With my pulse racing, I stood on the front porch and knocked, wondering what I would say if my mother’s new husband appeared. I had to assume she’d told him about me, but I didn’t know if his distaste for children extended to after they’d become adults.
Fortunately, my mother was the one who opened the door. When she did, her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “Jenny,” she said, still gripping the knob. Her dark curly hair was pulled back from her face with a white plastic banana clip, and she wore a puffy-shouldered blue blouse with a high, ruffled collar tucked into black stirrup pants. At thirty-eight, except for a few more lines across her forehead and around her mouth, she looked almost exactly the same as she had when I was growing up—short and curvy, with the same violet eyes she passed on to me. If she and I stood in a room together with a hundred other people, there would be no doubt that we were related.
“Hi, Mom,” I said. My voice shook as I tried to smile.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. She glanced behind her and then looked back at me, moving the door a few inches toward shut.
“I need to talk with you,” I said. “So much has happened and I just—”
“I know what happened,” she said, cutting me off. “The woman from Social Services told me you were going to jail and wanted me to take care of your kids.”
“I didn’t ask her to do that. She was required to. I told her what your answer would be.” She didn’t respond, so I continued. “She said you got married again.”
“I did.”
“What’s his name?” I asked, shifting my feet, unsure what I should do with my hands. It felt awkward, standing on the front porch of the house I’d lived in for so many years, wondering if she was going to invite me inside.
“Derek.”
“I’d love to meet him.”
“He’s asleep.” She glanced behind her into the house, again, then looked back at me. “He works the swing shift at Boeing.”
“Did you tell him about me?”
“Of course,” she said. “I tell him everything. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
I kept silent, feeling a sharp pain in my chest as I remembered that before I got pregnant with Brooke, my mother used those exact same words to describe me.
She looked behind me, toward the street. “Where are they?”
“Who?”
“Your kids, Jenny.”
“Oh,” I whispered, dropping my eyes to the porch. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” she repeated, leaning heavily on the last word.
“I gave them up. Signed away my rights.” I looked back up at her, my words trembling.
“Really?” she said, raising both of her dark eyebrows.
I nodded. “I want to try and get them back, but I just got out and I don’t have a place to stay . . .” I let my words trail off and kept my eyes on her face, trying to read her response before she spoke. I couldn’t decipher the cloudy look in her eyes, so I rambled on. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but it wouldn’t be for very long, I promise. Just until I get back on my feet. I can help out. Clean or cook . . . I actually worked in the prison kitchen . . .”
She stared at me, as though she was trying to decide how to respond. “Hold on,” she finally said. She disappeared from the doorway, then returned less than a minute later with a thin stack of cash in her right hand. “Here,” she said, holding out the money to me.
I dropped my eyes to the bills and then lifted them back to hers. “I can’t stay?”
She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “I’m sorry, but Derek just wouldn’t be okay with it. He’s very . . . structured.” With her free hand, she reached out and grabbed my arm, pressing the cash into my palm. “Take it, okay? I know it’s not much, but it’s all I had in my purse. I can try to get you more later this week.”
“But, Mom,” I said, blinking back my tears. “I’m trying to fix things. I want to go back to school. Make a fresh start. Please. I just need a little help.” I hated how desperate I sounded.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I wish things were different, but that’s all I can do.” For the second time, she threw a glance nervously toward the back of the house, where her new husband was sleeping, and I wondered to what extent his “structured” personality might go.
“Mom, please!” I whispered.
“Take care of yourself, Jenny,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.” And then she slowly shut the door in my face.
Dazed, I turned around and walked away from the house, shoving the money she’d given me into one of my front pockets. I felt numb, barely able to process what had just happened. I’d told my probation officer I’d be staying with her. I worried I might go straight back to jail if he came looking for me and I wasn’t there. My car had been auctioned off and the proceeds used to pay the fines that went along with my sentence, so all I had was the money my mother had just given me, and the aching desire to find my children.