And so I let her put an arm around my shoulders, helping me to sit up. My head spun, and I had to close my eyes again so I wouldn’t pass out. My tongue was dry as sand; it stuck like Velcro to the roof of my mouth. She handed me a Dixie cup full of water and told me to drink. After I complied, I looked at her again. “Thanks,” I said.
“No problem.” She smiled, revealing horribly crooked, crowded teeth. “I’m Peters.”
“Walker,” I said. I’d made the mistake of introducing myself as Jennifer the first night I was here, only to learn that inmates all called each other by their last names. Now, I swallowed the rest of the water in the cup and felt the shrunken, dried-out cells of my body beg for more.
“What they get you for?”
“Petty theft,” I said, and then had to steady my voice before going on. “Child endangerment and neglect.” I dropped my eyes to the cement floor. “What about you?”
“Armed robbery.” She paused. “How long did you get?”
“Fifteen months,” I said.
“Headed to Skagit after this?”
I nodded. My public defender had explained that I’d stay in county lockup until a bunk opened up at the minimum-security women’s correctional facility in Mt. Vernon. With good behavior, he told me, I could be out in less than a year. Out to do what? I wondered. Beg for enough money to survive?
“Me, too,” she said. “Seven years.”
“Sorry,” I said, fiddling with the hem of my bright orange shirt.
“Don’t be,” Peters said. “Ain’t nobody’s fault but my own. And the worthless asshole boyfriend who talked me into it.” She stood, and then helped me get to my feet, too. “Here,” she said, handing me a granola bar. “Eat this, then hit the shower. No offense, but you don’t smell too good.”
“Sorry,” I said again.
“Stop apologizing. Jesus.”
“Okay.” Still feeling numb, I unwrapped the granola bar and forced myself to take a bite. It felt like dirt in my mouth, but I managed to swallow it, then finished the entire thing. My stomach rumbled in appreciation. Peters reached under my bunk and handed me a thin, white terry-cloth towel and a flimsy plastic comb.
“Good luck getting through that black rat’s nest with this,” she said. I lifted my hand to touch my hair, only to discover she was right—after days on my pillow, my curls had matted into a dreadlocked mess. Brooke’s hair had often ended up like this when we slept in the car; it took half a bottle of detangler and over an hour with a wide-toothed comb to smooth it again. I’d tell her stories and sing her songs to distract her from the yanking at her scalp, and now, the thought of holding her so close made me want to climb right back into bed.
Peters spoke again. “I’ll see if I can find you some conditioner.”
“Thanks,” I said, pushing down the urge I felt to collapse.
“You’re welcome. Now do us all a favor and go wash off that stink.”
As weak as I was, I managed to shuffle to the bathroom, unsure if once I was there, I’d have the energy or inclination to get myself clean. I supposed that I could. I could do it like I’d have to do everything from now on—forcing each movement, each breath into my lungs. Putting one foot in front of the other until someday, I’d find a way to be far, far away from this pain.
Natalie
In fifth grade, the year Natalie found out she was adopted, she began telling herself stories. Not just the stories about whom her birth mother might be, but ones involving people she saw every day. She would lie in her bed, whispering to herself, acting out the kinds of conversations she wished were real.
“Hi, Natalie,” she would say in a high-pitched voice, pretending to be Sophia Jensen, who was friends with practically everyone in their class. Sophia had bright blue eyes and thick red hair, which her mother fashioned into a French braid almost every day, setting off a frenzy of other girls wearing the same style. She was the girl everyone wanted to sit next to at lunch; the person who always received more Valentine’s Day cards than anyone else. She was also the girl Natalie wished most to have as a friend.
“Hi, Sophia,” Natalie would say, lowering her voice again, back to being herself.
“You look so pretty today,” Natalie said, switching to her Sophia voice.
“Really?” Natalie replied, as herself.
“Yes,” Natalie answered, as Sophia. “Do you want to come over to my house this weekend? I’m having a party. A sleepover.”
“Wow,” Natalie said, as herself again. “That’s so nice of you. I’d love to.”