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“I can also recommend a good support group,” Frank says, interrupting my mental freak-out. “Being able to talk to people who have gone through similar situations and knowing you aren’t alone makes a difference.”
I can’t imagine there’s a support group in Maple Ridge for victims of domestic abuse who were also abused while serving time for a crime they didn’t commit. But since I can’t mention that, I simply nod.
“Hi, Violet.” Frank’s cheerful voice calls out to someone behind me. I turn to see who he’s talking to. A blond woman smiles at him, but there’s something off about her smile. It’s as if she doesn’t have the energy to smooth it onto her face. I can relate.
Frank places his cards facedown. “Have you come for that pool game you promised me last week?”
“Yes. But I can only stay for a few minutes.”
A puzzled frown dents his brow. “Isn’t today when you usually volunteer here?”
“It is, but I can’t volunteer anymore.”
“How come?”
She looks away, but not before I catch regret and sadness flickering in her features. “I need to stay home with Sophie.”
Frank seems to deflate at the news, shoulders drooping. “You’ll be missed.” He straightens. “How’s the kiddo doing?”
Violet’s face brightens. “She’s good. She took her first steps the other day.”
There’s a rush of excited comments from everyone at the table.
Everyone but me. I fight back the memory of when Amelia took her first steps. I can’t bear thinking about it and risk releasing the dam of emotions. I hate myself for failing her. I don’t need these people to know how badly I messed things up.
To know that because of my mistakes, my daughter doesn’t remember me.
Violet shows the group the latest photo of her daughter—an adorable young toddler sitting on a man’s lap.
Frank inspects the picture closer. “Sophie looks like her father.”
“I think she looks more like her mother,” Katelyn pipes in. I have to agree with her there.
Frank pushes his chair away from the table and stands. “Violet, have you met Jess yet? She just moved to Maple Ridge.”
I smile, self-conscious. Violet’s skin is flawless, other than the smudge of dark circles under her eyes, which isn’t unexpected when you have a young toddler. “Hi.”
She returns my smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“All right, ladies. Violet and I have a pool date. And I plan to make good on that promise now.” Frank holds out his arm to Violet. She accepts it, and they walk over to the empty pool table.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Troy nods at Bill and Katelyn and attaches Butterscotch’s leash to his collar. We say our good-byes to the pair and leave.
“Were those the people you wanted me to meet?” I ask as we walk down the hallway.
“I thought hearing from people who had at one point struggled with PTSD might be of interest to you. And I wanted you to hear how much therapy helped them.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that under advisement.” But in the end, it doesn’t matter if I accept I might have PTSD. I can’t afford to see a counselor. I don’t have health insurance. Not anymore. Not after what happened at Picnic & Treats.
I’m quiet on the way to Troy’s truck, my mind spinning through my options when it comes to finding a new job now that I’m surely unemployed again. I have a journalism degree. And I once was a writer who received praise from her instructors, praise from the women’s rights organization I volunteered with in college.
I scan my surroundings, my attention razor-focused on the vehicles in the parking lot. Anyone could be hiding behind a parked car. Anyone could be watching me from the building windows overlooking the area.
The different possibilities ambush my thoughts. My skin prickles, and my heart rate picks up with a resoundingboom, boom, boom.
“What are you up to tonight?” Troy asks, startling me.
“I’m going to sort through some more of Iris’s magazines.” And read more of Angelique’s journal.
