I always dread doing that. The boxes hold pieces of Daddy—and Polunsky has already stolen so much of him away. I like keeping the letters close. I wish I could fill my whole room with them, but Mama won’t let me.
I used to think Mama might be jealous that he doesn’t send her a letter for every day of the week, but I don’t dare ask in case it might hurt her to talk about that. I know she misses him as much as I do, and we’ve all had enough pain.
A bang shatters my thoughts as I hear the door downstairs close and then Mama’s voice. “Riley, are you home?”
“Yep!” I respond as I close my closet.
“Can you come help with groceries, please?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I murmur as I head for the stairs. I leave my thoughts where I wish I could stay, locked up tight in the closet full of Daddy’s letters.
*
Mama nudges my hands with a bowl of spaghetti until I blink and take it. When I look up at her, it’s clear she’s been speaking and I haven’t been paying attention.
“Sorry,” I say, as I carry the bowl to the table and grab the glasses to fill with milk.
“Your mind sure is busy.” She waits until I meet her worried eyes before continuing. “Was your day okay?”
“Yeah, it was fine.”
“Are you bored? Are you sure quitting your job was the best plan?” Her voice holds a tone that clearly says she thinks I should’ve stayed, but we’ve been over that already.
I level my gaze at her. “I’m sure that working in a place like that wasn’t worth the money.”
She watches me. I turn and pour the second glass of milk before she speaks again. “I know it was hard—”
“It wasn’t hard, Mama.” I put the glass down on the table with a loud clink and barely notice when a splash of milk sloshes over the top. “The second Carly found out about Daddy, she told everyone. They all started avoiding me, and then someone left those threats in my cubby and on my car.”
“This isn’t the first time we’ve seen struggle, Riley.” Mama wipes up the mess with a napkin and shakes her head.
“They said I should die like the girls in Daddy’s case.” The words spill out like the milk before I can stop them.
Mama gives me a sharp glance and I shut my mouth, fuming silently and fighting to calm down. It’s hard enough to cope with our situation, but the worst part is when she speaks to me like I’m not strong. When she implies that I’m weak after I spend every day fighting to prove to myself and everyone else that I’m tough enough to face my situation, my life. The pain of her doubting me hurts worse than it would from anyone else.
“Did you do anything fun today?” Mama clears her throat and lifts her chin as she puts her bowl on the table and takes her seat. I can see in her eyes that our previous discussion is now over.
“I did some reading,” I answer, knowing that she won’t be pleased if she feels like I sat around all day, content with my newly unemployed status.
“Oh? What did you read?” Her smile is hard, but the tone in her voice has a softer edge. She won’t say out loud that she understands why I quit, but she does. Her job may be stable now, but it hasn’t always been. And I know from her stories that she’s had to work twice as hard just to get people to look at how competent she is instead of who she’s married to.
Like Mama always says: If you make yourself priceless, people can’t throw you away.
“It was The Count of Monte Cristo.” I swirl some spaghetti around on my fork, but don’t take a bite.
Mama’s frown is back. “Again? A book about an innocent man in prison, Riley? Don’t you think you should try reading something new?”
“I like it.” I shrug, and then decide it’s my turn to change the subject. “Are you still coming with me to the appeal hearing on Thursday?”
Mama nods as she pokes at her spaghetti. “Yes. I arranged for someone else to cover for me for a couple of hours. Should I come pick you up on my way to the courthouse?”
“Sure.” I’m relieved I won’t be alone this time. I look down and realize that I’ve just been swirling the spaghetti around in my bowl and haven’t actually taken a bite. My stomach is rolling into a tight knot now, and it has nothing to do with hunger.
Maybe bringing up the appeal at dinner hadn’t been my brightest idea.
Mama’s hand closes over my fingers, stopping them from clutching my fork a little too tight.
“Whatever happens at the hearing, we’re going to be just fine.” Mama holds her head high and I wish I could sap a little of her resilience through her gaze. When I don’t say anything, she gives my hand a squeeze. “You believe me, Riley?”
I quickly nod and try to convince myself that I mean it. “Yes, Mama.”