Page 85 of The Last to Let Go
“Nowhere,” I lie again. Across the street the park is in bloom, the brightest greens coming to life everywhere. There’s a light scent of cherry blossoms in the air, so faint you could almost miss it. I’d be enjoying it all right now if I weren’t aware of Jackie sitting next to me, seeing right through me.
“Listen, I have to ask you something, and I need you to tell me the truth.”
Instantly I feel my stomach leaping up through my throat. “Jackie, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’m going to pay you back every cent, I promise.”
“Pay me back?” she asks.
“I don’t even know how it started. It was a mistake at first, and then I just...,” I gasp, the guilt strangling me. “I feel terrible about it. I never should’ve started. But I stopped, I really did. And it will take me a while, but I will pay you back—I kept track of how much it was because I was always going to pay you back.”
“Brooke, what are you talking about?”
“Well...” My voice catches in my throat before I can say anything else. “Wait, what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about what Callie told me this morning. She said Aaron moved out.”
Overhead a flock of geese fly in formation, squawking one after the other, putting our conversation on pause.
“So, is that true?” she says loudly as the geese gradually fade away beyond the park and the trees.
I nod, biting my lip, afraid to speak.
“I don’t understand why I’m only hearing about this now. You cannot be living here alone. Do you have any idea how irresponsible and dangerous—”
“No, I know,” I interrupt. “But it’s—it’s going to be okay.”
“You’re damn right, it will. Because you’re coming home with me right now.”
“No, just hear me out. I have a plan. I’ve been talking with Caroline. And I’m going to move in with her.”
“Brooke, Ray and I would be more than happy to have you come live with us. You know this, don’t you?” she asks, cupping my chin in her hand. “Things are going really well with Callie. And there’s no reason—”
“I know, and I appreciate the offer, and all. And I’m so grateful that you’re helping Callie like this, because she really needs you, she needs parents. But this is something I want to try—this is something I need to do.”
“For tonight you’re coming home with me. You have to talk to your mother about this. She is still your mother and she has a right to know what’s happening.”
“Okay, I will. I promise.”
She nods, taking a sip of her coffee. “So, what wereyoutalking about?”
I take a deep breath—I have to tell her the truth now. My voice is shaking as soon as I open my mouth. “I’ve been stealing from you, taking money at work,” I admit, burying my face in my hands because I can’t look her in the eye. “I’m so sorry,” I blubber. “I just wanted to keep the apartment. It seems stupid now. It was so wrong. But I know exactly how much it was—I’ll pay you back with interest, I swear.”
She pulls my hands away from my face and looks at me, hard. I can tell she doesn’t want to believe I would do that—take advantage, break her trust, waste her generosity like that.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I will never do it again. I feel so terrible and I really am so, so sorry.”
“I know,” she finally says, relenting, and puts her arm around me. “I appreciate you telling me. I’m sure that was hard to admit.”
We sit there like that for a while, and for the first time I think I’m seeing Jackie clearly. Seeing how much she really does love my mom, how much she only wants to help, how much she truly cares.
UNVARNISHED
THE BUILDING IS Amassive structure, imposing, like a factory. Caroline drove us in her ancient car, which smelled of motor oil and leather and old smoke. We hummed along to an oldies station on the radio and kept the windows rolled down. Even though we didn’t talk much, there was something so comforting about the whole thing.
We had to pass through a series of checkpoints, metal detectors, and wands, forced to empty our pockets, and take off our shoes and belts, and lock up all our belongings in tiny lockers, like the kind they have at bowling alleys or skating rinks. It’s all done in a very orderly and civilized fashion, which I greatly appreciate, the line moving along smoothly and steadily. The officer behind the reception desk checks our IDs and the paperwork Caroline hands her.
“All right. Fill this out. Read over these policies and make sure you understand them. Initial and date the bottom of the page when you’re done. Your visitation supervisor will collect the forms when they call you back. Wait over there. Listen for this number,” she instructs, circling a number on one of the pieces of paper in red pen and pointing to a pair of solid-looking double doors. There’s an old tin sign that readsVISITORSin bold, sharp letters.
Caroline and I sit in a cluster of hard plastic chairs, becoming part of an assortment of people—all ages, shapes, sizes, and colors—each of us here to visit a loved one. Some of them look very average, some scared, and othersscary, seeming as if they should be the ones being visited rather than the other way around. What’s most shocking to see, though, are how many kids are here, some who are even younger than Callie, dressed up like it’s picture day at school.
