The Last to Let Go

by Amber Smith

  “Do you work?” I ask, trying to think of anything normal to talk about.

  “I work at the college.”

  “You’re a professor?” I ask, impressed.

  She laughs hard, then starts coughing like before, hacking like she can’t catch her breath. “No,” she finally manages. “Although, once upon a time I thought I would be. No, it’s administrative. Nothing too exciting. But it pays the bills.”

  “Do you live here by yourself?”

  “You ask a lot of questions—but that’s a good thing. No, as a matter of fact, I have a boyfriend who lives here too. He’s not here right now, but you’ll meet him another time—we’ll have you over for dinner. Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “No . . . but I have a girlfriend. Or I did, anyway. I don’t know. It’s complicated.” I wait for her reaction; I know a lot of older people don’t get it. A lot of younger people don’t get it either.

  “Good. It’s good to have someone,” she says, not batting an eye. “I’d like to meet her sometime. When things are less complicated, that is.”

  “That’d be nice.” I pause and consider how to frame this deli–cately. “Are you sick? I can’t help but notice the coughing. Are you okay, is what I’m trying to ask.”

  “I’m old.”

  “Yeah, but are you—”

  “Dying?” she finishes. “We’re all dying. Most of us just don’t know what we’re dying from.” She pauses, then smiles. “I have emphysema. Some days are worse than others. I have oxygen in there”—she hitches her head in the direction of the sliding door—“if I really need it. Sometimes I do.”

  “Do you ever think you should quit smoking?” I ask, gesturing to the cigarette case and the lighter in her hand.

  Smirking, she shakes her head, pulls one of those long, slender cigarettes out, and lights it. The tendrils of smoke snake around her head like fingers. “It’s my one remaining vice. My father always said”—she lowers her voice to a deeper pitch—“ ‘You’re allowed one vice in life, Caroline, so choose wisely.’ ” She wags her finger, grinning as she mimics her father, this man I’ll never know.

  She looks off for moment before turning back to me. “He told me that when I married your grandfather. At the time I didn’t know people could be vices. But they can. I told your mother the same thing right before she married your father. That was the last time she ever spoke to me. Well, until now.” She sighs sadly. “Of course, I wasn’t the most credible person back then. So I can see why she didn’t listen.”

  “But you changed,” I remind her.

  “That’s right,” she begins. “I’ve been clean and sober for over twenty years. I quit all that stuff when your mother got pregnant with your brother. Not that she was speaking to me then. But children change things. I knew that firsthand. And I wanted to be able to be there if she needed help. So I kicked her father to the curb for the last time, and then I kicked all the other stuff that was bad for me. Except these.” She shakes the cigarette in her hand above her head.

  “That must’ve been hard,” I tell her.

  She nods. “It was, but not as hard as it would have been to just keep going. You know, in that way I can understand how your mother could’ve done what she did—but mind you, that doesn’t mean I think it was right. It was obviously wrong, there’s no question about that. It can be hard to figure out the right way to get free sometimes.”

  I let a wave of silence wash over us, her words sinking in, and I start to think maybe I understand a little bit too, because after all, haven’t I been doing the same thing—trying to figure out the right way to get free?

  “Do you talk to Mom now?” I finally ask.

  “Yes, I’ve gone to visit her a few times. I was surprised I was on her visitor list. But I was.”

  “Do you think I am? After everything?”

  “I know that you are.” She pauses to take a long, deep drag of her cigarette. “Would you like to go with me next time?”

  “I think I would, actually.”

  “Okay,” she says, swatting a fruit fly away from our glasses.

  “I came here to—well, I came here for a lot of reasons, but mainly I came to ask a favor.” I take a sip of my iced tea, trying to clear my throat so that the words come out easier. It’s sweet and sour, sugary and lemony, all at the same time. “It’s hard for me to ask for help, I guess.”

  “You get that from me,” she says with a patient smile. “You can ask. Whatever it is, you can ask me.”

  “Well, things have gotten kind of . . . bad. At school, they need to meet with my guardian because I have all these absences. But Aaron left. And honestly, I don’t even blame him anymore. And I think I’m probably about to get evicted from the apartment. Callie went to go stay with Jackie. And I know she’d let me stay too. But I don’t belong there. And I’m so sick of being where I don’t belong.” I pause, inhaling deeply for the important part. “And I thought maybe, I don’t know, maybe I might belong here. With you.”

  She’s nodding before I’ve even finished my sentence, and I think I see her eyes watering up, just barely. “Brooke, I think you might belong here too. So if you’re asking if you can live here with me, I’m saying yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Your boyfriend won’t mind?”

  “Hell no, this is my house,” she shouts, with a laugh. “And you know what else?”

  “What?”

  She crushes her cigarette in the tin ashtray on the table. “I think I might actually try to kick these damn things after all.”

  COMING CLEAN

  “YOU’RE AVOIDING ME.” I swing around, startled by the voice as I exit our building. Jackie. She stands there waiting for me like she’s been camped out on the steps all morning.

  “I’m not avoiding you,” I lie.

  She raises her eyebrows and continues standing in my way, holding two to-go cups from the shop. She hands me one. It burns my fingers even through the corrugated sleeve. She sits down on the top step. I know I don’t have a choice but to sit next to her. “So, where are you off to?” she asks, carefully removing the plastic lid from her coffee.

  “Nowhere,” I lie again. Across the street the park is in bloom, the brightest greens coming to life everywhere. There’s a light scent of cherry blossoms in the air, so faint you could almost miss it. I’d be enjoying it all right now if I weren’t aware of Jackie sitting next to me, seeing right through me.

  “Listen, I have to ask you something, and I need you to tell me the truth.”

  Instantly I feel my stomach leaping up through my throat. “Jackie, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’m going to pay you back every cent, I promise.”

  “Pay me back?” she asks.

  “I don’t even know how it started. It was a mistake at first, and then I just . . . ,” I gasp, the guilt strangling me. “I feel terrible about it. I never should’ve started. But I stopped, I really did. And it will take me a while, but I will pay you back—I kept track of how much it was because I was always going to pay you back.”

  “Brooke, what are you talking about?”

  “Well . . .” My voice catches in my throat before I can say anything else. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about what Callie told me this morning. She said Aaron moved out.”

  Overhead a flock of geese fly in formation, squawking one after the other, putting our conversation on pause.

  “So, is that true?” she says loudly as the geese gradually fade away beyond the park and the trees.

  I nod, biting my lip, afraid to speak.

  “I don’t understand why I’m only hearing about this now. You cannot be living here alone. Do you have any idea how irresponsible and dangerous—”

  “No, I know,” I interrupt. “But it’s—it’s going to be okay.”

  “You’re damn right, it will. Because you’re coming home with me right now.”

  “No, just hear me out. I ha
ve a plan. I’ve been talking with Caroline. And I’m going to move in with her.”

  “Brooke, Ray and I would be more than happy to have you come live with us. You know this, don’t you?” she asks, cupping my chin in her hand. “Things are going really well with Callie. And there’s no reason—”

  “I know, and I appreciate the offer, and all. And I’m so grateful that you’re helping Callie like this, because she really needs you, she needs parents. But this is something I want to try—this is something I need to do.”

  “For tonight you’re coming home with me. You have to talk to your mother about this. She is still your mother and she has a right to know what’s happening.”

  “Okay, I will. I promise.”

  She nods, taking a sip of her coffee. “So, what were you talking about?”

  I take a deep breath—I have to tell her the truth now. My voice is shaking as soon as I open my mouth. “I’ve been stealing from you, taking money at work,” I admit, burying my face in my hands because I can’t look her in the eye. “I’m so sorry,” I blubber. “I just wanted to keep the apartment. It seems stupid now. It was so wrong. But I know exactly how much it was—I’ll pay you back with interest, I swear.”

  She pulls my hands away from my face and looks at me, hard. I can tell she doesn’t want to believe I would do that—take advantage, break her trust, waste her generosity like that.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I will never do it again. I feel so terrible and I really am so, so sorry.”

  “I know,” she finally says, relenting, and puts her arm around me. “I appreciate you telling me. I’m sure that was hard to admit.”

  We sit there like that for a while, and for the first time I think I’m seeing Jackie clearly. Seeing how much she really does love my mom, how much she only wants to help, how much she truly cares.

  UNVARNISHED

  THE BUILDING IS A massive structure, imposing, like a factory. Caroline drove us in her ancient car, which smelled of motor oil and leather and old smoke. We hummed along to an oldies station on the radio and kept the windows rolled down. Even though we didn’t talk much, there was something so comforting about the whole thing.

  We had to pass through a series of checkpoints, metal detectors, and wands, forced to empty our pockets, and take off our shoes and belts, and lock up all our belongings in tiny lockers, like the kind they have at bowling alleys or skating rinks. It’s all done in a very orderly and civilized fashion, which I greatly appreciate, the line moving along smoothly and steadily. The officer behind the reception desk checks our IDs and the paperwork Caroline hands her.

  “All right. Fill this out. Read over these policies and make sure you understand them. Initial and date the bottom of the page when you’re done. Your visitation supervisor will collect the forms when they call you back. Wait over there. Listen for this number,” she instructs, circling a number on one of the pieces of paper in red pen and pointing to a pair of solid-looking double doors. There’s an old tin sign that reads VISITORS in bold, sharp letters.

  Caroline and I sit in a cluster of hard plastic chairs, becoming part of an assortment of people—all ages, shapes, sizes, and colors—each of us here to visit a loved one. Some of them look very average, some scared, and others scary, seeming as if they should be the ones being visited rather than the other way around. What’s most shocking to see, though, are how many kids are here, some who are even younger than Callie, dressed up like it’s picture day at school.

  I suddenly remember this thing my social studies teacher said last year. She was talking about how famous works of art or historic landmarks act as these “great equalizers.” How everyone is the same staring up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, or standing in front of the Pyramids at Giza, or approaching the Grand Canyon. No one is better or less important than any other person, regardless of where you come from, how young or old you are, how rich or poor. At the time I hoped I might experience something like that one day. As I scan all the faces here, I realize that this is another one of those great equalizers—all of us waiting here together for the same reason, no room in the spaces between us for our differences.

  The seconds drain out of the minutes so slowly they seem to morph into hours, slipping into years, decades, centuries, before they call us back. The guard stands in another doorway opposite the one we came through, this one looking more heavy duty, more like the type of door you’d imagine prisons to be made up of, doors that are barriers, not passageways.

  We follow him through the massive entrance; a steady pulse of buzzes and clicks punctuate the static over the two-way radio clipped to his belt. As the guard leads us down a long, cavernous hallway, he calls over his shoulder, “Bright, sunny day out. Taking you to the outdoor visitation area today. Which is much nicer,” he explains as we cross another checkpoint and are admitted through yet another door that leads to an identical hall.

  Then we turn a corner abruptly, and there’s a door right there in front of us. “You’ll have one hour,” he tells us. There’s a beep and the light on the sensor next to the door turns from red to green.

  This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for. And dreading. Part of me wants to keep pretending this isn’t real, this isn’t happening. The door swings open, and at first I’m blinded by the sunlight. I shield my eyes as we follow the guard through one last chain-link gate, which spills out into a wide, open area with tables and groups of people sitting and standing and smoking. A tall fence encloses the whole space, a layer of barbed wire lining the top. The sun leaves no dark corners forming shadows, nowhere to hide—every inch of this place is visible from every other inch.

  “Where is she?” I ask Caroline.

  “She’s over there,” she tells me, and I try to follow the direction she points in, but my mind can’t make the connection because the only person there is not my mother. My feet move toward her slowly, my legs struggling against a strong current. But as the distance between us closes, I start to recognize her again, underneath the washed-out blue jeans and buttoned-up work shirt and her hair pulled back into a braid. I step forward cautiously, my shoes scraping against the concrete as I drag my feet.

  She pulls me in with both of her arms, no longer handcuffed, like the last time I visited her in jail, before the trial. She’s crushing me against her. I bury my face in her neck, and without warning, without permission, I’m sobbing. Not just crying, not just tears, but full-body shuddering. She holds me tighter and tighter as I finally let myself feel the weight of how much I’ve missed her, how much we’ve lost.

  Caroline’s hand is on my back, rubbing a gentle circle, sturdy and sure.

  When we pull apart, Mom is smiling. And she looks more beautiful than ever.

  “Mom,” I finally say, still holding her hands, which feel more solid than before, no longer thin and soft and delicate. She looks tough, strong somehow—unvarnished in this way that I’ve never seen before.

  “Come. Please, come sit down.” She leads us over to a circular picnic table where we sit and stare at one another, no one knowing where to begin. “Look at you, honey. You look so much older. How is that possible?” she says with a laugh. She reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

  I try to frame out the question in my head, not sure how to ask, as I look around at the other inmates. “Mom, how is it here? I mean, are you okay?” I ask, barely able to get the words out.

  She looks around too, then nods. “It’s okay,” she finally answers. “I’m okay. I really am.” She looks up at the sky, shielding her eyes with one hand, and breathes in deeply. I track where her eyes lead, but there’s nothing there. Not a cloud passing overhead, no distant planes drawing white lines through the sky.

  She looks down at her lap and I watch her swallow hard, like she’s downing a mass of words—all the secrets about herself that she’s never told me, secrets about what happened, secrets that maybe she’s even kept from herself. Tears start to pool at the corners of her eyes, a
nd I can see something beginning to separate in her, from the inside out, like stitching coming lose, revealing a glimpse of something vibrating low and deep inside of her.

  “Why don’t I give you girls a minute,” Caroline offers, patting my mother’s hand before she stands and walks over to an empty table several feet away.

  Mom clears her throat and wipes her eyes. “You know, I never thought things would end up like this. This isn’t what I dreamed my life would be when I was your age. I had goals, plans, dreams. None of them involved this.”

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  She shakes her head and looks down again, says, “Maybe, maybe not, but I am.”

  “Tell me it was an accident, Mom,” I whisper.

  “It was, of course it was. I didn’t wake up that day thinking that was how it was going to end. It’s so hard to explain. He pushed me too far and I reacted. I wasn’t thinking about what would happen next, I just . . . ,” she gasps, running out of breath. “I was always thinking. I never stopped thinking, not even for one second, not even in my sleep. I was always worrying, constantly, trying to plan out ways to keep the peace, to make things better. That was my whole life.”

  She stops, and just when I think she’s about to spill open, she pulls the edges of herself back together and looks me in the eye. I want to tell her that I know what that feels like—it feels like a straitjacket, like you’re suffocating, like you can’t breathe, ever.

  “But not then,” she continues. “Not in that moment. I needed to do, not think, just do . . . something. It was an accident, honey—I swear it was. And it was wrong. So I’m okay with being here.” She takes my hands in hers and holds on tight, forcing me to look at her. “He wasn’t an evil person, I hope you know that.”

  “I do,” I say, barely.

  “I didn’t want him to die,” Mom continues. “I just needed to live. I don’t expect anyone to understand that.”

  I swallow hard. I feel my head nodding, but I can’t find any words to say—there are no words that are enough. Nothing I could say would explain all the ways that I understand, or all the ways I never will. There’s nothing I can say to explain how losing Dad—something that made no sense—has ended up making everything else make sense. How it’s shifted everything in all our lives, everything inside of me, forever.