Chapter 40
Then
I cursed, wishing not for the first time I had a cell phone or navigation system.
Anything would be better than the atlas spread over the steering wheel.
I’d purchased it at a Texaco as soon as I crossed the state line into Alabama.
It was a confusing bundle of squiggly lines threaded over an outline of the state.
I frowned, tracing the line that represented the path I needed to take.
When I finally made sense of where I was and where I was heading, I pulled out of the rest area and backtracked almost an hour before correcting my wrong turns and arriving at the correctional facility where Mama had lived for the past decade.
It was only a few hours from Puddle Creek, and it hit me for the first time how close she’d been all these years.
The fact that she’d never, not once, allowed us to call or visit or even written us back felt like even more of a slap in the face. She’d been right here all along.
There was a guard at the gatehouse, an older Black lady whose curly brown hair was streaked with threads of silver. Her round eyes were kind, but serious. I rolled down my window.
She asked, “You visiting?”
“Yes ma’am,” I said. “My mama.”
“You have an appointment?”
I paused, unsure of what to say. They had to let me in. “Uh, yes ma’am.”
The guard stared at me for a moment, and I knew—I knew—she didn’t believe me.
“Your mama, huh?” She pursed her lips.
“Yes ma’am,” I said. “Um. Sorry, I’m nervous. This is my first time.”
The guard nodded slowly and sighed. “Any firearms, knives, weapons, drugs, or alcohol in the vehicle?”
“Uh.” My voice shook. “I’m sorry?”
“You can’t have weapons, drugs, or alcohol on prison property. Do you have anything that could be considered a weapon in your vehicle?”
“Um. No, ma’am,” I said.
“Pull up, cut the engine.”
“Ma’am?”
The guard smiled. “It’s procedure. Calm down and take a breath.
Pull up, put it in park, cut your engine.
I need to look in the back of the truck.
I’ll do the same thing when you leave. I do it to every car that visits.
” She paused. “Not everyone has to turn off their engine, but you look young, and I don’t want you to back over me because of nerves. ” She chuckled as if she’d made a joke.
I did as she asked. She circled the truck and pointed toward a parking lot. “You’ll park in that lot. Go in that building there, tell them you have a visiting appointment. They’ll walk you through the rest. And baby?”
“Yes ma’am?”
“Breathe. It’s going to be okay. You’re going to see your mama.”
I smiled. She was right. Not about everything being okay, but about Mama. The idea of seeing her now, when I needed her most, made everything…not right, but better. Like I might survive this after all.
As long as I never shut my eyes or blink or think of Casey…
Inside, the room was small, with another guard at a desk behind a plexiglass window.
A woman and a man were in line. I stood behind them, listening in to their conversations.
They were visiting their daughter, who they hoped would be out soon, even though the idea of having her back was exhausting.
There was a buzzing sound, and another door opened. A guard ushered them through.
“Next?” the guard behind the window called. He was white with ruddy skin and sandy hair buzzed short, making his bushy brows and mustache stand out that much more. “Have your identification ready.”
I stepped up and slid my driver’s license through the slit in the bottom of the glass.
“Who are you here to see?”
“My mother,” I said.
The guard raised his brows. “What’s her name, sweetheart?”
“Oh.” The telltale warmth of a blush crept up my cheeks. “Uh, sorry. Lilibet Waters.” Mama’s name was awkward on my lips.
The guard pecked something into the computer and grimaced. He looked closer at my ID. “No one’s scheduled to see Lilibet Waters,” he said. Then, “In fact, she’s never had a visitor.” He stared at me, waiting for me to explain.
“I…I haven’t had the opportunity. I live with my great-aunt and, well.” I stopped talking, my voice going squeaky. I coughed and blinked, afraid that hot tears would spring into my eyes and embarrass me even more. “It’s only… I really need to see my mama, you know? And—”
“So you don’t have an appointment?”
I sighed. “Um, no. But…I really need—”
He held up his hand, then squinted at my ID once again. “And you’re seventeen? Christ, you can’t be here without a guardian and—”
A choked sob escaped. I’d come so far. I had to see her. Mama was right there. “You don’t understand. No one will bring me, and I really, I…I need her. Please. I know you can help me.”
The guard rolled his eyes. “Look, kid. I’m sorry. I am. There’s nothing I can do. Are you even on her visitation list?”
I said nothing.
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, then tapped the keyboard again. He shook his head. “Nope. Not on the list. I can’t—”
“Please?” I pressed one hand against the plexiglass, horrified at the whining pitch of my voice. “Tell her I’m here. She’ll want to see me… She’ll add me to the list and—”
“Doesn’t work that way, kid.”
My shoulders slumped, and all of the exhaustion and fear and shame of the last twenty-four hours poured out.
The man stared, then leaned toward the window.
“Okay. Listen. Christ, I’m going to regret this, but you look like you could use a break.
I know about your mama. Everyone does… She’s a sweet lady who got a raw deal.
” He paused, looking as if he already regretted what he was about to say. “I’m going to see what I can do.”
“Yes, sir.” I nodded, hope rising in my chest. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Don’t thank me yet. First, I’m going to get someone to track her down and see if she’ll add you to her list, then I’ll see if we can fast-track the visit. If not, well, kid, that’s that. You understand?”
I nodded.
“But right now, go plant it over there. This might take a while.” He pointed to a row of moldy-looking chairs bolted to the floor.
I chose the least-stained seat and sank into it.
Minutes past. An hour. Two hours. I drifted off, then awoke with a start. The guard caught me looking at him and shrugged.
I waited. There were no magazines like at the dentist. No books. No people to watch. Nothing. I sat, hands clasped in my lap and let my mind wander.
Finally, he motioned for me to come back.
“You get five minutes, you understand? Next time, you arrange it first, have a guardian sign some forms, and you can have longer. But I had to go to bat for you on this.” He sighed. “You remind me of my daughter a little. Same poufy haircut.”
My hand went to the back of my hair. A week ago, the bad haircut had seemed like a huge deal. Now, I couldn’t care less.
“Don’t make me regret this, okay?”
“Okay.” My eyes widened. I was going to see her. This was happening.
The guard hit a button, and a heavy door buzzed open.
Another guard—a woman with brown, acne-scarred skin and a shiny, slick bun—led me back.
My keys were confiscated, and I walked through a scanner.
When it didn’t alert, I was shown to a room lit with buzzing fluorescent lights.
The cinder block walls were painted a dirty white, and the air was heavy with despair.
At a small table, in the middle of all of it, sat Mama.
Her blond hair hung down her back in a tight braid, and her hands were cuffed in front of her, resting on the table.
Seeing her, even so changed, unearthed long-buried memories that bombarded me all at once: her exact scent, like rain and lemon furniture polish.
How cool her palms had felt when she’d cupped my cheek to check for a fever or rubbed my back when I was sick or held my hand while we watched a movie.
In my mind, I could hear her sing along with the radio as she cleaned house.
I’d forgotten, but suddenly remembered with certain clarity, the cadence and carry of her voice, and all the little things I’d collected from her over our eight short years together.
The sayings and laughter. The way she’d press her lips into a firm line whenever she was lost in thought.
How she always giggled at my jokes, even though at only eight years old I’d known they weren’t that funny.
I bit my lip hard enough to hurt and ordered my feet not to run. The guard led the way, and the moment we were close enough, I couldn’t stop myself.
“Mama,” I gasped. I opened my arms to hug her, but the guard stepped between us.
“No touching.” Her expression was sympathetic, and she looked pointedly at the corners of the room. Security cameras.
Mama smiled, but it wasn’t the grin from my memories. This was the smile of someone who was bone-weary.
“Milly,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
It wasn’t what I expected. I sat down in the metal chair across the table from her. “Why does something have to be wrong?”
Mama scratched the back of her head and sighed.
“We have five minutes. I wish more than anything we had time to dance around each other, but you’re here because you need something.
That’s why I told them I’d see you. Are you in trouble?
” Her words were blunt, but she wasn’t wrong.
And the way she looked at me was familiar. She was still my mama.
“I, um, I did something. And I don’t know what to do about it.”
“So you came to see me.” Mama nodded slowly, squinting. She nodded at the cameras mounted in the corner, then nodded toward the nearby guard. “There’s no privacy here. Everything is recorded. Just so you know.”
I swallowed, unsure of what to say. Of course there were cameras and guards. This was a prison. Was I really so stupid? Had I really thought I’d be able to spill my guts and let her comfort me, telling me it would be okay?
Would she even do that if she could?
“You can tell me what you need, but be careful,” Mama instructed.
“Something…big happened.” I thought carefully of how to say what I meant, but my thoughts were jumbled. There was so much to explain and here was Mama. Right here, in front of me.
“Milly. We only have a few minutes.”
“I know.” I nodded again. “Something happened and I can’t talk to anyone about it, but it’s something that maybe you could understand.”
“Something I’d understand?” She went still. “Do your aunts know? Do they know you’re here?”
I shook my head.
“Right,” she said. “Shit.”
Mama heaved a sigh, emotional roulette playing across her face. Sadness, anger, worry. “Milly. You’re young. You have an entire life to live, and, dammit, I want you to live it. Do whatever you have to to make that happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if you can’t tell your aunts—if it’s that serious—then you can’t tell anyone. In fact, you should go away. Disappear. At least until you know you’re safe.”
“One minute left,” the guard said.
“I can’t.” My face fell.
“Yes, you can. Don’t end up somewhere like this, Milly. Please. You can’t end up here.”
I sniffed. “Mama. Am I…am I a bad person?”
“No.” She didn’t hesitate. “No, you could never be bad.” She reached across the table, her wrists still shackled together, her fingers stretching for my hand.
“No touching,” the guard said again.
“You’re a good girl, Millicent Marie. Always have been.”
I swiped at the tears that collected in the corners of my eyes. My entire life I’d never been a crier, but the last few days had wrung me out.
“Time’s up,” the guard said, not unkindly.
“I’ll call you, Mama. I’ll send you letters.”
“No,” she said. “No, don’t do that. Don’t visit me. Don’t send me anything. You go and start over. Disappear and don’t tell anyone what happened. You want to help me? Go live your life. And one day, maybe I’ll get out of here. I’ll find you, and then we can tell each other everything.”
There was another buzzing sound, and the door on the other side of the room opened. A new guard walked in and gathered Mama.
Ten years. That’s how long it had been since I’d seen her. And now, after five minutes, she was gone again.
I didn’t feel better. I felt worse.
Worse than I ever thought possible.