Chapter Nineteen
A SOFT PLACE TO HEAL
Lane learned to read applications for The Full Plate Project and find the truth between the lines.
People thought employment and volunteer forms were simple, only requiring you to fill out the basics and the position was theirs, but Lane had seen enough to know the devil was in the details as opposed to between neat lines and checked boxes.
This made her interview process unorthodox, leading her to hire a retired teacher who wanted to volunteer on Tuesdays after her husband died and the house was too quiet.
It would lead her to create the perfect position for the college student who wrote that he needed service hours but showed up every Saturday after he got them because he liked making the seniors laugh.
She took pride in offering a mother of three applying to be part-time pantry support because she’d once stood in the same line with her babies and wanted somebody else to feel less ashamed.
Lane sat in her office with a stack of applications spread across her desk, with an iced coffee sweating beside her laptop and Marisol’s color-coded hiring notes on a clipboard.
The Full Plate Project was expanding, and with the grocery-style market build-out underway, they needed more permanent staff and trained volunteers.
Lane was both thrilled and terrified because growth meant more responsibility, and more responsibility meant she had to rely on her team more than she’d ever done before.
She flipped to the next application and scanned the top line as her breathing hitched—Jeanette Sanders.
She went rigid while everything continued around her as if nothing had happened.
Outside her door, she could hear carts rolling down the hallway and Marisol calling out a reminder about the refrigeration delivery.
Still, Lane sat frozen, staring at her mother’s name printed in careful block letters.
Applicant: Jeanette Sanders.
Availability: Monday through Friday, flexible after discharge.
Position applying for: Pantry associate or volunteer support.
Reason for applying: The Full Plate Project helped me when I had nowhere else to go. Never judged me in the state of rock bottom I was in. I want to give back if I’m given the chance.
Lane read over her mother’s application multiple times before asking herself what type of games her mother was playing.
That was Lane’s first thought because survival always checked for traps before it checked for grace.
Had her mother applied knowing exactly what she was doing?
Was she hoping Lane would see the name and feel sorry for her?
Was this some soft little ambush dressed up as recovery?
Was this a way to make Lane decide between her peace and the guilt that had been trying to grow teeth since Jeanette entered treatment. Or did Jeanette not know?
The possibility that she didn’t know hurt more than Lane expected.
Did her mother really not know she had founded The Full Plate Project?
Did she not know Lane fought developers over it, and bled into it?
Did she not know the food bank that had apparently fed her during addiction was the same one built by the daughter she’d once failed to feed?
Lane leaned back in her chair and pressed the application flat beneath her palm.
Jeanette had reached out to Lane, and sometimes she responded, keeping their communication brief and careful.
Jeanette never pushed when she was met with Lane’s silence; she would simply leave a message if she didn’t answer.
She texted updates from treatment, letting Lane know she was ninety days clean.
She texted Lane about the ups and downs of group therapy and that individual counseling was worse.
She learned that Jeanette hated journaling but did it anyway because it made her face her truth.
She was on a step where she had to make a list of people she harmed, and Lane’s name had taken up pages.
Lane didn’t always respond, but she read every message and sometimes smiled at the way Jeanette was blooming in her sobriety.
Her mother’s abusive ex had been sentenced to 40 years in jail, and that was some of the best news Lane had gotten from Jeanette.
She also knew Jeanette had put her on the visiting list months ago, though she had yet to go.
Not because she didn’t think about it; she had constantly, especially in small and inconvenient moments.
Lane was looking in the mirror when her own face revealed echoes of Jeanette’s cheekbones, or at night when Lennox held her, and she felt safe enough for old questions of abandonment to creep into the room.
Today, Lane picked up the application, slid it into a folder, and stood before she could talk herself out of what she was about to do. Marisol looked up when Lane stepped out of her office to ask her if she was good, and Lane stood unsure of how to answer.
“I need to go handle something personal,” she finally replied.
Marisol’s eyes sharpened with the kind of concern that came from working beside Lane long enough to know personal usually meant heavy. “Need backup?”
Lane smiled because nothing g was better than being loved so fiercely that backup was offered like Stonebridge had a shared violence clause.
“No,” she said softly, “Not this time.”
Marisol studied her for one more beat and nodded. “Call if that changes,” she was sure to say as Lane headed out.
“I will,” Lane said, meaning it.
The treatment facility sat forty minutes outside Stonebridge on a quiet stretch of land surrounded by trees, gardens, and a lake that looked too peaceful to be alone with nobody around it.
The sign at the entrance was simple, with no dramatic language and fancy fonts.
Just the name of the facility engraved in stone beside a long driveway lined with crepe myrtles.
Lane slowed as she drove through the gate.
It wasn’t lost on her that Lennox had her mother in a luxury facility.
Not bare minimum or even comfortable, luxury accommodations.
The grounds were green and serene with walking trails winding through landscaped gardens.
The main building was all brick, with tall windows and wide porches, rocking chairs arranged as if to say rest was part of the remedy for healing.
Lennox was key in Jeanette having a safe place to get clean and regain her dignity and sense of self.
Lane’s heart raced, trying to decide if she wanted to thank him or curse his ass out for being the kind of man who did beautiful things quietly, knowing she would only fall deeper.
Inside, the lobby smelled like eucalyptus and fresh linen. The receptionist greeted Lane with kindness, checked her ID to confirm she was on Jeanette’s approved visitor list, and gave her a badge. Lane signed in with hands that were steadier than she felt.
“Ms. Sanders is in group right now,” the receptionist said. “It should be wrapping up in about ten minutes. Feel free to wait in the visiting area.”
Hearing someone refer to her mother as Ms. Sanders almost made Lane laugh. There were two of them in the world now. In the past, you never had to call her mother that because for years she rarely left the house. She had been buried under the weight of her trauma and addiction.
The visitors area was bright and comfortable with soft chairs and potted plants.
Shelves of books lined the walls. There were books for spiritual guidance and self-help books to aid in their sobriety journey.
Lane even spotted some black romance books, like What I’m Not by DH Renfroe, that gave them an escape into the world of romantic fiction.
A few families sat in quiet clusters visiting their loved ones, praying they stayed free of substance abuse.
Somewhere down the hall, a door opened, and a counselor’s voice drifted through, gentle but firm, telling everyone she’d see them next week.
Lane sat near the window with the folder in her lap, pretending to be calm, but her bouncing knee showed otherwise.
Ten minutes later, Jeanette appeared in the doorway, and Lane almost didn’t recognize her.
Her mother had gained enough weight to fill out her face and soften the hollow places that addiction had carved into her cheeks.
Her skin looked clearer and her eyes, once empty, now held emotion.
Her hair was done in neat knotless braids that fell past her shoulders, and the fitted dark jeans, cream sweater, and sneakers were cute. Sobriety looked good on her.
Jeanette stopped when she saw Lane, shock registering on her face, then joy, quickly replaced by fear, as if joy felt too dangerous to show without permission.
“Lane,” Jeanette whispered.
Lane stood, and for a brief moment, neither of them moved. Jeanette took one small step forward and stopped herself from invading Lane’s space. Lane was thankful for her mother’s restraint because she wasn’t ready to embrace her in this moment.
“Hi,” Lane said.
“Hi, Baby,” Jeanette spoke back, her eyes filled instantly with tears.
The term of endearment hit Lane in a way she wasn’t sure how to handle, so she didn’t do anything. Jeanette wiped quickly beneath one eye.
“I’m happy to see you. I’m so happy, but I know…” She swallowed, “I know it might not be mutual, so I need to ask, is everything okay?”
Lane looked at her mother’s face, really looked this time.
These were not the eyes of the woman who had abused and neglected her for seventeen years.
The woman standing before her was thinking of her daughter’s well-being, something she’d never done in Lane’s life.
Jeanette radiated guilt and remorse, and it appeared that facing the weight of her actions in therapy was a necessary exhaustion before Lane was a woman no longer living under a drug-induced fog, trying not to ask for what she hadn’t earned.