CHAPTER TWENTY
I gently close my bedroom door so as not to wake anyone still asleep on the floor, but when laughter from the living room makes it up the stairs, I drop the extra effort. I doubt Blake decided today was the day to become a social fourth roommate. It’s not often he’s caught out of his hideaway on the third floor and he’s never spent enough time with us to laugh about something.
That leaves one other option. Drew and Grant.
Sure enough when I stop in the living room Grant and Drew both sit on the couch. Wireless controllers in hand, both of them lean toward the television, their fingers quickly moving over the buttons. A bright green tank explodes on the television and both guys shout, “Yes!” while high fiving one another.
They are both absolute morons.
The surprising piece isn’t how I’m surrounded by boys who enjoy blowing crap up, but the fact seeing Grant and Drew together no longer makes me want to kick ether of them in the balls. Sure, a small part of me wants to run for the TV and yell, “Traitor!” at Drew, but a part of me is happy he has a new friend.
“I’m out, boys. Have a good afternoon.” The forecast calls for rain — as it does most days in San Francisco — so I grab my parka off the back of the kitchen chair before heading to the front door.
“Hold on.” Grant jumps up from the couch, the game paused on the screen. “Where are you headed? Do you need help?”
Urgh. He has to be helpful doesn’t he?
“She’s going to visit her mom,” Drew says before I answer. My hands ball into fists. I’m sure he thinks he’s providing me an easy out, but I don’t want his help.
“Oh, where does she live?”
“The Eastside.” Another one of Drew’s helpful lies where he avoids the truth entirely. Once again making me feel entirely railroaded like he knows what’s best for me more than I do.
“Do you need a ride?” Grant pulls his cell phone from his back pocket.
That’s all I can handle. Less than two minutes ago we were sharing a happy moment where I didn’t want to murder either of them, but now the room turns red. My hand falls into a fist again, and I bang it on the table. The contact with the wood stings and I shake out my hand.
“Prison! He means I’m going to see my mom at Chowchilla State Prison. Where she’s serving out her time on a drug charge.”
Drew stands beside me. “Clare, calm down.”
“Why?” I ask taking a step away from him. “I’m trying to tell the truth since we’re friends now, right?
My hands sweep out to encompass the room as Grant sits back on the couch with a stunned expression. Yeah, you weren’t ready for that were you, buddy?
“Oh, you didn’t know that? After the man you think so perfect left my mom high and dry, she turned to alcohol to numb the pain. Eventually liquor wasn’t enough, and she started in with drugs. Next she’s arrested. With no money for a lawyer her public defender did the best he could. I spent the next four years in foster care since dear old dad didn’t think I’d fit into his family life at the time.”
The room is silent as the seconds tick away. I breathe heavily, my chest rising and falling in rapid pants. I blow out a stream of air from between my lips.
“There you have it.” If nothing else I’ve said to Grant over the past few weeks has managed to make him realize how wrong this situation is, knowing my mother wears an orange jumpsuit every day should be enough to have him running for the hills.
“Have you been to jail?” Grant asks standing from the couch a second time.
I openly scoff at his insinuation. “No.”
“Are you planning on going?”
Like anyone plans on going to jail. I roll my eyes. “No!”
Grant shakes his head and takes a few steps closer. “Then it doesn’t much affect me.”
“It would if you dated me. I’m a Jerry Springer episode.”
“Clare, you aren’t your parents.”
Grant’s words do nothing to make me feel better. “I would never be accepted by your family or friends.”
“What the hell do you mean? Aspen practically considers you a sister. Those people are my friends and family, and they’re already yours too.”
Has he forgotten? “What about my father?”
“He’s an asshole!” Grant finally raises his voice. “But if you won’t let me tell everyone who you are, I only have so much recourse available and it’s all under the table.”
“So you’re telling me you don’t care you’ll lose a lifelong family friend?”
Grant widens his eyes and shakes his head like he’s said it a hundred times, but he has not said it once. “After what I know now, how could I?”
Oh my god. What will it take for him to not be so perfect? I throw both hands up in the air, make a strange frustrated grunt in the back of my throat, and walk out the front door not stopping even when both of them shout out my name.
**
The visitor center at Chowchilla State Prison is a cold and lifeless room. Prison isn’t meant to be a party, but the lack of warmth in this room could suck the fun out of a circus. Everything is grey from the paint color on the wall to the tile on the floor. Even the chair at table six where I’ve been placed to wait for my mother is grey.
The morning confrontation with Grant caused me to run late so rather than the fifteen to twenty minutes wait I normally endure, a large metal door in the corner of the room opens after only five. A steady stream of women in a straight line enter the room one at a time. Each woman’s eyes scan the area looking for the person or family they recognize. It’s obvious when each person locates them. Their eyes widen, smiles form across their faces, and in most cases the women seem to lose five to ten years of age from their faces.
The only person who deviates from this pattern is my mother when she enters the room. Theresa’s eyes scan across the space until she finds me. Her eyes light up, the small lines in the corners of her mouth deepening as she smiles. Then her attention flickers to the empty seat next to mine and her excitement drops three degrees. I’ve never outright asked what she’s looking for in the seat next to me because I already know. And even though this visit is sure to go like all the others, I always enter the room with such hope only to have it dashed in a few moments.
Mom takes her seat in the chair across from me and her hands reach out like she wants to take mine in hers, but we both know touching isn’t allowed. She eventually pulls back and places them on the table one on top of the other.
“You look good this month, Mom.”
With a light touch she reaches out and pats the side of her head, her naturally reddish strands the same color as my own. “I had it trimmed last week. They bring in those girls from the fancy local beauty school and Allison has such cute ideas on what to do.”
“She did a good job.”
“You’re here alone again this month.”
I sigh already knowing where this conversation is going. We’ve left the pleasant small talk portion of today’s visit and gone straight to rehashing the past. Wonderful.
It makes total sense because if I saw my daughter once a month I’d want to spend the time arguing with her. Even though I’m too tired to deal with this today, I let her continue because I’ve learned if I cut her off or get too impatient, she’ll end the visit early. She may drive me insane, but she’s also my mother and I only have these short moments with her until next month.
“Did you get the chance to contact your father?”
It takes physical strength but I stop my eyes from rolling. It’s her pet peeve and one I used to annoy her with all the time growing up.
“You ask this question every month.” I look her dead in the eyes, hopeful this time she gets the point. “No.”
She sighs like I’m still the pubescent preteen I was the last time we lived together. “Clare when I got locked up I asked you to find him.”
“Mom.” I use the same annoyed tone she uses on me. “I don’t need to find him. The state of California did when I needed a guardian. He didn’t want to claim me because I’d be too much for his wife to handle.” I’ve told her his exact words multiple times. Hearing that your own father said you were too big of a disruption is something that tends to burn into your memory.
The man let me go into foster care. What kind of father is that? Now that I’m an adult why would I want to be involved in any part of his life? The fact my mother not only doesn’t blame him but wants me to seek him out completely baffles me. Where does she think he’s been the last twenty years? Buying a gallon of milk at the grocery store?
“You have to open your heart.”
I’m so tired of the same argument every single month. “My heart is open, just not to him.”
“Really?” She scans the portion of my body she can see over the table. “Is there a new guy in your life?”
“I’m trying to learn from your mistakes. I’m not willing to become a lovesick puppy over a man.”
Theresa laughs. Throwing her head back to the ceiling while her entire upper body shakes. “Falling in love was not a mistake.”
“It is when you do it with my father,” I mumble. The man she’s so devoted to left her with a newborn baby, remarried, and left me at the mercy of the State of California foster care system. But you wouldn’t know that from this conversation. She’s as obsessed as ever.
“I should’ve fought harder.”
I can’t stop myself openly scoffing at her comments. It’s like she does her best to prove my point. She’s works hard to get her life back together while imprisoned, and not having ready access to drugs has helped. When our visits aren’t consumed with discussing my sperm donor, she talks about her plans when she’s on the outside again, but I still worry.
“You didn’t know me then. I was so proud.” Her head moves to the side and her eyes trail off, staring at a random spot in the wall behind me. “Way too proud. And mad.”
“I think you had a reason to be, Mom.”
“I was angry at the world and your father. At the first sign of trouble I said ‘forget him.’ We had a big fight. He told me I had to wait for his mom to come around, but I let her dislike of me hurt my feelings and I used it against him. I told him I’d raise you without his or his mother’s help.”
She stops talking, but for quite possibly the first time my life I want her to continue. These are details I’ve never heard.
“I was hurt because he didn’t live up to my expectations, but if life taught me one thing it’s that when you set expectations, you will be disappointed. It was me who pushed him away.”
My hand reaches across the table and I almost grab hers to provide comfort but then hastily pull it back when I remember the no touching rule. “You aren’t to blame for the choices he made.”
“I know.” She laughs again and shakes her head twice before a more jubilant attitude breaks through her demeanor. “William was a coward who should have been there for his daughter, but it doesn’t mean I don’t wish you could have a relationship with him.”
“I don’t want a relationship with him.”
“I want you to be happy, Clare. It’s important to forgive people their mistakes.”
The long hand on the clock ticks past the six and our visit will come to a close soon. As much as I’d like to sometimes, they won’t let us spend all day visiting. There are other people in the lobby waiting to see their loved ones.
“Have you heard any more about the rescue dogs?” I ask to change the topic. She and four other women inmates were selected as part of a new inmate dog foster program. So far the process of getting the dogs to the prison has been slow. Before my mother lost her mental freedom to drugs, she was a great mom and I hope fostering a dog will help her regain that.
She gets lost telling me about the ins and outs of the program. Pictures of the dogs they’ve brought in and issues with the program funding. I listen intently for the first few minutes, but then my mind begins to wander. Am I allowing my own pride to push Grant away?
I want to answer with a resounding no, but a piece of me isn’t so sure. As scary as it is, I might be more like my mother than I want to admit. I’ve been so pissed with Grant I haven’t been able to see past my own feelings and realize while what he did is wrong he is attempting to make up for it.
If only he could see I’m not the one he needs to help.