Darling Rose Gold(75)

“Then what happened to him?” I said.

Mom shrugged. “CPS or some such took him. Alicia was arrested.”

“Why didn’t she want the baby?” I asked.

“I haven’t gotten that out of her yet. She’s pretty tight-lipped. But a baby is a lot for a young girl to take on.” Mom kept glancing over at the sobbing inmate, trying to suss out the drama. The woman was middle-aged, built like a linebacker. Her jowls flapped when she shook her head.

“Wouldn’t the staff have found him when they were closing the park down for the night?” I tried to imagine being the employee who had found Alicia’s son. I’d never held a baby.

Mom rolled her eyes. “What is this, Twenty Questions? I don’t know, Rose Gold.” She tilted her head back and stared down her nose at me. “We’ve been cellies for a week. Last night she went to the emergency room after cutting herself.”

I covered my mouth with my hand. “That’s awful.”

Mom nodded. “I found her bleeding out on our cell floor.” She sounded almost cheerful, like she used to when she’d gotten a deal on deli salami. When she saw my horrified expression, she put up a hand. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a trained medical professional, remember? I got her where she needed to go. Saved her life.”

And with such humility too.

“They’ll patch her up and send her right back to me. There’s no ‘talking through our feelings’ at this place. I’ll have to fix her myself. I think I can make a real difference in Alicia’s life,” Mom droned on. “The other women have made her life a living hell. They tend to look down on child abandonment.”

This was my chance. “Yeah? How do they feel about child abusers?”

“I haven’t conducted a formal poll,” she said, not missing a beat, “but they’re probably not big fans.”

The sobbing inmate had quieted down, no thanks to the stony woman across from her. The inmate stood and turned to leave. When she saw my mother, her jaw stiffened and her head lifted.

Mom wiggled her fingers and half-smiled, half-sneered. “Stevens,” she said, nodding a greeting.

The inmate ignored my mother and marched past her, slamming the door to the visitors center behind her. Mom chuckled to herself.

I was curious about my mother’s relationship with this woman, but had to stay on topic before she eluded me again. “Do you know why you’re here?” I asked.

Mom returned her attention to me. “Of course I do, sugar plum,” she said.

We both waited for the other person to say something. When it became clear she had no intention of elaborating, I cleared my throat. “I want to hear you say it.”

Her eyebrows furrowed, questioning.

I tried again, gaze focused on the table between us. “I want to hear you say—out loud—what you were convicted of.” A trickle of sweat ran down my chest.

Mom stretched her arms out wide, forming a T. Like Jesus on his crucifix, she might have said.

“Aggravated child abuse.”

Goose bumps popped up on my arms. I couldn’t believe she’d come out and said it. My mother was finally taking responsibility for all the ways she had hurt me. Was she ready to admit she’d ruined my childhood? Maybe this would be the turning point in our relationship. Maybe I didn’t have to shun her for the rest of my life.

When I glanced up, Mom stopped humming a cheery tune I hadn’t heard her start. She sniffed. “But you and I both know that’s a load of horse hockey.”

No, I thought. No, no, no. I hadn’t realized how much I wanted things to work out between us until this moment.

Mom gripped my hands in hers. “You know how much I love you, baby. I would never, ever hurt you.”

I pulled my hands, red and throbbing, from her grip. I might explode into a million tiny pieces. Lava would boil from my ears and eyes. “So you’re saying you’re innocent?” I asked, teeth starting to clench.

Mom snickered and waved me off. “I never said I was a perfect mother,” she said, “but I did my best.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Have I told you about—”

“That thing where you give the vague answer,” I said, speaking over her like she’d done to me countless times. “Draw a line in the sand. Are you saying you did or didn’t poison me as a kid?”

My heart jerked in my chest. I was sure it was either going to sink through my stomach or project up my throat and out of my mouth. Mom watched me wipe my hands on my jeans. She sat there, observing me for a while, an amused expression on her face.

She tittered. “This is why I limited your TV time growing up. When you watch too much drama, it melts your brain. You start thinking real life is like a movie.”

“Yes or no?” Any semblance of pleasantness had left my voice.

Her smile faded. She gave me a withering stare. “No, of course not,” she said. “Now, knock it off. You’re way out of line. Don’t forget who raised you, you ungrateful brat.”

I shrank back. She hadn’t changed at all. I should have known. Every single person to pass through my life disappointed me.

“It’s not my fault you have no friends and a dead-end job,” she ranted, face reddening. She was seething now. “If you’re awkward and ugly, you have no one to blame but yourself. I gave you every opportunity. I gave up my career and my independence, plus any pretense whatsoever of a romantic relationship. I gave you everything, all of me—can you get that through your thick skull? And you thank me for my sacrifice by turning on me the first chance you get? By marching straight to the witness stand? You believed that wench Alex and her bigmouth mother over me? It’s your fault I’m in here, not mine.”