Keep going, I begged her. Burn the whole thing down.
“How dare you storm in here, after four years of silence, demanding apologies,” my mother yelled. “You should be the one apologizing to me. I can’t imagine what in high heaven I did to deserve a daughter like you. When I was a kid, I got beaten far worse for far less. You thank your lucky stars I don’t believe in the belt.”
“Quiet down, inmate,” the guard in the corner of the room boomed.
His voice reminded me where we were. I loosened my grip on the arms of the chair. She couldn’t hurt me here. I didn’t need to be afraid.
Mom sat back, losing steam the way she always did. In the past, I would have scrambled to figure out a way to make up for whatever I’d done to her, to be the perfect daughter I was sure I could be. But I didn’t have to make nice anymore. I was no longer my mother’s possession. I was free to go.
I gathered my things, jaw set. I took out my sunglasses case from my purse. She would continue to grow old in her cell while I enjoyed this sunny day. I pushed back my seat.
“I’m sorry,” my mother blurted. “I shouldn’t have said the thing about the belt. That was too far. You know I would never lay a hand on you.”
I sat there, chair pushed back from the table, too angry to formulate a response.
My mother gestured for me to scoot closer. “Come on, come on now. I brought this photo to show you of another inmate’s dog.” She pulled it from her pocket. “Broccoli—that’s the dog’s name—lives with the inmate’s husband in California. He just won the World’s Ugliest Dog Contest. Come see.” I didn’t budge, arms crossed, so my mother stood. “Here, I’ll come to you.”
She hovered over me, jabbing the photo in my face, prattling about the hilarities of this hideous dog—back to sweet, funny Mom. I didn’t hear a word. For the first time in a while, I was thinking clearly.
In less than a year she’d be out. She’d start this Jekyll-and-Hyde cycle all over again. The warmth and jokes, followed by the inevitable mood swing, which then morphed into abuse, and then back to being the village sweetheart. A onetime screaming match or slap across the face was not enough to address this level of evil.
She needed a scar. Something permanent.
I glanced at the clock on the wall: six minutes until the guard announced the visit was over. I could do anything for six minutes. So I pretended to listen to her stories. I grinned and laughed and gasped in all the right places. I played the doting daughter right up until the guard signaled to me that time was up. To beat my mother at her own game, pretending was key. She once told me, after sweet-talking her way out of a speeding ticket, that it was easier to manipulate someone if they didn’t perceive you as a threat.
I pushed back in my chair, walked around to her side of the table, and gave her a big hug.
“No hard feelings?” she asked, searching my face for hints.
I beamed and shook my head. I walked toward the exit, calling back to her with the enthusiasm of a thousand cheerleaders. “See you next week!”
* * *
• • •
In the parking lot at Walsh’s, I sat in the van, fuming. I took my hands off the steering wheel and watched with awe as they trembled; I had never shaken with rage before. Most of the time, my emotions tumbled out in the form of tears or fear.
I couldn’t imagine crying ever again. I’d aged forty years between walking into the visitors center and leaving it. Duped, again. And again. And again.
I wasn’t ready to face my neighbors inside the grocery store yet—I needed to calm down first. Deep breath in, deep breath out. I took my phone out of my purse.
I scrolled through the social media app where I had the most friends: thirty-five. Christmas was a few weeks away, so everyone’s status updates were about the holiday-themed activities they were up to. Here were the Johnsons, ice-skating at Riverfield Park. There was Kat Mitchum, posting photos of the puppy her parents had given her: an early Christmas present. I paused at Sophie Gillespie’s name; she, Dad, and the rest of the Gillespies were standing next to a tall pine at a Christmas tree farm. Dad was flashing a thumbs-up and a cheesy grin. He was as happy as I’d ever seen him. Clearly not losing sleep over losing me.
Sighing, I got out of the car and traipsed into the grocery store. I needed a bunch of frozen dinners—I didn’t have it in me to cook this week. Then I’d be on my way home to hang out with Planty.
I steered my cart down the frozen foods aisle, loading up with Salisbury steaks. Someone called my name. “Rose Gold? Doll, is that you?”
I knew before I turned that it was Mrs. Stone. I groaned internally. The last thing I needed right now was her peppy bullshit.
I contorted my face into a grin and turned to face her. “Hi, Mrs. Stone.”
She hugged me, then surveyed my cart. “Are you getting enough to eat? You never eat your vegetables.”
Shut the fuck up, I wanted to screech. Why did every person I know feel the need to tell me how to live my life? Where were all these adults when I was being poisoned in my own house for eighteen years? None of them had known better then; why on earth would they think they did now?
“Produce is up next,” I lied, although now I would have to pick up some vegetables in case I ran into her again at checkout. All I wanted was to go home, microwave some popcorn, and watch Amadeus, the next Oscar winner on my list. Was that so much to ask?
“Oh, good. You know, a vitamin deficiency can lead to hair loss. And you’ve always been so sensitive about your hair—”
“Tell me about your day,” I said, relaxing my jaw. “Anything newsworthy?”
“Oh, not really,” she said. Mrs. Stone was the office administrator at Deadwick Elementary, so I didn’t doubt she was telling the truth. “Actually, you know Karen? Ms. Peabody?” she added. Karen Peabody was my old neighbor and school principal before I started homeschooling.
When I nodded, Mrs. Stone continued. “Her parents are thinking about selling their house on Apple Street. Gerald’s cancer is back. Things don’t look good, bless his heart. Mabel doesn’t think she can manage the house anymore. Such a shame.”
I had no idea why Mrs. Stone thought this story was interesting to the average person. Lucky for me, it was.
“Two-oh-one Apple Street?” I asked, in what I hoped was a neutral tone.
“That’s right,” Mrs. Stone said. She paused a moment. “I think that was your mom’s childhood house, come to think of it.”
I nodded, mind whirling.
She gave me a haughty smile and patted my arm. “You must sleep well at night knowing she’s finally where she belongs.” She had no idea I’d started visiting my mother in prison. As I’d learned recently, there were a lot of other things busybody Mrs. Stone didn’t know about her former best friend.