LIZ
"Ican't believe she's in there," I say, staring at the cold, harsh structure. "I can't believe she's been here all along."
And no one told me. She's been alone all this time. After all the years I thought she'd left us, that we were left alone without her, the thing that breaks me, is realizing she was the one who was alone after making sure we'd always have each other.
As much as I hate it, hate the fact she didn't fight to stay with us, didn't try to get a lawyer or receive a lower sentence, I understand it too. I understand the choice she made to shield us. To pay whatever debt was set for a mistake she could never take back, never truly make amends for.
I understand. Because my dad was right all along. I am my mother's daughter. And that truth still cuts me, but now, the wound bleeds clean. And I think maybe, after today, it will finally heal.
"You're coming with me?" I ask, looking over at Jovi sitting beside me in the driver's seat.
"Always yes, Liz," he reminds me. "The answer is always yes."
Then he climbs out, walks around the hood and opens the door for me.
I give him a look. I like this gentlemanly cowboy business, I just can't admit it. Yet. Because it's Jovi. And while it feels shockingly natural for him to be the one who treats me this way, who shows me this degree of care and consideration at every turn, my brain is still lingering in old habits of giving him shit.
Then, when he offers me his hand, I sigh like a sap, take it, and let him hold it the whole way inside.
We go through the steps of visiting an inmate, and I'm devastated to hear one of the guards comment on how it's been years since anyone's been here to see my mother.
"My dad," I breathe, the words are barely audible to my own ears, but Jovi squeezes my hand, so I know he heard me. "No one's been to see her since he died." No one else would have known to. My mother was an only child of older parents who passed before I was born. She had a handful of cousins, but they were all spread across the country. No one was local. I'm sure she must have had friends, but if she pushed us away to keep us safe from this, did she allow anyone else to stay close?
Neither of us says anything as we walk through a cold, stale hallway and into a visiting room. It's a low security prison for non-violent offenders, so the room is large, with cafeteria style tables and benches spread out from wall to wall, people gathered in everything from twos to small groups of at least a dozen scattered about. Jovi points to an empty table in the corner, and we head for it.
I sit along the wall so I can face the room and hopefully see her when she walks in. I haven't a clue what she looks like now, and I'm nervous my memories of her face will fail me here after so many years. Even the pictures I have of her show a woman twenty-five years younger without the hardships of prison and grief. Oh, God.Does she know about Lena? Will I have to tell her? How haven't I considered this before now?"
A hand moves to cradle my cheek, turning my face until I'm facing Jovi. "I'm with you."
I nod, and the panic climbing my throat retreats just enough to let me breathe easier. When I turn my face to look toward the entry way again, I see her.
"Mom," the word slips out. It feels foreign and normal at once, and I'm vaguely aware of my body moving to stand. To walk toward her.
For a moment, she stares at me. Face frozen in shock and disbelief. Then—
"Liz."
I don't know if she reaches for me or I for her, only that when her arms wrap around me, a piece of me I thought I lost, reappears.
Somewhere along the way, Jovi joins us. Wielding his steady, quiet strength like a perfect shield around us, he guides us to our table in the corner, helping us both walk while we blubber and stumble our way through the visitation hall.
"You're so beautiful," my mother whispers when we finally settle enough to stop sobbing. Her hand reaches out to ghost my hair as though afraid to touch me. "Seeing you all grown up, I didn't think I'd ever have the chance."
"Lena," I start, sniffing, but my mother shakes her head, and her eyes shutter. She already knows.
She clears her throat and forces a smile. "You're here."
"I'm here." I reach out and take her hand. "I would have been here sooner."
She shakes her head again, this time more adamant. "This was my burden to bear. I never wanted you to carry the weight of it. To know me this way. To be associated with my guilt." She swallows hard, before swiping her cheek aggressively. I recognize the gesture. She doesn't think she deserves these tears.
"I'm glad you're here now," she says, "but I don't want this to change things for you. Knowing doesn't equal an obligation. You don't owe me your time. Or your forgiveness. I deserve neither."
I add my second hand, folding her fingers between both my palms. "But I'm going to give you both anyway."
After that, our conversation is jumpy. A lot of going back and forth between past and present. My mother shares her memories of me and Lena when we were little. Tries to explain her choices. Asks for forgiveness. A lot. And every time I give it to her.
She asks about my life now. About Lena's kids. She knows more about us than I expected her to. While my father was alive, he must have visited often. Or written letters. But who’s been giving her glimpses of life since? She doesn't say and I don't ask. I will, one day. But for now, I want to sink into the knowing that she's here. That I still have one member of my family with me.
