Nervous

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—a 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 studios 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 seconds. 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 need to even 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.