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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.”
A grimace appeared on Momma’s face. “Never say never, Caprice.”
I fought back tears as I watched Momma sitting there, looking sickly and pitiful. It suddenly hit me, even though I knew it all along: she was a victim of her circumstances exactly like me. Except she was locked up in an institution and I was one of the greatest, biggest, and wealthiest entertainers in the world. She had definitely gotten the shorter end of the stick.
I walked around the table and touched her on the shoulder. “Good-bye, Momma.”
She grabbed my hand and clutched it tight. Then she gazed up into my eyes. “Good friends never say good-bye. They simply say see you soon.”
Daddy tapped on the door and the male nurse appeared within seconds to let us out.
As we were exiting, he told the nurse, “Tell Dr. Broadmore that I need to speak with him . . . today.”
“Is everything all right, sir?” the nurse asked.
“No, it’s not, but I’ll discuss it with him.”
Marcella forced a smile toward the nurse, took one last look at Momma’s back, and walked out after Daddy. I hesitated. Part of me wanted to rush over and throw my arms around her and break down. She was my mother, and as a child, like so many children who are abused, I loved her no matter what. I still loved her, even though I had tried to pretend that I hated her the majority of my life.
* * *
I told Daddy that I wanted to catch a ride home with Marcella. It was still only about eight o’clock on a Sunday morning, so I doubted that anyone would see us together. Even if they did, so what? I was entitled to have a life and friends.
I settled into the passenger side of her BMW X3.
She didn’t immediately pull off. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I readily admitted.
