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“I am. It’s been too long,” she says. Her eyes are steady, zero sign of tears or worry. She seems resolved, and it’s a strange shift from the woman who refused to talk to him with me when I was younger. Hell, she refused a month ago.
“All right, then. So, why am I here?” I tilt my head as her lips grow tight and her gaze dips with thought. Her eyes flick back up to mine with a shrug.
“You’re here so I don’t chicken out.”
I stare a moment longer to make sure this isn’t one of those wild ideas she doesn’t plan to follow through with. After a few full breaths, I decide there are worse ways to spend my Monday, so I buckle up and let her drive.
I shoot Brooklyn a quick text to let her know I won’t be in class and not to worry. Of course, her immediate response is to ask me what’s wrong.
ME:Nothing wrong. I don’t think, at least. My mom pulled me out of school to see my dad. So it’s weird. I’ll let you know.
Her response doesn’t come right away. In fact, for most of the trip to the prison I stare at the three dots that indicate she’s typing and deleting and overthinking what to say. I laugh quietly when her text finally comes through as we pull through the prison visitor gates.
BROOKLYN:Ok.
I follow my mom into the visitor center, the process giving me flashbacks to the hundreds of times she did this so I could visit dad while she looked on. It’s a hard habit to break, and part of me feels as if that’s how this is going to go down. I’ll sit with dad while mom watches.
But it’s different this time. We’re led down the same hallway I’ve traversed so many times I’m surprised I don’t have a floor tile engraved in my honor. The guard shows us to the large room and rather than leaving me at the table by myself, my mom sits eagerly on the edge of the bench next to me. My eyes zero in on her nervous hands, her pale pink nails used as tools to pick at the sides of her fingers to stave off her impending panic attack. I reach over and cover her hands with one of mine and the touch stops her breath. Her eyes dart to mine, and they’re overwhelmed with fear. Rather than say something meaningless, I model a deep breath, urging her to take my lead. I’m able to put some of the pink back into her cheeks by the time the guard returns with my father. When my parents’ eyes meet, everything is quickly undone, but none of that matters.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, standing and closing the distance between us. We hug, but I can tell through the entire embrace that his eyes are on Mom.
“Michael,” my mom says, her voice a mixture of longing and apology. I’ve only ever seen hints of it, like when she asks me how he looked after one of my visits. There’s so much endearment in this room right now, and I can’t fathom why she’s fought against it so hard.
“Laney.”
I don’t know that I’ve ever heard my mother’s name said quite so softly. I also always thought she preferred Elena. I guess this is their version of Brooky.
After a few awkward gestures and failed attempts to embrace, they settle on taking each other’s hand. It’s not a handshake, really, but more of a testing of waters. My father’s fingers gently play at hers, his thumb caressing the knuckle of her index finger before they let go of their brief hold and take seats on opposite sides of the table.
“It’s a week full of surprise visits, it seems,” my dad says.
“Oh?” My mom’s head tilts, her eyes still memorizing his features, taking in the way he’s aged, his sharp angles and well-formed wrinkles. My dad’s a handsome man, even with his hardness. I have always liked that I have his eyes.
“Did Hal come to see you?” my mother asks.
My father nods and reaches for her across the table again. She hesitates for a beat but eventually gives him her hand, her breath hitching when he covers it with both of his.
“He did, and Laney . . . thank you for getting me help. It means—”
“I know,” my mom cuts in.
My parents don’t break eye contact for several seconds, not even a blink. My dad is the first to glance down, his mouth in a bashful smile like a junior high boy asking for his first dance. He chuckles as his hands hang on to hers, bold enough to return to playful touching, his thumbs drawing what I swear are hearts on her skin.
“Some fancy bigwig came to see me, too. He’s running for Congress I guess. Said he read my case and wanted to get to know me on his own. Might write me a letter of support, so that’s . . . that’s something.”
My mouth goes dry hearing his news and I itch for my phone to call Brooklyn. Instead, I settle for quick eye contact with my mom. My lips part, ready to spill my guts, but she gives me a slight shake of her head, and something about it triggers caution in my chest.
“Something wrong?” My dad can’t miss the instant static in the room at his news, but my mom is quick to explain it.
“That just sounds exciting. Cam . . . he really wants this to happen,” she says, her soft pink lips widening into an earnest smile.
“And how about you?” my dad asks, his eyes moving from their tethered hands, now frozen still on top of a metal table, to my mom’s face.
She licks her lips and shifts with a thoughtful breath before answering.
“I really want this to happen, too.”
The long quiet that follows her response feels different. In fact, everything that comes after that exchange feels shifted somehow.
