Before I Let You Go(91)
“So why prosecute them?” I ask her unevenly. “Why do they think that sending a woman to jail under these circumstances is going to help anyone?”
“Well, if I can say something just between you and me for just a moment . . .”
I’m surprised, but I nod.
“Of course.”
“We hold our pregnant woman on a pedestal in this society. We say we want the best thing for babies, so we want to tell their mommas what to eat, what they can drink, what drugs they can use . . . and there’s good intentions there, and maybe it’s the kind of thing that’s too nuanced to draw lines across but . . . for sure there’s a vein of misogyny here, too. Women who use drugs in pregnancy have fallen off the pedestal, and don’t we all just love to punish them for that?”
Mary glances at Daisy, and then back to me, and she adds quietly, “In the last few years I’ve heard all sorts of politicians talking about compassion for people with addiction, but you know what I’ve never heard? No one ever talks about compassion for women who are pregnant and have addictions. Maybe we’re progressing to the point that we realize that a raging addiction isn’t exactly a lifestyle choice, but we’re worlds away from applying that same logic to women who happen to be pregnant. We want our mommas to be perfect, and when they stumble and fall, we punish them instead of offer a helping hand, and then we call it deterrence.”
Mary slips her handbag onto her shoulder and she straightens her suit jacket as I digest this, and then she adds very quietly, “If you ask me, if the state really wanted to help women like your sister, wouldn’t they put the thousands of dollars they’ll spend on her trial and incarcerating her into early intervention programs, or research into addiction? Or Lord, if it’s really all about the baby—wouldn’t you funnel the funds into setting up a better foster care system or maybe some parenting classes that actually help?”
“So why don’t they?” I ask, and Mary sighs and shakes her head.
“Well, it’s a little bit like this. Half the town is on fire, and the townspeople are all so busy hollering for the fire brigade that no one thinks to find out why people are still playing with matches.”
I’m still untangling that analogy hours after Mary is gone. One thing I know for sure, though, is that although she’s played a part in the process that’s led to Annie’s current situation, Mary Walters is not the enemy. She is a well-intentioned cog in the wheel of a system that is just not up to its task.
A few days later, Bernie tells me that the arrest warrant has been issued.
“If you hear from her now,” she warns me, “you need to call it in. Immediately. And if she comes to your house, turn her away—or at least, take her straight to a police station. Harboring a fugitive is a felony in Alabama—so if you are in any way seen to be protecting her, you can be charged, too. The last thing little Daisy needs is for the both of you to wind up behind bars.”
My role has changed now that Annie is officially on the run. Until now, I’ve been an important player in this scenario—as a support person to Annie and as standin mother to Daisy. But that was when Annie’s chemical endangerment charge was theoretical, and now it’s a cold, hard fact that we need to deal with. Annie is a fugitive, and my obligations shift from the moral realm to the legal one.
If she dares to contact me, I have no choice but to turn her in. Because if I don’t—if I help her to hide—then I’ll fail at those other, more important roles as her supporter and as Daisy’s caretaker. When I first hang up with Bernie, I’m certain that even if Annie walked through my front door right now, I’d struggle to call the police or take her to the station. But once I grapple with it, I realize that it’s all out of my hands now. I have to prioritize Daisy’s welfare.
So I stop hoping and praying that Annie will contact me, and start hoping and praying that she won’t—because our relationship has somehow survived a million ups and downs and twists and turns, but I’m pretty sure this would be the thing that shatters it.
More days pass and the stable routine Daisy and I have starts to wobble a little. I worry that she’s feeding off my anxiety. Her mild irritability builds slowly, until one night, she simply won’t be settled. I take her downstairs so that Sam can get some sleep, and then I pace the halls for hours. I sing, I rock, I swaddle—but nothing works. I can get her to sleep in my arms, but as soon as I try to put her down, the crying starts all over again.
When the morning finally comes, I’m so tired I feel sick. My limbs are heavy, and I can barely keep my eyes open through my thumping headache.
When Sam comes downstairs, he takes one look at me on the couch with Daisy and he heads straight to the coffee machine. He returns with two steaming mugs, which he sets on the coffee table, then gently gestures that he wants to take Daisy from my arms.
“You should have woken me up. I could have helped.”
“You have to work today. I can sit around the house and be a cranky, tired mess,” I say, but I gratefully pass the baby to him and reach for the coffee. “I think she’s upset because I am. I just couldn’t calm her.”
Sam frowns as he adjusts her in his arms, then he gently touches his palm to her forehead and looks at me hesitantly.
“You know she has a fever, right?”
“You’re joking.” I touch her forehead and groan. Suddenly I notice everything else that I’ve missed over these hours—the sniffly nose and the slight hoarseness to her cry—both of which I had blamed on the endless hours of crying. “She has a cold.”