“I don’t know . . .” I thought about seeing my mother again, what I would tell her about myself, where I was living, what I was doing for work. Maybe she would be willing to let me stay with her now, even though she had remarried. I could get a real job and start all over again.
“Think about it, Walker. You can go back to school. Get a degree. Buy a house. I don’t know. You could do whatever the hell you want.” When I still didn’t answer, she grabbed the notepad she kept tucked in her waistband, set it on the counter, and wrote something down. Tearing off a piece of paper, she handed it to me. “Here,” she said. “If you decide you’re interested, call the number and tell whoever answers that I sent you.”
“Thanks.” I took the paper, knowing I would throw it away as soon as I could. If I was going to change my life, delivering drugs was no way to make it happen.
“You’re welcome.” She put a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe you could use the money to get your girls back.”
My eyes prickled with tears. I’d thought every day about regaining custody of Natalie and Brooke, but was unsure of my rights. The way Gina had explained it to me made it sound as though once I’d signed the papers, there was no turning back. Still, I couldn’t help but harbor a bit of hope. Maybe there’s a chance, I thought. Maybe I can find a way to be their mother again.
? ? ?
Friday came, and once I was back in Seattle, I gave my probation officer my mother’s address on Beacon Hill when he asked where I’d be living. He handed me a piece of paper with a list of places where I could apply for work, mostly jobs at fast-food joints flipping burgers or washing dishes in a diner, which I stuck in the backpack that carried my few belongings: my spiral notebook and an extra pair of jeans.
“Don’t fuck up,” he told me, and sent me on my way. I had a little cash in my pocket, “gate money,” they called it, so I waited for the bus at the downtown Metro station that would take me to my childhood home. Even though I’d been away from the city less than a year, things looked so different—buildings seemed bigger and taller somehow, crosswalks filled with more people, and the streets busy with more cars. After months of having to follow a precise schedule, of daily head counts and bunk inspections, I marveled at the freedom of being able to board the bus, drop in my fifty-five cents, and ride wherever I wanted. A few times I found myself glancing over my shoulder, looking for a guard.
When my bus came, I sat in the very back, staring up at the advertising posters glued near the ceiling, including one with a picture of Harrison Ford for a movie called Raiders of the Lost Ark. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been to a theater; it was probably when I was still with Michael and pregnant with Brooke. Another poster immediately caught my eye: it was a picture of a red-haired little girl with long braids who wore denim overalls and held a structure built out of Legos. The white lettering on the ad proclaimed, WHAT IT IS IS BEAUTIFUL. Before I knew it, I had tears in my eyes, wondering if Brooke liked to play with Legos, or if she preferred the company of dolls. Perhaps she enjoyed both . . . or neither. There was no way for me to know.
At least they’re together, I told myself. At least they have each other. I kept my eyes down for the rest of the ride, and after I got off the bus at the appropriate stop, my stomach twisted as I walked the two blocks to the house I’d grown up in—a two-bedroom, dark brown, rectangular box of a 1950s rambler. The August sun beat down on my skin; drops of sweat beaded at the nape of my neck and dripped down my back. It was almost four o’clock, and I figured my mother would be home. That was, if she was still working the early shift as a pharmacy clerk at Pay ’n Save. She had a new husband—I supposed it was possible she had a new job. She could have moved somewhere else entirely.
But then I saw her car parked in the driveway—a dark green, two-door VW Rabbit—and I knew she was there. I ran over the things I thought I should say, the words I hoped would help her forgive me. I was her daughter, for god’s sake. She had to forgive me—isn’t that what mothers are programmed to do? I imagined if my father hadn’t left us, he would have fought for me to stay when I got pregnant with Brooke. He would have been on my side. He would have helped make everything okay. That was the story I told myself. The way I wished things might have been.