Which was why I’d finally come to Mordant Correctional Center.
I was trying not to pin big hopes on this reunion. Mom was the biggest liar I knew—maybe she wasn’t capable of honesty or apologies. If so, I’d have the restraining order reinstated. Our relationship, and her second chance, would be on my terms from now on. After four years on my own, I had no interest in being anyone’s puppet anymore.
A uniformed man—enormous with thick biceps—ambled through the door.
“She the only visitor?” he asked. He had a mustache—a bad omen.
The first guard nodded.
“Follow me,” the second guard said.
I slid off the chair and wiped my clammy hands on my pants. I’d told myself I didn’t care enough to be nervous.
The giant guard led me down a long concrete hallway. A light flickered overhead. Swearwords and initials were scratched into the walls. A stain on the floor was rust colored.
We reached a door at the end of the hallway and stopped. The guard scanned his badge in a reader, and the door clicked as it unlocked. The guard pulled the door open. I followed him through. A sign next to the door read Visitors Center.
The room was filled with empty chairs and tables, set up for groups of two, four, and six. In one corner, a few children’s drawings were taped to the walls. They were Thanksgiving turkeys, traced over little fingers and palms. The feathers had been colored red and orange and brown. “I love you, Mom” was written on one. I didn’t want to think about where those kids were now or what their lives were like.
“Have a seat,” the guard said. He left the room. I was alone.
I pulled out a chair—same as the hard plastic ones in the waiting area—and sat. Maybe I shouldn’t have come.
A door opened on the opposite side of the room from where I’d entered. The same guard came back in, followed by my mother. She looked smaller than I remembered. Was it possible she’d shrunk in height? Or had I gotten bigger? Maybe it was her posture. She used to walk around Deadwick with her head held high, but this woman’s shoulders sloped forward. She was stooped, a turtle wanting to curl back into its shell. The transformation was shocking.
Her gaze flicked from the guard to me, and her whole face lit up. Christmas eyes, I thought.
Her shuffle turned into a stride as she came closer. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of an embrace, didn’t want her to think she was forgiven. But my chest ached for one of my mother’s infamous bear hugs. Before I had time to decide whether I’d allow her the intimate gesture, she had enveloped me in her fleshy arms. My body relaxed into hers.
“Oh, my baby,” she murmured into my ear, stroking my hair. “You have no idea how good it is to see you.”
I forced myself to stiffen and pull away. I needed to remember that my mother’s hugs and hand-holding were never about love; they were forms of control. A therapist had helped me figure that out. I’d gone to a few sessions before deciding I’d rather spend the money on my teeth.
I reached for the back of my chair, was in the process of returning to my seat, when I saw her fat lip—ugly, purple, and split open.
“Oh, my God. What happened to your lip?” I asked, unable to hold back.
Mom sat across from me and tapped it with one finger. “Oh, this,” she said. “I was walking the track the other day and tripped and split it. What a klutz.”
I had never known my mother to be clumsy. “You fell and landed on your lip?”
“Well, no, I landed on my hands and knees. But I bit my lip on the way down.”
Her hands were on the table in front of me. They weren’t cut or bruised or bandaged—they looked fine, except for more dirt under her fingernails than usual.
I had assumed my mom ran the prison. I figured she had the warden in her back pocket, that she’d upended whoever had reigned supreme here. She was the sparkly, effervescent one; she was supposed to be untouchable. She had been the protector of the bullied.
Now she was being bullied herself.
The woman in front of me had bloodshot eyes, messy hair, and a dull complexion. To a stranger, she would have resembled the same person who had raised me. To me, she looked nothing like the woman I’d grown up with. I remembered everything I had said on the witness stand: how I had humiliated her, left no sordid detail untold. Her split lip was, in part, my fault. If I hadn’t turned her in, she would never have gone to prison.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Mom?” I asked.
I cursed myself. I’d been planning to call her “Patty” to put some space between us—and to hurt her feelings.
This is not your fault. She’s in prison because she abused you.
I was finally starting to listen to my own voice instead of hers.
She waved me off and forced a smile. “I’m fine, honey. Don’t you worry about me.” She rested her chin on her hand, then winced in pain and adjusted her position. “Now, tell me everything that’s going on with you. Are you working? Do you have a boyfriend? I want to hear it all.”
I told Mom about Gadget World, about the money I’d saved, and that I’d been named employee VIP three times in the last few years. She beamed. Then I told her about Phil, my first real boyfriend, and our visit in Denver. I left out the fact we hadn’t spoken in a year and a half—and that he was older than she was. I considered telling her about my dad, but decided to save that story for another time. Something in my gut told me to keep it from her.
“And what about Deadwick?” Mom asked.
“What about it?” I said.
“Do you still talk to anyone? Our old neighbors and friends?”
“I rarely see Mrs. Stone anymore, if that’s who you mean,” I said without thinking. I knew this news would please Mom, but it was also true. Mary Stone had failed me just like everyone else. She still treated me like a child and kept reminding me she was my shoulder to cry on. But I was tired of crying, tired of people caring more about who I had been than who I am. Mrs. Stone liked me better broken. With every good deed, she needed confirmation that she was my savior.
I’d be my own goddamn savior, thank you very much.
Predictably, Mom was pleased. When Mrs. Stone had lambasted her to reporters during the trial, my mother was not happy. Until she was arrested, no one had ever turned on Patty Watts.
“How is my old friend?” Mom’s voice dripped with fake sweetness. This was the mother I knew: color had returned to her cheeks, her eyes bright and attentive. She hung on my every word, noting every detail.
“Annoying,” I said, trying to put an end to the topic. I’d come here for answers, and so far I’d been the one doing all the talking. My mother was manipulating me the way she manipulated everyone, the way she’d controlled my entire childhood.