Page 15 of The Last to Let Go
I force a smile and bite back any words that might give away how irritated I am. Callie lifts the lid and chooses one of the cream-filled ones, then passes the box to me. I set it down on the middle seat and cross my arms over my growling stomach.
Next we turn down Carmen’s street—I could make out the roof of our building if I looked over my shoulder. But I try not to do that. Instead I focus on the road ahead of us. As we pull up next to the curb, Aaron’s standing there, his hair wet, like he just got out of the shower. He slides into the backseat with me, an invisible cloud of smoke trailing in after him as he sits behind Callie.
“Hey, good morning,” Aaron says to the car collectively. “Smells good in here. Doughnuts?” he asks, looking at the box.
“Didsmell good,” I mumble, waving at the air in front of my face. He clearly just finished smoking a cigarette, even though he supposedly quit after he moved out.
Then he reaches forward around the front seat, placing his hand gently on Callie’s shoulder. “Cal? How you feeling?” he asks. She turns around to look back at him, and gives him a quick nod, a small smile, and touches his hand for a moment—more than I’ve gotten out of her this whole time—something real exchanged between them as their eyes meet in the side rearview mirror outside Callie’s window. Like they have some secret language, a secret club to which I’ve not been granted access.
Somehow we make it on time. We approach a counter where a corrections officer stares us down until Jackie introduces us. Then she reads a series of numbers off a scrap of paper she’s been holding on to. The officer gathers up Aaron’s and Jackie’s driver’s licenses, then looks at me and Callie like,Well?
“Documentation for the minors?” he asks Jackie.
“Oh, right. Yes,” she says, sliding several sheets of paper across the counter.
“And you’re their legal guardian?” he asks, examining the forms with suspicion.
“Yes,” Jackie answers again, and the man nods and begins entering information from the forms into the computer.
Aaron, Callie, and I share a look, all of us confused. “No you’re not,” I tell Jackie, using all my willpower to keep my emotions in check.
Jackie turns to face us, taking a deep breath and exhaling. “Actually, I am. At least for now. It was your mom’s idea. It’s only a temporary guardianship,” she says quietly. “I had to get this paperwork filed before you and Callie could visit her—you can’t come here without a legal guardian.”
“And no one was planning on telling us?” I look to Aaron for some sort of backup, of which he offers none. He stands there nodding along as if Jackie’s making sense.
“It’s a formality, Brooke,” she says, also looking to Aaron for some kind of support.
“Are you getting money for this, or something?” I blurt out. A low blow, I know. But it’s the first thought that entered my mind.
Jackie flinches.
“Brooke,” Aaron says close to my ear. “Shut up.”
The man behind the desk peers out over the rims of his glasses at me, continuing to type, though he’s not looking at the screen. “Problem?” he asks me.
I clench my mouth shut tight, so hard my back teeth throb, and I force myself to shake my head no and go against everything I’m feeling inside.
Reluctantly he hands Jackie her papers and the IDs. “Maximum of three people. Only one minor can visit an inmate at one time,” he begins, like he’s an actor spitting out lines he’s said a thousand times—no emotion, no feeling, no idea how it twists my insides to hear my mother called “inmate.” “Minors must be supervised at all times, so you’ll have to take turns. You’ll have thirty minutes.”
Jackie and I go in first, while Aaron stays in the waiting area with Callie. It seems like a ridiculous rule that I can’t see my own mother by myself, but if this is the only way, I’ll take it. We’re led into a small box of a room that has concrete floors and concrete walls. Empty, bare, and gray, with an overhead vent blasting cold air on us, so that it feels like we’re in a walk-in refrigerator. There’s a table, with one chair on one side and two chairs on the other. The guard has us sit down while we wait for Mom to be brought in.
The door opens and another guard walks alongside her, holding on to her arm. I think I stop breathing. I can barely recognize her—because her usually soft, shiny hair seems to have lost its sheen, pulled back in a ponytail, and her face is bare, without any makeup, pale, making her look sick. But as she comes closer, I start to recognize her underneath the too-big jumpsuit—I find her somewhere behind the eyes. The guard leaves after Mom sits down. She’s crying before anyone has spoken a word, and as she reaches out, the metal handcuffs clang against the tabletop. The skin on her hands looks transparent and papery, like she’s aged ten years since the last time I saw her. I reach across the table, but the guard bangs on the door and yells, “No touching, please!”
I pull my hand back. “Mom...,” I begin, but I haven’t a clue what to say next.
“I’m sorry.” She wipes her eyes and pulls herself together. “I know I look like hell,” she says, scooping the loose strands of hair behind her ear.
“Ally,” Jackie coos.
Mom smiles at her and says, “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’re doing—I don’t deserve you.”
“Stop that right now,” Jackie tells her, waving her hand through the air and shaking her head like it’s no big deal. “What are best friends for? And you don’t look like hell, by the way.”
“Liar!” They both start laughing like we’re in some high school cafeteria.
I make myself count to five before I begin. “Mom, it’s really good to see you.”Start slow, I tell myself.Ease into the big questions.
“You too, honey,” she tells me. “Listen, I don’t want you to worry. Everything’s going to be okay,” she says, spitting my own words to her back at me.
