Of Things Unseen Page 8

  A short, plump woman answered the door. She wore a grey skirt suit with pearls and nude kitten heels, and her hair was pulled back into a smart-looking bun. It was a Saturday, but the woman looked as though she had just gotten home from work.

  “Hello. You must be Nikki,” she said. “Please come in.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Scott. This is Tamara, she’s assisting me today.”

  I smiled at her, as warmly as I could. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Scott. Thank you for having us.”

  Mrs. Scott returned the smile and led us down the hallway. It was a lovely home, well-appointed and filled with the types of meaningful things a family accumulates over time. The hallway walls were lined with exquisite black art, and not the kind of you buy while passing through the mall or the flea market. They had patronized some talented artists and procured original works. It was one of my goals in life.

  Mrs. Scott came to a stop in the living room where a large bald man sat waiting on the couch. He rose as we approached. “Ladies, this is my husband Mark. Honey, this is Nikki and Tamara.” He nodded and shook our hands with a firm grip. “Nice to meet you girls.” We didn’t bother to correct him. After a certain age, being called girl is a compliment. Besides, he was an elder.

  “Thank you for having us, Mr. Scott. Should we begin?” Mr. Scott looked at his wife, an act of deference that becomes rote after several years of marriage. She smiled at us again. “We can begin whenever you’re ready. Can I get you some coffee or tea first?”

  Nikki glanced at me and then back to Mrs. Scott. “No ma’am, I don’t wanna put you out.” She thought she was being polite. She didn’t know about those old southern matriarchs and their rules of hospitality. If they’re nice enough to let you in their home, you better let them shove food and drink down your throat.

  I spoke up. “I’ll take some tea, please.”

  That made Mrs. Scott smile, again. “Sugar?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” I hoped my stomach cooperated.

  When Mrs. Scott was out of sight, Mr. Scott gestured for us to come closer. “Listen,” he said in a hushed tone. “My wife is fragile. I want this to be as painless for her as possible. She’s not gonna tell you if it’s getting to be too much, but I will. And I expect you to act accordingly.”

  Nikki nodded vigorously. “Of course, I understand completely.”

  “Good,” he said firmly. I couldn’t help but imagine him with his kids and the picture in my mind was of a big teddy bear who could never tell them “no.” But heaven help the person who got on his bad side. I didn’t intend to do so.

  Once it became clear that Mr. Scott was done talking for the moment, we sat on the couch in awkward silence. The only sounds were the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, a family heirloom no doubt, and the occasional clink of a spoon in the kitchen.

  Mrs. Scott reappeared with a lovely silver tea service, as I had expected. She set the tray down gingerly and handed me a cup and saucer. I gave her the most grateful smile I could muster. “Your set is beautiful,” I told her. She took her rest on the loveseat next to her husband. “Thank you, it was my grandmother’s. She gave it to me when I got married. That, and three cast iron skillets. I still have those, too.” More silence. I took a sip. The tea was perfect.

  Nikki finally broke the silence. “Mr. and Mrs. Scott, I want you to know that you can stop this interview at any time. I also want to remind you that I’m audio recording our interview, and anything you say on the recording is considered on the record. If you wish to discuss something with me off the record, just let me know and I will stop the recording. I won’t print or repeat it. Is that okay with you?” They both nodded.

  It was interesting. I had never seen Nikki at work before so I was looking forward to what came next. I’d read most of her articles and followed her blog, but the nuts and bolts of how she created her stories was a mystery to me.

  “If it’s okay, I’m going to start recording now.”

  They nodded at Nikki, who then nodded to me. I removed the recorder from my handbag, somehow managing to press the RECORD button with my trembling fingers without dropping it.

  “I know the demographic information, such as her name and age and where she went to school, but I would like you to illuminate Tiffany for me. Tell me all about the Tiffany you knew.”

  Mrs. Scott spoke first. “Well first, we still believe Tiffany is out there somewhere. You used past tense but we still have hope that she’s alive.”

  My heart sank upon hearing this. I thought Nikki had surely made a grievous error and was feeling second-hand embarrassment on her behalf. But when I glanced over at her, she looked completely unfazed. “Of course,” she began. “Tell me about the Tiffany you know.”

  Mrs. Scott gushed about her daughter. She made her sound like an angel, which is probably what all parents did when discussing their missing or deceased children. Nobody would publicly say ‘my kid was an asshole with a smart mouth who couldn’t keep her room clean.’ People speak ill of the dead all the time, but parents never did, no matter what. I briefly wondered what my mother would say about me after I was dead.

  Mr. Scott waited patiently until his wife finished, and I got a bit wistful when he began to speak. I couldn’t conceive of what it felt like to be loved by a father the way he loved his Tiffany. His Songbird.

  Funny thing about fathers. Conventional wisdom says children do fine with just their mothers, and that was true for me. I was fine. Wasn’t I? Maybe it had been wishful thinking. I always told myself I was fine, that I couldn’t miss what I’d never had, but sitting there, in the presence of a man like Mark Scott, made me realize that I had missed out. Terribly. I didn’t have a frame of reference or anything to compare it to in my own life, but I couldn’t fool myself anymore. He was laying bare all of the raw emotion I had repressed and it wasn’t pretty. My eyes welled up and I blinked rapidly to keep myself from losing it.

  Unlike my siblings, I hadn’t known my father at all. How much damage can be done by someone you can’t see or touch? He wasn’t good or bad to me, he was just gone. That old cliché about having loved and lost popped into my head. Was it better to have had a father and watched him leave or to have never known your father at all? A question for the great philosophers. Or Freud.

  “...and I still feel so guilty about that,” Mr. Scott was saying. I snapped myself back to attention. “Can you tell me more about that?” asked Nikki. Mr. Scott dropped his head and took a deep breath. This wasn’t easy for him. Despite his earlier warning, he seemed to be the one who was struggling. He took another deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  “She told me she needed to talk to me but I was too busy to listen to her right then. I mean with kids, it seems like they always have something to say. Something to talk about, or something they need you to sign. Or buy.” He chuckled. “Tiffany was always hitting me up for money. I just assumed she needed something big and wanted to catch me in a good mood or something.”

  Mrs. Scott smiled at that. “It’s true. Tiffany was a daddy’s girl and he didn’t know the word ‘no’ when it came to her,” she added.

  Daddy’s girl. I grimaced a bit. That phrase. It was completely foreign to me.

  “I should have listened to her. I will regret that until the day I leave this earth. Elaine tells me it’s not my fault, that it wouldn’t have changed anything. But we can’t know that for sure.” He sniffed, his eyes red and wet. “I go over it in my mind every day. What if somebody was bothering her? If I had done things differently, maybe...” he trailed off and put his hands over his face. Mrs. Scott put her hand on his back and rubbed gently. Nikki was writing furiously on her pad. I think she was doodling as a way to let the moment pass before speaking again.

  I desperately wanted to tell Mr. Scott it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t my place to reassure him, but it was hard to watch such a big, strapping man reduced to tears of shame and regret. How many times had the Scotts been through his guilt-ridden break
downs and her nurturing, reassuring back pats? Did she ever get to grieve or was she constantly comforting him and soothing his pain?

  Nikki cleared her throat. “I understand how hard this must be. Would you like to take a break?” Mrs. Scott shook her head. “Okay. I want to go back to the day Tiffany disappeared. Can you walk me through that day and how you found out she was missing?”

  Mrs. Scott fielded that question. “Well, Tiffany was usually very punctual. We expected her home by dinnertime because she was always home by then. For us, that’s usually around 7:30 in the evening. By 8:30, I must have called her ten times. That may seem excessive to you, but as I said, she was always on time.” The woman had such a pleasant speaking voice. It was more high-pitched than you would expect when looking at her, and very smooth, yet there was a crispness to her words that suggested an ambiguous accent. She had taken elocution lessons as a child.

  “We waited another couple of hours before we called the police. We wanted to cover all of our bases. We called her friends, all of our other children, and her place of employment, and nobody had seen her. I finally called the police at around 10:30.”

  Nikki made a note in her pad. “How would you describe the police response to your call?” she asked. Mrs. Scott’s voice may have been refined but her face was not. Her scowl told the whole story.

  “They were...hesitant at first. I could tell from the questions they asked that they thought she probably ran away. They didn’t even come out to take a report until the next morning, around 9 o’clock.”

  “What kinds of questions did they ask?”

  “Oh, things like ‘was she happy living at home?’ and ‘has she ever left for long periods of time without telling you?’ Oh, and they also told me ‘well ma’am, she is 18 years old. She’s an adult and adults can leave if they want to.’” She said this with an exaggerated hostile tone.

  Nikki took a breath. “Did you sense any...bias in their response to you?” The Scotts looked at each other, then Mr. Scott spoke first. “What do you mean by ‘bias’?”

  “What I mean is, did you feel the police treated you unfairly?”

  “Compared to whom?” asked Mrs. Scott.

  I didn’t let it show but I was surprised. I hadn’t expected Nikki to go forward with that line of questioning.

  Nikki cleared her throat. “Let me give some context to the question. Many in the black community believe the police and media are slow to respond when it comes to missing black women due to racial bias. In your opinion, did racial bias affect the way police responded to you?”

  Mrs. Scott folded her hands in her lap. “Well we are certainly part of the black community, but we do not believe race was a factor in our case. We know the police have a difficult job to do and right now, our focus is on assisting them in this investigation so that we can bring Tiffany home as soon as possible.” Mr. Scott nodded in agreement, and Nikki shot me a look. I saw it out of the corner of my eye but I didn’t dare look back at her.

  “Thank you for your honesty,” Nikki said, but she didn’t sound like she meant it.

  MR. SCOTT GLANCED DOWN at the recorder in my hands. “Is that off?” he asked me.

  “Yes, it’s off. Did you have something else you wanted on the record?” I asked, trying my best to sound professional. The interview was over and we were standing around waiting for Mrs. Scott to give us pictures of Tiffany for the article.

  “I wanted to clarify something but I don’t want it on the record.” I nodded and waved Nikki over. She half-jogged over to us and looked at Mr. Scott expectantly.

  “I want you both to understand something. We believe race absolutely was a factor in how we were treated. From day one. The police were dismissive, impatient, and slow as Christmas,” he said rhythmically. “They acted like Tiffany was some random loser kid who didn’t obey her parents, like they couldn’t fathom the idea that a black girl comes home at the same time every night to have dinner with her parents.” His voice rose steadily with every sentence. “They didn’t give two shits about her and they dragged their asses on everything. Off the record, right?”

  Nikki nodded.

  “If she had blonde hair and blue eyes, they would have had the entire Townsend county PD out there searching for her and her picture would have been all over the damn news! Every night! But they don’t care about us.” He choked up again. “I wanted y’all to know that’s my real answer.”

  There it was. The repressed rage. People like the Scotts are usually filled to the brim because the American Dream doesn’t come easy to those who let it boil over.

  “Thank you for your honesty,” Nikki said. “Believe me, I get it. That’s one of our angles. We want to say all the things you can’t say. You won’t be quoted, but your point of view will be represented, believe that,” said Nikki, with passion in her voice. I said nothing.

  “I appreciate that. We just wanna find Tiffany, and if this helps, all the better.”

  Mrs. Scott returned with a manila envelope. “These should do. One is her senior picture. It’s my favorite. She’s wearing my pearls.” She walked us to the door, thanking us for our help, and Nikki assured her we would be in touch. I waited until we pulled out of the driveway before I spoke.

  “I thought we were gonna chill on the race angle for now.”

  “I don’t think I ever said for sure one way or the other.”

  “I think you did.”

  “Look, it’s better to have it than not have it. I don’t have to put it in the article.”

  “Are you gonna put it in the article?”

  Nikki laughed. I knew her too well. “I don’t know yet.”

  “Okay.” I watched the trees race past my window.

  “What?” Nikki asked.

  “You asked for my help and I told you what I thought.”

  “I asked because I know you know what you’re talking about. But I also have my own feelings on some things if that’s okay with you. I just feel like it would be dishonest to pretend like race isn’t in the mix. It is. Heavy. And you know it.”

  “Of course it is. And I never said anything about pretending.”

  “I have to keep it real. Sorry.”

  “I respect what you’re saying but I think you need to be more strategic, that’s all.”

  Nikki frowned. “I’ll think about it” She turned the radio down a few notches. “By the way, can you please call my dad? He asked about you again the other day.”

  “Didn’t I tell you I’m gonna call him?

  “Yeah, but...you say a lot of things.”

  I let it pass. “Is their number still the same?”

  “Still the same.” Nikki studied my face and read me instantly. “Look, I know you don’t like getting close to people, but believe it or not, some of the people who get to know your weird ass actually start to care about you. My dad has always cared about you, Tam.”

  “I hear you. I’ll call him. I promise.” Maybe it was time to start keeping my word.

  Chapter 9

  “MY TAMARA! IT’S SO nice to hear from you.”

  Dr. Thomas really did sound happy to hear my voice, and that realization made me feel guilty. I had assumed he would be annoyed since he hadn’t heard from me in years, but I didn’t detect anything in his voice.

  “It’s been long enough, right?” I asked, hoping to get that out of the way quickly. But I hadn’t needed to worry. He didn’t make me suffer.

  “It’s okay, dear, we all get busy with life. So how are you? Nikki tells me you haven’t been feeling well?”

  That darn Nikki. “Yeah, I’ve been having some trouble for the last several years and I’m at my wit’s end. My primary care doctor diagnosed me with fibromyalgia.”

  “Oh no.”

  I was slightly alarmed by the defeat in his voice. “Yeah. And then I started having stomach problems too.”

  “That’s not surprising.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, fibro and bowel problems a
re comorbid. That just means they often occur together. Do you have Irritable Bowel Syndrome as well?”

  “Probably, but not diagnosed. Why do they happen together?”

  “It’s hard to say. Both illnesses are what we call umbrella diagnoses, meaning doctors test for everything and if they can’t figure out a source for the illnesses, they give you the diagnosis so you can start managing them.”

  “But that’s just it. I’m having a hard time managing.”

  “Well, what have you tried? Surely your doctor prescribed something.”

  I hesitated. “He did but I never got them filled.”

  “Tamara!” He sounded as disappointed as I knew he would and I was embarrassed. “You know what? Your non-compliance doesn’t surprise me.” He sighed heavily, and I felt defensive. Non-compliance? That stung. “Why didn’t you get them filled, dear?”

  “I’m just not a fan of the strong stuff.”

  “I don’t know what it is with our people and drugs. If you use them as prescribed, it’s very difficult to get addicted to most medications. Are you scared to get hooked? Because that’s usually what I hear in my office.”

  “I guess that’s part of it. But mostly I don’t wanna have to rely on a pill every day for the rest of my life.” I mean, it wasn’t that crazy, was it? My grandmother hated pills. They may as well have been laced with arsenic for all the contempt she felt for them. My mother would beg and cry and threaten but Grandma Nandi never budged. And I understood her. Being in a position like that, forced to take a pill every day, was a loss of agency. If a person can’t control anything else in her life, she can decide what she puts in her body. But then she died, and I often felt like I was dying. Maybe we were wrong.

  “I hear that one too,” Dr. Thomas said. “I’ll ask you what I ask my patients. Which would you rather do every day? Take a little pill or suffer in pain?”