The Whore of Babylon, a Memoir - By Katrina Prado Page 0,35

point, they say there’s no bleeding inside the brain, but she’ll need to be monitored for awhile to make sure no bleeding starts. She might have short-term or long-term memory loss, or both. And depending on the severity of the concussion, she could require occupational or speech therapy.”

“Who did this?” I ask.

Sister Margaret gives me a peculiar look and I realize that I am holding my stomach as we walk, trying to mitigate the pain from the surgery.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I give her an overall gloss about my ulcer and recent operation.

“Should you be out of bed?” Sister Margaret asks in alarm.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Really. What about Chevy? Do you know who did this to her?”

A man with a goatee wearing a white lab coat breezes by us, carrying an armload of patient charts.

“Chevy told the police she didn’t know her attacker, but between you and me, she admitted it was Antonio Peña.”

“BLU BOY,” I say, more to myself than to her.

Sister Margaret nods. “But without a positive ID, the police can’t arrest him.”

Sister Margaret punches a large, square button on the wall and suddenly we’re inside ICU, where the atmosphere turns immediately somber. We are in front of a door, but before we go in, Sister Margaret looks over to the nurse’s station, where a petite, young woman with curly blond hair gives the nun a pointed look. Clearly, visiting hours are over as it is past ten o’clock at night.

“Five minutes, Sister, not one second more,” the nurse says in a heavy New York accent.

Sister Margaret smiles, giving her a nod. The nun obviously has some pull around here. I reach to open the door for both of us, but suddenly feel Sister Margaret’s firm grip on my arm. I turn and look at her.

“Chevy’s hurt pretty bad. She could use a real friend right now—not just someone who’s using her as a means to an end.”

“I understand that,” I say.

“Do you?”

I push past the nun and make my way to Chevy’s hospital bed.

Nothing Sister Margaret has said prepares me for what I see. In spite of the guttering light I can easily see that Chevy’s face is cut and bruised. Her left cheek from chin to eye socket is swollen. She has tubes everywhere and behind the bed, a monitor pings softly with each beat of her heart. She appears to be asleep.

As I draw closer, my heart slowly breaks as my eyes catalogue every appalling wound on the young girl’s body. A deep gash on the left side of her forehead is covered by Steri-strips stained by dried blood. Her left eye is swollen shut and is the color of eggplant. Both arms are mottled with abrasions, and her left forearm bears bruising that is visibly the shape of someone’s fingers. A jagged swath of her beautiful black hair has been razored away at the top of her head, revealing more Steri-strips and more dried blood.

I reach out to touch her, but realize that there probably isn’t a single spot on her young body that doesn’t hurt. She stirs faintly and her right eye opens. Her lips form a nearly imperceptible smile.

“You came,” she mumbles.

She lets out a pained breath. Tears well in my eyes and spill onto the blanket. She looks so helpless and small in the hospital bed. A thousand thoughts ricochet through me. Does she know where Robyn is? Why does she do this? Why do girls let monsters like BLU BOY control their lives? And then Sister Margaret’s admonition about Chevy needing a friend rushes back into my mind.

“Yes,” I whisper. “I’m here, Chevy.”

She mumbles something I can’t make out.

“What?” I say.

“Phoenix,” she murmurs.

“Sometimes pimps move their girls to different cities to stay one move ahead of the police,” Sister Margaret says.

“Is Robyn in Phoenix?” I ask Chevy.

My heart pounds in my chest as I wait, straining with every nerve in my body to hear her response. But she only lets out a faint cry that sounds like the mewl of a kitten.

I reach out and gently ease her hair back from her forehead. I let my hand linger, softly stroking her head. Her hair is snowflake soft, and the bones of her skull seem so small and frail. I am filled with compassion for this little girl who has risked her life for my daughter.

“It’s okay,” I say. “Don’t try to talk.”

“BLU BOY . . .” Chevy begins, and then stops. Her body slumps back into the mattress of