Saving Rain(23)

“So, this is it.” She looked around the visitor center. “This is where you’ve been this whole time.”

“Yep.”

“What do you do here?”

“Work. Sleep. Eat. That’s about it.”

She gestured toward my arms. “Looks like you’ve been working out too. You look good.”

“Thanks.”

She shifted on the bench she sat on. “I’ve, uh … I’ve been working too. And I have a boyfriend.”

I snorted at the thought of my mom working or being in a relationship, and then I noticed her confused expression and realized she was serious. My interest was certainly piqued.

“How long have you been working?”

“Uh, about six months now,” she said with a smile that looked an awful lot like pride. “I’m a secretary at a doctor’s office.”

“That’s good. I’m happy for you.”

Her smile broadened. “It’s been … a nice change.”

“I bet.”

Was it possible Mom had turned things around for herself? Six months wasn’t a long time, and it didn’t account for all the years she’d spent without me in her life. But she seemed happy. She seemed to hold her head a little higher, her back a little straighter, and I felt a little more hopeful that, hey, maybe this was a good thing.

“And this boyfriend? What’s he like?”

Her lips twitched as her face tipped downward and—wait, was she blushing? Holy crap. I couldn’t help it; I smiled back.

“He’s amazing,” she said with a sigh. “He’s a little younger than me, but … he treats me pretty well. He treats me like … like I’m a-a-a princess or something.”

“That’s good, Mom.”

“Yeah, so, uh …”

She glanced around the room at the other inmates meeting with their loved ones. They behaved differently than we did. They spoke with affection and hope. They hugged until the guards told them to stop. Mom though … she looked at me like she wanted to run away.

Maybe she really does think I’m a psychopath.

Then, she asked, “How long do you have in here?”

I shifted on the hard bench. “Right now, to have a visitor? Or do you mean, how long do I have left to be locked up?”

She looked uncomfortable. “The, uh … the second one.”

“I have another six years, max, as long as I don’t screw up.” And I had no intention of screwing up.

Her lips pursed as she nodded, like she was considering what to say next, and then she replied, “People in town … they don’t want you getting out.”

“Well, that’s too fucking bad,” I said, lowering my brows and scowling at her.

“Yeah, well … that’s not for a long time anyway.” She sighed and seemed to relax, and a part of me wondered if she was one of those people who didn’t want me getting out of this place … and why.

I cleared my throat and decided to change the subject because it was a long time and I didn’t like to think about that. “So, how’s—”

“I guess I’ll get going,” she cut me off, beginning to stand.

“What?” I asked, taken aback. “But you just freakin’ got here.”

“Yeah, but I have stuff to do, and I’m sure you’re busy, so …” She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder—that same bag I had taken those last bottles of pills out of—and forced a smile. “I’ll come back soon though.”

“In another six years, right?” I challenged, standing up and reminding her of the seventeen inches I had on her modest five foot two.

She looked embarrassed as her cheeks burned bright red. “I’ll see you soon,” she insisted.

“Yeah, okay.”

Then, she turned and left. No hug. No attempt at affection. She just scurried away like a rat, attempting to get away with something, and I had to wonder …

What the hell are you really up to, Mom?

And why don’t you want me coming home?





CHAPTER SEVEN


TASTE OF FREEDOM



Age Thirty



“It’s my birthday, boys,” I announced to the kitchen crew the moment I burst through the swinging doors. “So, we’re not eating any of this shit. I wanna make something good.” I grabbed the trays of burger patties and turned to stuff them back into the freezer.

“So, you wanna trade this shit for other shit—that’s what you’re saying?” Chuck—serving seven years after being caught snorting coke outside his daughter’s day care after nine years of being clean—asked, crossing his beefy arms over his chest and smirking.

“Ah, come on. We gotta have something good in here.” I dug through the shelves of various frozen foods. The selection was worse than an elementary school cafeteria, but I was determined to not eat another crappy burger for my thirtieth birthday.

It was a new decade, baby, and I had a good feeling in my bones.

I pulled a few boxes of bland French fries and something that sort of passed as chicken breast aside to uncover a stack of thirty frozen pizzas. My face lit up like a freakin’ Christmas tree at the thought of eating pizza on my birthday—something I hadn’t done since I had been eight years old.