterday?” I ask.
She stops, dead in her tracks, a deep scowl on her face.
“Oh Mom. Please don’t start with school again.”
Her voice is bone weary.
“Robyn, your sophomore year starts in a month and a half and you’re already behind in English and Math. If you don’t get through these summer school classes you’re going to start the new year behind and it’s only going to get worse.”
“I hate school,” she says, an undeniable streak of resignation laces her words.
I know this. She has always hated school. Her learning disability has meant that every single day is an effort just to understand what is going on. Never mind about learning the material. Never knowing the answers in class meant frequent hurtful remarks by her peers. I can only imagine the teasing she has endured. At this point, she is sick and tired of the battle.
“I know baby, but you’re on the last stretch. Three more years and you’re done.” Even after all the years of struggle, my cajoling, helping, begging, and threatening Robyn, watching as she fought to understand a concept, so often failing, I still hold an irrational thought of hope in my head. “I could teach you some basic accounting skills or if you’d learn typing, combined with your high school diploma, you’d be able to find a decent job and”
“God Mom! I am not like you!” she says, her voice wavering. “I don’t want to be like you! I’m not some pathetic little bookkeeper. Don’t you get that?” She hesitates only a second. She is opening crying now. “I miss my friends.”