A Deeper Love Inside (49 page)

“And that includes you and I . . .,” he said with certainty.

“Yes.” I exposed myself.

“And there are more liars than truth tellers, right or wrong,” he stated.

“Right.”

“Still, some people are good, and others are evil,” he said.

“More evil than good,” I said sincerely.

“I’ve been looking for you for eight years. If you were hiding, you did an incredible job. Your father asked me to find you and give you a good life. For three years, I was searching for you for him. For the following five years up until now, I’ve been searching for you out of a certain amount pride and disbelief,” he said. He paused, then he admitted to me, “You were the only person who I ever searched for, but never found.”

“I’m right here. You got me,” I said, trying to lighten it up some.

“I know you must’ve been somewhere feeling a deep sense of anger, the kind that strangles you so tightly that you feel prevented
from doing anything else.” He had my full seriousness now. He was describing my exact feelings.

“Anything else like what?” I asked him. I wanted to feel more from him.

“The most important things; like being free, being able to say the truth out loud when you feel like it, loving someone, getting married, having children, feeling safe, having peace of mind and heart. The things everybody should have, true?” he asked, turning towards me, but I knew he was sure, and that it wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” I said, and I meant it.

“It’s an anger so thorough and complete that it turns into obsession so strong that you can’t move on to anything else,” he said. I wondered, how could he possibly know?

“Yes,” I agreed.

“That anger pushes you to do things, and to say things that no one within your reach in your world can ever understand,” he said.

“Yes!” I screamed out into the trees. I pictured Momma when I had her cuffed, and how she never understood that I was angry about what was happening with her, but everything I did to her, I did it for love. “Yes,” I said again more calmly. He didn’t react, instead stayed smoothed out like the coolest man in the world.

“The less they understand, the deeper the anger runs within you. Then it appears to everyone else to be insanity,” Midnight said calmly.

“Yes.” I thought of Momma cursing me, threatening to kill me. I thought of the warden, the guards, my teachers. My angriest tears boiled up warming my hot cheeks and spilling down my face.

“Then there is your need to have someone who is regarded as sane, respectable, and important, to admit to you that you have been seriously wronged,” he said. I gasped.

“The more the sane and professional adults deny that you have been wronged, and that their system is wrong, and that your instincts and reactions were normal in light of the wrongs that they did to you, but won’t admit to, the deeper your anger moves in, separating you from everyone else.”

“Yes,” I said almost silently. The taste of my tears was on my tongue.

“Where is St. Katherine’s Group Home?” he asked, and I was humbled.

“22-15 Suphtin Blvd. in Queens.”

“How long were you there?”

“Two months.”

“Who is Lucy Jackson?”

“Foster care lady.”

“How long were you with her?”

“Three days.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Her husband was a pervert. He tried to show me something nasty,” I said, trembling.

“Who is Evelyn Sandstone?”

“Foster care parent.”

“How long were you there?”

“Five days.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Her son was an abuser. He tied me to a chair in his room when no one was looking.”

“Who is Bernice Wilkins?”

“Foster care parent.”

“How long was you with her?”

“Four days.”

“Why did you leave?”

“She was a drunk who wouldn’t feed us.”

Who is Mrs. Griswaldi?”

“Caseworker.”

“What happened with her?”

“I stabbed her with a pencil. She got paralyzed.”

“Were you convicted?”

“Yes.”

“Sentenced?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Eight years.”

“Where?”

“New York State Juvenile Prison for Violent Girls, Upstate New York.”

“How long were you there?”

“Two years, 297 days,” I said, and I could even give him the count on the hours, minutes, and seconds.

“What happened on July 20, 1996?”

“I left the NYS Juvenile Prison for Violent Girls.”

“Where did you go?”

“I escaped.”

“Where did you go?” he asked again. I didn’t answer. I remained silent.

“What happened on July 20, 1996?” he asked again.

“I escaped and been on my own since then,” I told him. It didn’t matter how many times he asked that question. Pressed or tortured, I would never reveal NanaAnna. A promise is a promise.

He stayed silent for a while. He was so still. But I could see his mind moving. I appreciated the energy and feeling and concern he was showing me simply by concentrating so hard and trying to decipher my roller-coaster life. He had been searching for me for eight years! So many other people seemed so comfortable not knowing anything about what was happening to me.

“Who is Edith Kates?” he asked surprisingly and suddenly. Of course I remembered her.

“
New York Daily News
reporter,” I said.

“Why is she looking for you?” he asked.

“I wrote her a letter,” I said.

“When?”

“March 1996.”

“About what?” he pushed.

“About a nasty news article that she wrote about my father.”

“What is the Kennedy-Claus facility?” He asked

“Don’t know,” I said.

“Have you ever been there?” he asked.

“Never.”

“Has anyone ever mentioned the place to you? Do you know anyone else who went there? Think about it before you answer,” he said.

“Never, I’m one hundred percent,” I said.

“Has anybody hurt you?”

“Only my feelings,” I said.

“Are you sure? Did anyone put their hands on you?” he pressed.

“No, I mean I been cuffed and trapped. But no one violated me like that, just messed with my head. They do that to everybody on lockdown,” I said.

I could see his jaw flinch. I liked this exact feeling. It was like if I had said someone had hurt me, and said their name, that person would suddenly lose their life. That was rare energy. That was extremely arousing to me.

“Where did you get that car?” he asked.

“I bought it.”

“How?”

“With money I earned.”

“Doing what?”

“Performing.”

“Performing what? Performing what?” he repeated calmly, but still I felt the pressure of his presence.

“Entertainment, no sex, no touching, no nudity. That’s what you wanted to know, right?” I said it too spicy.

“Do you have a driver’s license?”

“No. I have a permit.”

“Under what name?”

“Nobody is who they say they are. Not you and not me,” I reminded him.

“When did you first meet Mr. Sharp?”

“September 1996,” I said swiftly. Midnight’s mind was merging what he thought he knew, comparing it to what I was telling him and counting it all up. I understood. But no one could count better than me. I had a heap of practice. He stayed quiet for too long. So I asked him.

“What about the information you were suppossed to tell me? The information that’s between you and me, that you won’t confirm if I repeat it?”

He looked at me, into my eyes and at my hands and feet. It felt like he was examining me, looking into me, but I knew it wasn’t in
a dirty way. I can tell the difference. I know that dirty look and the feeling it brings.

“There is no warrant for your arrest. There is no reason for you to hide your identity. The juvenile prison has no record of your escape. You are on record as having been transferred to the Kennedy-Claus Hospital for Criminally Insane Juveniles on July 20, 1996, and released after effective treatment and time served on July 19, 2001, one month ago,” Midnight said.

Now my mind was moving. Were the authorities saying that I was crazy and that nothing I say is true? Were they saying that all of the things that happened in my life from the time that I got locked up and for eight whole years, were all false? Were they saying there was no Riot, Lina, Hamesha, Lil’ Man, Tiny, Jinjah, Rose Marie, Camille, Ting-Tong, Shana, and no Diamond Needles? Were they saying I didn’t escape? There was no NanaAnna, no reservation, no drummer in the tree house, and no Onatah, her family, no casino and
No Elisha
! I began to sweat some. I could feel panic easing in, threatening a takeover.

Midnight pulled a folded clean handkerchief from his pocket, poured some of his water on it, and began to wipe my perspiration with the cool water.

“Under what name?” I asked Midnight softly, while shaking some. “Who are they saying went crazy?”

“Porsche L. Santiaga,” he said almost silently.

“Why did they say they sent me to the insane hospital?”

“Violent uncontrollable repeated outbreaks, schizophrenia paranoia, psychotic treatment,” he said as though he had read it off a file that he had studied for a long time. No wonder he had the three Arabian women supervise me when I went to see the twins. The authorities had told him I was a nut job. Did he think I would hurt them? My body began to tremble some: I tried to stop it, but my hands were shaking.

“Who did they say they released me to?” I asked, shaking and trembling.

“Your mother, Lana Santiaga,” he said.

The anger that Midnight had just talked about began to raise up
from my feet and was moving with the strength of a hurricane and speed of a tornado. Tears were boiling up, flooding over from my insides. My anger was crippling me. Midnight took my hand and pulled opened each stiffening finger. He was massaging my palm, same as Riot or NanaAnna would do.

“I searched for you. I knew something illegal, inappropriate, and unacceptable was happening to you. The state would not allow visits to the Kennedy-Claus facility. A judge and the state denied each of my requests. I knew they had to be wrong. They’re powerful, the authorities, the government. You were just a young girl,” he said. “It was smart that you wrote that letter to the
New York Daily News
. They weren’t expecting that. It might have saved your life. Strange things happen to people in prison, especially the ones who no one is checking up on or looking for.”

I breathed in deeply. Then I exhaled slowly. It hurt to struggle so hard to get to a place, then have someone, anyone, say that I never struggled, and that they simply released me when they wanted to. That it was them who handed me over to Momma, one week before her death. Now Momma was no longer here to prove that they were liars.

“Don’t think too much about it. There is the truth. Then there is the lie. The government has an endless budget to manufacture as many lies as they would like. They use one lie to cover up their last lie and to set up for their next lie. Each of us could spend a lifetime trying to reverse the mud, stains, and false accusations that governments manufacture daily. Or, we could just go on living the truth as we know and understand it.”

I was beginning to feel some relief. Midnight, the only man who came for me, believed me. He didn’t believe them. He didn’t side with the officials.

He didn’t believe the doctors. He didn’t believe the judge.

“Why do you believe me and not them?” I asked. “They have a track record of lying. Can the state ever admit that they were out maneuvered by a little girl when she was ten?”

“I took a good look at you. What I was seeing and what they were saying was two different things. I’ve been around the world a few times. I looked into many faces. I’m suspicious of anyone who doesn’t
allow a person to see a prisoner face to face. Or a government that won’t allow the voice of the accused to be heard openly, or a court that won’t weigh the thoughts and testimony of at least two sides or however many sides there are,” he said. I took a deep breath and exhaled big. I shook my fingers, and twisted my little waist some.

“Use this circumstance to your advantage. They said your time is served. It’s better than the life of a fugitive where you can never relax being who you really are and were born to be.”

“I have some questions. What about Momma? You said Poppa told you to save me and to give me a good life. Why didn’t Poppa save Momma?”

“No human could save her. She gave her life to the drugs. Drugs are mind-altering substances. They alter the mind of the user, most of the time permanently,” he said, sure that all users were hopeless, it seemed.

“Aren’t those the same drugs you and Poppa were selling?”

“No comment,” Midnight said, without smiling, gloating, or denying.

“Well, how do you earn your money now?” I asked him. “How does a barber afford the presidential suite?” I pushed.

“I don’t hustle. I don’t deal drugs. That’s what you really want to know, right?” he threw that back at me. “The barbershop is just one small business that I own. There are many more,” he said. “All legit,” he added swiftly.

“What about my sisters?”

“You’ve seen their faces yourself, and heard their voices. What did you think about what you saw? I’m sure your own eyes don’t lie to you.”

“Where do they live?” I asked, avoiding telling him that he was right. They both looked safe, healthy, happy, and wealthy.

“All around the world,” he said, also avoiding my direct question.

“Why don’t you give them back to me? We’re blood-related family. They’re my sisters.”

“You’re a juvenile.”

“So when I’m eighteen I can take them? I’ll be an adult, legal, and you say I’m not a fugitive,” I reminded him.

“If they want to return to you, I might allow it. But under some
conditions. First, how you’re living and if your life and home is better for them than their current place in the world. Two, if they want to live with you. Three, if you can provide, including their continuing education. Oh, and if you allow them to maintain a relationship with their adopted family. My wives love them. My wives raised them, and all of my children love them.”