I squirmed, gasped for air, tried to kick up at her, but she had to weigh well over two hundred pounds.
“Better make it fast,” the woman said. “Harley’s coming up the stairs.”
Harley was one of the staff. I hoped to hell Helen wasn’t as stupid as she was mean. She leaned close, her breath hot in my ear. “Stay out of my way.”
Finally the weight left my back. I stayed still, trying to catch my breath, slowly moved my aching arm forward, groaned into the floor.
Helen’s voice said, “One week, Angie.” Heavy footsteps walked out of the room. The other woman followed.
I rolled onto my side, then eased up into a sitting position. I winced as I held my side and tried to flex my arm. I glanced at my roommate. She was gingerly rubbing the back of her head where she’d hit the dresser.
“Why did you do that?” she said.
“She had it coming.” I stood up slowly, sucked in my breath from the pain in my side.
She glanced at the door, like she was expecting Helen to burst in. “Now she’s pissed at you too. She’s going to make your life hell.”
I crawled onto my bed, nursing my wounds, my roommate’s warning resonating. I’d been so close to finally getting my life back. Now Helen was going to screw up everything. Why did I let her get to me like that? She was nothing.
*
I got up early the next morning and showered while my roommate and most of the other residents were still sleeping. The faint smell of coffee lingered in the kitchen, and I assumed some of the house residents were off to their jobs. One older woman with short dark hair and a scar that dragged down the side of her mouth sat in the corner, eating her breakfast. She gave me a nod and a “Good morning.” But she looked down again, making it clear that she didn’t want a conversation. Maybe she’d already heard about my run-in with Helen.
I could deal with loneliness—I’d gone through it before—but it still stung. I thought about my girls on the inside with a pang, remembering how close we’d all been. I hoped the shit with Helen would settle down and I’d make some new friends at the house eventually. I hadn’t reported the assault—nothing would get me beaten up faster. Plus, there’s always an assumption by officers that you must have done something to incite the problem. They might pull me out of the halfway house until things calmed down, which was the last thing I wanted. I just had to deal with it.
At Rockland, I’d spoken to the counselor about job opportunities once I was on day parole and I had a résumé made up. The counselors at the halfway house also provided guidance, and there were some house sessions once or twice a week on living skills. That morning I was going to the labor office to see what was posted, then I planned to drop off some résumés around town. I had a meeting with my community parole officer that afternoon to check in. That evening I was going to attend a Narcotics Anonymous meeting in town—the halfway house staff had already given me a list of the local chapters, and there were also meetings in the evening once a week at the house. I still didn’t believe I’d had a substance abuse problem, but that didn’t mean crap. I was high at the time of my sister’s murder, so one of my conditions of parole was that I had to stay away from drugs and alcohol. No problem there. I never wanted to feel again like I did the night Nicole was killed, never wanted to be that oblivious.
There were other challenges—how to figure out a bus schedule, how to get my driver’s license reinstated, how to apply for ID so I could open a bank account. But I decided to take it slow, one thing at a time. I took my envelope of résumés, dressed in my best jeans and shirt, and headed out. First, I was going to the thrift store so I could buy some clothes for job interviews. I walked along the road, breathing in the fresh air, noticing the shadows the big oak trees made on the streets, the tidy homes with their flower-filled yards. Despite the fight with Helen the night before, I was thrilled to be on parole.