16. Chapter 16
sixteen
Boston
Thirty-six hours later, I’m handing my ID—the real one, I might add—to a police officer sitting behind a bullet-proof window.
The moment eight a.m. hit and I clocked out after my morning shift at the gym yesterday, I called the jail. The woman who answered informed me—in a cool tone—that my mom had been booked on March nineteenth at just after four in the morning and had since been transferred to the pretrial facility.
I admit, I felt like a total idiot navigating that conversation.
“I can take your name and number and pass it on to the facility,” the lady said. “Your mother can call you back if she chooses. Otherwise, you can schedule a visit.”
So I did both, which required me to call yet another number, speak to yet another officer, who told me that, conveniently, visitations for last names N through Z were today.
It took a few more calls to my various jobs to arrange time off, and an hour-and-a-half drive up from Rochester, but I’m finally closer to my family than I’ve been in years. The thought alone makes my heart beat double-time in my chest.
Well, that and the way that police officer’s studying my ID.
I blink, waiting for some kind of flag to come up on the computer.
A missing person’s report, maybe. Anything to show someone ever gave a shit I was gone.
But the deputy just stares at his screen with lidded eyes.
Like there’s nothing remarkable about me.
Obviously, nobody looked for me. Not even my mom.
Can’t say that thought doesn’t hurt.
“You’re your mother’s only approved visitor,” he drawls as he swipes the little plastic card through a reader.
“What?”
“Visitors have to be on a list approved by the inmate. You’re the only one on hers.”
“Wait,” I murmur. “Did she just add me?”
He shakes his head. “No. As far as I can tell, this was her list from when she was booked.”
It knocks the wind out of me for a second—the knowledge that I was on her mind when she got locked up. Maybe she did care?
“Alright, you’re set Mr. Rawlings.” He looks up. “Take a seat over there. We’ll call your name when it’s time.”
I take my ID from him, then sit. I wasn’t allowed to bring my phone into the facility, so I have no way to distract myself from the restlessness crawling under my skin.
It’s just me, a row of metal chairs, and a waiting room full of people who’ve clearly done this before.
Their faces say “ugh,” whereas I’m all nerves, my right leg bouncing like it’s possessed.
Eventually, an armored door buzzes and opens. A husky officer steps into the threshold, clipboard in hand. “Masterson, Mathers, Navaro, Perez, Rawlings, Sampson, and Ulrich,” he reads.
I stand and follow the others down a long, sterile hallway.
We’re herded into a bright visitation room with round metal tables bolted to the floor, the kind with stools attached like a high school cafeteria.
The sunlight comes through the large windows in soft stripes, but the bars outside kill whatever warmth that light might offer. This is definitely no vacation resort.
I take a seat at one of the unoccupied tables, facing the door we just walked in through.
A second buzz. The door opens again, and a group of women in faded blue uniforms files into the room, one by one. I didn’t know exactly what to expect when I came here, but I’m relieved to see that the women aren’t handcuffed or shackled in some way.
I spot my mom before she sees me.
Her uniform swallows her small frame, but otherwise, she looks okay. Ponytail, like in the mugshot. Tired eyes. Definitely confused, like she doesn’t know why she’s being led in here.
Then I stand and the moment her eyes find me, they well up with tears.
“Boston?” she chokes. “Boss, baby?”
I swallow past the painful lump in my throat.
She starts toward me, instinctively.
“No touching!” a guard barks.
So we sit facing each other, hands on the table but not touching. I don’t remember her being this small, this petite and fragile. Then again, I’ve definitely gotten bigger in the past two years. Her gaze never leaves mine, flitting across my features as silent tears carve a path down her face.
I study her, too. Her eyes, her skin, her teeth—looking for signs that she slipped even further after I… left. But I don’t spot anything that would make me think she started using shit that required needles, for example. No sunken cheeks. No scabbing or twitchy hands. Just exhaustion.
She inhales a shaky breath. “Oh, god, Boston. I… baby, I love you.”
How long has it been since I’ve heard anyone tell me that?
“I love you, too, Mom.”
She smiles. “You’re so handsome, baby. You look just like your dad.”
My chest tightens. I’ve had enough time to wonder about the what-ifs.
What my life would’ve looked like if my dad hadn’t died.
I’d likely have gone to college instead of dropping out of high school just months shy of graduation.
I’d definitely be sleeping in a real bed at night.
I’d have had a fucking chance. Instead, I sleep alone, in my car; no high school diploma or even GED; no prospects to speak of.
But that’s irrelevant right now. I get thirty minutes with my mom. I’m not about to waste them talking about ghosts. “Mom, where are Cassie and Bronx?”
She begins to cry harder. I want to reach across the table and take her hand, but the guard’s stern glance shuts that right down.
“They’re okay,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “The police took them when… when I got arrested. They’re in a foster home. I don’t know much, but I have the caseworker’s info, Boss. Maybe you could call her and find out?” Her eyes are wide with hope.
I nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”
A quiet moment passes between us. There are so many things I want to say, so many questions to ask—what happened, what went wrong. Not just with Eddie, but before that. When my dad died and she… disappeared on me. But it’s too much. Too many years. Too much pain.
“Where were you, Mom?” I finally ask. “After I left. Where did you go? Where did you take Cass and Bronx?” The memory of that phone call with Miss Janine is still so fresh.
She covers her mouth like it physically hurts. “Boss…” Her voice cracks. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want you to go. I love you. I need you to know that. Cassie and Bronx… they cried for weeks after you left. Eddie moved us overnight. We were with him after that.”
I frown. That asshole. He sicced his boys on my mom. Beat me unconscious. Broke my hand and forced me out of my own home at seventeen. And my little siblings were made to live with him? At five and six years old? Completely defenseless?
“He never touched Cassie and Bronx,” she says quickly, like she can sense the tension rising in my shoulders. “They were safe. I made sure they went to school. Cassie loves to draw. She’s so talented. And Bronx started playing soccer. He’s good, baby. He scores all the time.”
“That’s good, Mom.” The words feel small, irrelevant.
She watches me, hesitant. “How about you, Boss? Are you okay?”
I meet her eyes, this close to saying “no.” That I’ve slept in urine-soaked public bathrooms, that I’ve gone days without eating, that I work four jobs only to live in my car. That I spiral into panic attacks almost every night. But what would that accomplish?
So I force a smile. “I’m alright.”
Relief brightens her expression. “I can’t believe how much you’ve grown. You’re just… you’re a man, now. So tall and strong. So handsome,” she repeats. “Do you have someone special?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You mean a girl?”
She nods.
I shake my head. “No.”
Hookups. I have hookups. Mostly with this girl from the gym. She’s more than happy with casual sex and has no idea about my… situation.
My mom looks disappointed.
“I’m just really busy, Mom,” I offer, then decide to switch gears. “How long are you gonna be in here?”
“As soon as Eddie’s out, he’s posting my bail,” she says. “It should be soon. My next hearing’s in a few weeks.”
My jaw ticks. Eddie. Fucking Eddie. It takes everything in me not to react. After everything that happened—after what he did—she still won’t let him go. But at least that means he got locked up, too.
Still, Cassie and Bronx are my priority.
I spend the next minutes asking my mom about them, trying to picture them now, to imagine how different they might look.
After all, two years is a long time for little people.
It’s painful to think they’re almost eight and nine years old now when the last time I saw them, Bronx still wore toddler-sized clothes. He always was a tiny dude.
The guard calls out a five-minute warning. My pulse kicks up.
“Listen, Mom, I have to go back… home. But, I’ll try to figure something out, okay? I’ll try to get in touch with the caseworker and—”
“You’re gonna get them?” she cuts in, pleading.
“I’m gonna try, Mom.” It’s the only promise I trust myself to make.
“Okay,” she breathes.
“Mom, call my cell when they let you and give me the contact info for the caseworker. I don’t know when I’ll come back, but… I’ll figure it out.” I pause. “I’m going to put some money on your books.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she says.
“Yeah, I do. I don’t have much, but you can at least—I don’t know—get yourself a fucking candy bar.”
“Boss, language,” she scolds, half-laughing.
I chuff. “Mom, your boyfriend beat the shit out of me and kicked me out of my own home. I think I’m allowed to say ‘fuck.’”
She sighs. “I want to hug you so badly.”
“I know, but no touching, remember?” I smile, even though I feel hollow inside.
On my way out, I stop at the front desk and hand over my last twenty bucks for my mom’s commissary account.
Then I drive back to Rochester. I don’t stop for food. Gas and that twenty ate up my entire budget for the day. It’s fine. I don’t have an appetite anyway.