The Row(22)

“Riley?” Mama grips my shoulder and I snap out of it and turn toward her. She takes the picture I’m still holding and puts the remaining photos back in the box with a shake of her head. “I’m sorry, sweetie.”

“For what?”

She points to my slightly burned omelet, forgotten on her nightstand. “Your breakfast.”

“Oh.” I pick it up and shovel a bite into my mouth with a forced grin. “It’s delicious.”

Mama laughs and puts the lid back on the box, moving it over against the wall. When she turns back to me, she clasps her hands before her and puts on her best Stern Mothering look. “Now, about last night…”

I sigh and plop down on her bed, waiting for the lecture that I not only know is coming, but that I absolutely deserve.

Mama tilts her head toward me. “Why would you do that to yourself?”

“I don’t know,” I mutter, studying the omelet on my plate. “Maybe we can just assume I’ve learned my lesson and will never do it again?” I give her a pleading look.

“Doubtful.” Mama grimaces. “Have you learned your lesson?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I answer quickly. And from the way she levels her stare at me, I realize, too quickly.

“What on earth were you thinking? What made you decide to drink like that?” Mama asks, and then a new and more disturbing thought seems to occur to her. “Please tell me the truth, Riley: Was this the first time?”

“Yes. I promise.” I tuck my left foot under my right knee so I’m facing her. Above all else, I hope she doesn’t press me further on the one question I haven’t decided on how to answer yet: Why?

“Do you have new friends that are a bad influence on you? Did anyone pressure you into this?” Mama watches me closer with each new question.

It takes enormous self-control not to laugh. My worry about her asking why is obviously unfounded. She doesn’t really know me if she thinks I have any friends or know anyone that I care enough about to allow peer pressure to affect me at all.

Peer pressure lost any power over me when I decided I didn’t care what anyone outside our family thought. The kids at school all believe I’m the daughter of a killer and treat me with a mixture of fear and disdain. I think most of them are dumb as rocks and I try to believe they don’t matter, pretend they don’t exist. Our feelings are somewhat mutual, and I’ve learned to be okay with that.

“No, Mama, I think I was just feeling a little rebellious after the appeal and all.” It’s not a complete lie. What happened at the appeal had only been the beginning, but she doesn’t need to know that—not yet.

Mama sighs and then reaches out for my hand. “I know you’re tough as a boot, girl. But whether you admit it or not, everything with your father has been hard on you, Ri. Harder than it should be for any seventeen-year-old. You promise not to do anything like that again, and I promise it will get better, okay?” Mama leans over until I meet her eyes. “I will make sure it does.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I squeeze her hand and smile until she nods and turns to search for something in her closet; then the smile melts from my face like a piece of ice on the Texas asphalt. It isn’t that I’m not happy she wants to make things better. I want her to take care of herself, if nothing else, for her sake as much as mine. It’s likely that in twenty-six days, she’ll be the only parent I have left. As much as I often try not to, I need her.

I just know that whenever I tell her what Daddy confessed to me, it could destroy her even more than it destroyed me.





10

I SPEND THE WEEKEND rereading old letters from Daddy and sleeping off my hangover. In my mind, I keep replaying my conversation with Daddy at Polunsky. I think that maybe if I’d asked the right questions somehow I could have gotten to the truth.

But I hadn’t. I’d freaked out, and now I have to wait a week before I can have another chance to get my answers. The next time I see him, though, I will find a way to make him explain and tell me the truth.

I have to know.

It’s become an obsession now and I feel like I can’t understand anything about my life without knowing what he is. A martyr or a monster? A hero or a demon?

And whatever he is, does it change who I am?

Every time I think about telling Mama about my last visit with Daddy, about asking her to help me find the truth, I chicken out and just end up texting with Jordan instead.

I’m sitting in my room on Sunday rereading a letter from after Daddy’s conviction when my phone buzzes beside me.

I see Jordan’s name and pick it up, feeling nervous. This is the first time he’s called me.

“Hello?” I know the smile in my voice shines through even over the phone and I don’t care. I’m letting my guard down with him and even though I know it might be stupid, I can’t help it. Despite my instinctive need to push everyone away, something about him tells me I can trust him.

“Hi. How are you?” I can tell he’s smiling, too.

“I’m much better, thanks.” I don’t know why, but talking instead of texting makes me more nervous. I can’t fix my mistakes before pressing Send. “How about you? Been forced to endure any more neighborhood football games?”

He laughs. “No. Thank God.”