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“You look old,” I say with as much menace as I can muster. She doesn’t look old—just middle-aged. She had me young, barely out of high school. I never knew her age. What six-year-old would? I don’t even know her birthdate.
Her dark brown hair is cut short at her shoulders. She’s thin, but not drug-addict thin. Her oversize hoop earrings sway when she tucks her hair behind her ear. The blue jean jacket matches her pants and underneath the jacket I spot a gray tank. The worn brown cowboy boots on her feet make me consider a maternity test.
“How are you?” Melanie asks.
“Do you mean how have I been for the last eleven years?”
She scratches her forehead. Good, I drew blood. “Yeah. And that. ”
I stretch my legs out, kicking one scratched-up combat booted foot over the other. “Let’s see. Years six through eight blew. Found out Santa didn’t exist. I’m pretty sure foster father number two shot the Easter bunny with his sawed-off shotgun during one of his backyard hunting escapades. Foster mom one liked to slap me until I stopped crying. She’d quote Bible verses while she did it because Jesus was obviously about tough love. ”
Melanie shuts her eyes. Attempting to redirect my attention, Courtney nudges her chair closer to mine. “Isaiah, maybe we should take a break. ”
“Nah, Courtney,” I say with a mock smile. “You just don’t want me to tell her about the group home I lived in between eight and ten and how the bigger boys used to beat the shit out of me for kicks. ”
I hold my hand out to Melanie. “Don’t get me wrong. They’d punish the other boys and document my bruises in their nice files. Get me a doctor. Maybe a therapist, but it never stopped the new boys from pushing around the smallest kid. ”
“I’m sorry,” Melanie says in a tiny voice.
“Yeah,” I say. “You should be. And what really fucking sucks is to find out that the woman who gave birth to you was released from prison two years ago and never cared to see what happened to her son. That. . . ” I lean forward. “That is what really blows. ”
Melanie goes dead-person-white, and her hands tremble as she touches her cheeks. “I can explain. ”
And I don’t want to hear it. I stand. “I’ve got to take a piss. Where’s the fucking bathroom?”
“Down the hall. ” Courtney massages her temples. “On the left. ”
I tear out of the room and the door bangs against the wall. From their safe, tidy cubicles, several people gape at me. I ram my hand against the bathroom door and slam it shut, locking it behind me.
With my palms flat against the door, I suck in deep breaths and swallow the lump in my throat. My mom. My mom. My fucking mother.
I want to go back and tell her that I still love her—so time can unwind and she can hold me like she did when I was six. I yearn for her to tell me that everything is going to be okay. But all of it is lies. My entire life is one big fucking lie. A strange wounded sound escapes my lips as my body shakes. Every part of me begs to cry and that’s just too damn sad.
* * *
I open the bathroom door to find Courtney waiting on the other side. “She left. ”
Good. “Yeah, that’s her specialty. ”
Courtney has lost her enthusiasm and part of me hates it. “I learned my lesson,” she says. “I won’t force this again. I thought. . . I thought. . . ”
“That if you could throw us in the same room we’d make up and live happily-ever-after?”
She releases a loud, pathetic sigh. “Actually, no. Look, I know this is the last thing you want to hear, but you should give her another shot. ”
Hell. . . “No. ”
“Consider it, and if you change your mind I’ll schedule another meeting. ”
“Are we done?”
“Yes. Next time it’ll be just you and me. I’ll buy ice cream. ”
I blink. “Do I look five?”
She shrugs and almost smiles. “Sometimes you act five. ”
And I almost crack my own smile. Did she just joke at my expense? “Funny. ” I head for the exit, and when I glance back, I see her smile has grown.
