Whispers of the Bayou (5 page)

“I don’t understand,” I said. “If it’s not a birthmark, what is it?”

Again, I reached back to touch the area on my scalp—only now it was strangely naked, the skin perfectly smooth and hairless.

“It’s a tattoo,” she said.

“A
tattoo?
”

“I have no idea where it came from or what it means, but it’s been there since you were small. I found it when you about six or seven and you wanted me to braid your hair. When I called and asked your father what it was, he had no idea. Only your grandmother seemed to know what I was talking about, but she wouldn’t tell me anything. She just said that we would be told eventually, when it was time.”

“Time? Time for what?”

“I don’t know. She wouldn’t elaborate.”

I started to protest, but AJ shook her head, looking at me in the mirror.

“Your grandmother was a tough cookie, Miranda. You really wouldn’t understand unless you had known her.”

My fingers rubbed furiously at the bald patch of my scalp.

“She tattooed a little girl? That’s practically child abuse!”

“That’s what I said. When I threatened legal action, she told me that if I did anything about it at all, they would countersue me to get back full custody of you. I didn’t know if they could win, but I couldn’t risk the chance of losing you, so I had to let it go. After all these years, truly, I had almost forgotten about it until the letter came yesterday from Mr. Pedreaux.”

Without any further words, AJ reached into the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a heavy silver hand mirror. I stood and turned as I took it from her, my stomach in knots. It took a moment to adjust, tilting the glass so that I could see the back of my head in the reflection of my reflection. Once I did, I gasped, for there it was: a tattoo on the back of my head, about an inch in diameter, etched into my scalp in dark purple ink. The shape had obviously been distorted a bit as I had grown, but the image was unmistakable.

It was an elaborate cross, tucked neatly inside a bell.

Now it was my turn to fall apart. The mirror slipped from my hands, though AJ was so close in the small room that she managed to catch it before it crashed to the ground. Suddenly, the scene seemed to grow hazy before me. Gasping for air, I ran back to the living room where there was more space to move around and breathe, the whole scene playing out again and again in my mind.

Those men had been looking for this tattoo. They had ripped up my shirt to check my back. Tugged up my pants to check my legs. Pulled off my shoes and socks to see my feet. Finally, they had thumbed through my hair to check my head, and there it was. Why those places specifically, rather than just stripping me down and looking all over? Why did they know to look where they did? And once they found it, why did they simply stare for a moment and then run? Were they trying to memorize it?

“I should call the police and tell them I know what those men were doing,” I whispered to AJ, who was standing nearby and looking as if she
was ready to catch me should I start to fall down. “That might help them connect the dots to some other incident.”

“You probably should,” she replied. “I’ll get the card that policeman gave you. It’s in with your dirty clothes.”

From the pocket of my torn pants, AJ retrieved the NYPD contact information. I reached the fellow who was in charge of my case and presented a simplified version of what I’d learned, saying that I realized what my attackers were looking for was a tattoo on the back of my head. I described the symbol and explained that someone else had also approached me today about the same symbol, though not in such a violent manner. The cop listened to my tale, but by the end he merely sounded a bit disdainful, as if I was either grasping at straws or completely making it up. By the time the call was over, I knew three things: the symbol of a cross inside a bell was of no significance to the NYPD, there had been no other reports of mad tattoo-hunting attackers, and the man in charge of my case now thought I was nuts. On top of all that, he refused to send someone over to the museum to retrieve the painting in question because, as far as he was concerned, it was not connected to any crime.

I hung up the phone and described his side of the conversation. “Honey, it’s not surprising he acted this way,” she assured me. “Even in New York City, that’s probably not something they see every day, a beautiful young woman and respected professional with a creepy symbol tattooed in the middle of her head.”

I walked to the window and looked down at the streets, half expecting to see Jimmy Smith or my faceless attackers or even the witness from the restaurant looking up at me.

“Call him,” I said.

“Who?”

“This guy who’s dying down in Louisiana. Ask him what it means and what he wants. If he won’t say, tell him what happened to me today.”

Without another word AJ used the phone for directory assistance and then was connected to the number of the dying Willy Pedreaux. I listened as she spoke to what sounded like the man’s wife and then the man
himself. AJ spoke politely at first, but soon her voice grew angry and then downright furious. Still, the people on the other end wouldn’t budge. Willy refused to tell me anything over the phone, but he said if I came down there to see him right away, all would be revealed.

I grabbed the phone from her and tried myself, but the weary male voice on the other end began to cry, begging me to come, saying this was the only way I could learn the truth before he died. Hearing the whimper of his ill and aged voice, I felt myself growing sick to my stomach, confused and guilty about the whole situation, even though none of this was my fault. As I disconnected the call, I told AJ that as far as I could see, I had no choice. I needed to fly to Louisiana as soon as possible, whether she was happy about that or not.

Before she could reply, I told her to wait, that there was an urgent call I needed to make first. AJ sat and stewed on the couch as I dialed the receptionist at the museum to see if the man had come back yet for his painting. The girl said that he had not, so I had her transfer the call to my friend Bill, who was the head of our museum’s security department. I explained the strange situation to him as simply as I could, saying that a suspicious man had left a painting in my office today and that shortly afterward I had been mugged in an alley while walking to lunch.

“The police suspect that the two events are connected,” I hedged, “so it’s very important to handle the situation correctly if the man returns.”

Bill was infuriated at the thought that I had been attacked, and he promised that if the man I described showed up at the museum he would be detained and that the police and I would be contacted immediately. I thanked Bill for his help and ended the call. Hanging up the phone, I looked across the room at my aunt. Her expression was somber, her hands carefully clasped in front of her.

“What is it?” I asked warily.

“Until today, I didn’t think I’d ever have to deal with this, with the thought of you going back down to Louisiana.”

She seemed so upset that I actually felt bad for her. I may not have known the reasons why she had always kept so much from me, but I had no doubt that she’d thought it was for my own good.

“This isn’t that big of a deal,” I said gently. “I’ll just go down there, meet with this man, and come home. End of story.”

AJ leaned forward, pressing a delicate hand to her cheek.

“It’s not that simple, Miranda,” she said. “Going down there and revisiting your past can only stir up memories and feelings that have long since been put to rest.”

“Why would that stir things up? It’s not like I remember anything about it anyway.”

“But you will. I’m afraid if you go back there, you will.”

“So what if I did? Would that be so bad?”

She didn’t answer me at first but simply stood and began pacing.

“When I brought you back from Louisiana as a child, Miranda, you were completely traumatized. I didn’t know for sure why, and no one down there would give me a straight answer, but my guess was that among other things, you must have witnessed your mother’s death. That’s something that no child should ever have to see. Even though you’re an adult now, remembering that sort of trauma could have all sorts of repercussions. Emotional repercussions.”

I watched her pace, thinking how odd it was to see her acting this way.

“AJ, aren’t you being a little dramatic? This isn’t like you to be so over the top.”

She simply paced faster, her hands working nervously together in front of her. Finally, she came to a stop, looking at me and studying my face.

“You didn’t talk for almost a year after your mother died. Did you know that?”

“I…what?”

I sat on the nearest chair, my eyes wide.

“When I brought you here, all you would do was sit in the corner and rock back and forth for hours on end, perfectly silent. Never made a sound. It scared me to death. I was afraid you’d never come out of it, never come back to me.”

The skin on my arms raised into goose bumps just picturing it.

“I…I didn’t know.”

“It was horrible to watch. Horrible that I couldn’t seem to get through to you no matter what I did.”

AJ began wringing her hands, and as she talked I could imagine her as she must have been then: A beautiful young woman, her life filled with promise, suddenly saddled with the full-time care of her dead sister’s child—and a crazy child at that. My mind filled with shame at the thought of it, even as my chest swelled with gratitude for all she had sacrificed for me.

“Finally, I took you to a psychiatrist,” she continued, “who did a full evaluation. He put you on medication, tried play therapy, all that sort of stuff. When you finally started making sounds, it was almost as though you had to relearn how to talk. By the time you had worked your way back to normal speech, it was obvious you had no memory of what had happened at all. The doctor’s recommendation was that I focus on the future, on showing you that you were loved and safe and not in any way responsible for what had come before. As far as your past went, he told me that your brain was simply protecting itself in the best way it knew how, by letting go of the memories that were so traumatic. He suggested that when the situation came up I should give you just enough facts to answer your questions, but never so much that the memories would actually come back. I thought it was good advice, so that’s what I have tried to do your whole life.”

Gently, I affirmed her efforts but reminded her that psychological practices had changed significantly in the past twenty-seven years. With all of the advances made in the field, I said, in retrospect that man’s advice might not have been all that good.

“Not to mention that I am an adult now,” I added, “and in a very different place emotionally. I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”

“Despite the fact that you’re an adult now, Miranda, you tell me: Can you remember anything about the first five years of your life? As far as I know, you have not one single memory prior to the age of six. Isn’t that true?”

I shrugged.

“But that’s not unusual, AJ. A lot of folks can’t remember that far back.”

She shook her head, coming to sit on the couch to meet me eye to eye.

“They could when they were young, honey. At six, they could still remember four. At eight, they could recall being five. You never did. It all disappeared, like erasing a slate, and nothing has ever come back. I’m sorry, but that’s not the same thing as ‘a lot of folks’ who just can’t remember, not at all.”

“So what are you saying?” I asked. “That I shouldn’t go?”

She let out a long, slow breath, shaking her head from side to side.

“I’m saying that we need to proceed with caution. I’m saying that if you get too much information too fast, you might completely fall apart. I can’t even predict what kind of an effect a trip like this could have on your mental health. I know you’re a very stable person, Miranda, but there are truths in life that can rock the most solid foundation so hard that nothing will ever be the same.”

I bent forward, placing my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. I understood her position, but she obviously didn’t understand mine. A strange man came to my work today for reasons I couldn’t begin to understand. Shortly after, two men dragged me into the dark and searched my body for a tattoo I didn’t even know I had. A dying man was begging me to come down to my old family home to hear what he wanted to say from his deathbed and using as his calling card the same symbol as the one in my tattoo. I’d say those facts trumped the potential for mental fallout. It was time to act.

I’d worry about the consequences later.

Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished;
As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine,
Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended
Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen.

With my hair pulled up in a ponytail to hide my new bald spot, I left AJ’s place in borrowed clothing. Feeling skittish, I took a taxi rather than the subway, rattling out the address to my apartment as I slid into the back of the vehicle and shut the door. Halfway there, however, I changed my mind and told the driver to take me to the New York Public Library instead. Once I was safely inside that grand structure, I went on a symbol search, poring through reference books and the Internet, slogging past countless images of symbols, insignia, heraldry, emblems, hallmarks, satanic icons, and more, all in search of a cross inside a bell or an upside-down shield. In the end, I had managed to come up with nothing even remotely close, not one single indication of what the symbol meant or where it had originated.