I stand in front of my house, and when I turn around, I see Mama’s body stretched out in the front yard. She looks just like one of the girls from the photos. At first, it looks like she’s sleeping. Her long, dark skirt reaches all the way down to her feet and she has black stockings on. Her blouse is done up, her arms folded over her stomach. Everything looks normal except for the angry purple bruise across her neck and her open eyes that stare up at me, vacant. Sobbing, I search frantically for a pulse, but there is none.
Suddenly, we are in a silver morgue with a pendant light swaying over the only table not in shadow. Mama is laid out on the table in front of me, in only her underwear and bra. I can see all the bruises, burns, and cuts that were previously hidden by her clothing. Around us, the walls suddenly light up with X-ray after X-ray, each and every one showing different broken bones. There are more than a dozen, and they feel like they’re closing in. I’m surrounded by so many breaks, so much violence. Whoever did this had savagely attacked her, strangled her—and then put her clothes back on so she looked peaceful when placed carefully in our front yard.
I curl in on myself. Unable to look at her anymore like this. So I become nothing more than a small ball in the midst of all this carnage. Backing myself into the corner, I close my eyes. Hoping against hope that it isn’t real, and it will all stop. Up until the moment the dream ends and I wake up in a cold sweat.
*
As I’m getting ready for my visit to Polunsky on Friday afternoon, Mr. Masters calls me. I smile to myself as I answer.
“Hello?”
“Miss Riley.” Mr. Masters has a pronounced drawl so thick it’d make molasses look runny.
“Mr. Masters,” I reply slowly, mocking his drawl.
When Daddy introduced us a long time ago, Mr. Masters had seemed so tall. I remember thinking that with his fancy and expensive suits, he must be someone important. I’d asked Daddy what I should call him. Mr. Masters had crouched down in front of me and given me a very serious look.
“What do you want to call me?” he’d asked.
I’d hid a little behind Daddy’s arm without answering. Mr. Masters told me since I was a young lady I had two options. “You can call me Mr. Benjamin or Mr. Masters.”
I’d thought about it for a minute, but Mr. Benjamin just didn’t seem fancy enough for this man. “I choose Mr. Masters.”
“Excellent choice,” he’d said, standing up straight and extending his hand to me. “And I’ll call you Miss Riley.”
When I’d shyly stuck my hand in his, I felt something beneath my fingers. When I pulled it back, I saw he’d slipped a small pack of Skittles into my palm. They’d always been my favorite candy.
Mr. Masters winked. “I heard you like those.”
I’d beamed up at him and I remember thinking that he was like the president, only magical.
So far, he’d never given me a reason to change my mind about him.
“How are you doing on this scorching afternoon?”
“I’m enjoying the pleasures of air-conditioning while I get ready to go visit Daddy. How are things on your end?” The humor disappears on both ends of the phone as soon as I mention my father.
“I’m still working. I haven’t given up.” His voice is soft now. “How’s your mother doing? I’ve been worried.”
“She’s still working, too.” My laugh comes out with a bitter edge. “What else would she be doing?”
“What did the doctor say?” He sounds gruffer than before. “Stubborn woman isn’t taking my calls.”
“At least we’re in the same camp. She didn’t answer when I called earlier either,” I mutter. “He said she is carrying too much stress and put her on some blood pressure meds.”
His only response is an affirmative grunt on the other end.
“Well, please keep me posted, Miss Riley,” Mr. Masters finally says. “Tell me if you think of a way I can help you—either of you. You’re the only reasonable one in your family these days.”
I laugh in surprise. Masters speaks to me freely. He always has. He doesn’t treat me like a child the way my parents do. “Maybe someday you can tell my parents that.”
“Perhaps.” He chuckles before saying, “Good afternoon, Miss Riley.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Masters.”
When I hang up, I sigh and rub the circles beneath my eyes in the bathroom mirror. Between my mind spinning about the hearing and the nightmares, I’d barely slept the night before.
After a long stretch of my neck and shoulders, I decide this is as good as it’s going to get. I’d considered applying some powder to try to cover up the signs of exhaustion, but I’m a minimalist when it comes to makeup. Besides, it would take something like a miracle to hide the effects of the last twenty-four hours. Instead, I grab a Coke from the fridge and my keys off the counter, and head out the door.
7