This is real. I’m finally going home.
I have to blink through the brightness to see my mom and find her next to a shiny new car. “Out of the sun, Jas, you don’t have sunscreen on!” she says, climbing in.
I’ve waited 365 days to be able to stand in the sun outside of this place; I’m not about to run from it. I throw my head and arms back, and the heat wastes no time sending droplets of sweat running down my skin. The sweat is soon followed by tears. I promised myself I’d make it out in one piece and here I am: not whole, barely together… but in one piece. Once you’ve been somewhere like this, you know that’s saying a lot.
Goodbye, Guiding Hearts Home for Troubled Girls.
My mom watches quietly from the driver’s seat as I savor the first moments of my second chance.
A year ago, the judge had slammed his gavel and smiled proudly at my mom as he remanded me to detention for a minimum of one year. She burst into tears. The judge and I both stared at her, saying nothing. After all, she had set everything into motion.
I remember just feeling numb.
The bailiff came over and whispered some advice aboutkeeping my head down, advice I’m sure he gave to everyone. When I was escorted from the courtroom to a holding space with other girls, I still hadn’t cried or spoken. I don’t know how long I was there, but I was sure my mom had taken her tears elsewhere.
She hadn’t. She stood crying and waving as the transport van pulled out of the parking lot. I didn’t wave back. The other girls would probably have eaten me alive if I did.
Now, I mouththank youto the sky, hoping that whoever up there was responsible for getting me out is listening. My mom honks her horn lightly. Dripping with sweat and tears, I slide into the passenger’s seat and we drive off.
“This is a nice car.” I rub my hand across the dashboard. “When did you get it?”
My mom pulls up to a red light. “It was a wedding gift from Travis.”
They had a destination wedding in Aruba that she had been so excited about. She’d scheduled it for the weekend after my release so it could be a “double celebration.” But after everything happened, I wasn’t able to go. I missed one of the most important days of her life.
“There’s a water in your door,” she tells me.
I reach for the bottle, grateful to give my hands something to do. Even though I talked to my mom regularly while I was inside the center, I couldn’t have prepared for how it would feel to be physically beside her, inhabiting the same space after all this time. From the outside, we probably look like strangers to each other.
As I take a long sip of water, I rack my brain for everything my mom has told me about her new husband on our monthly phone calls. I know Travis works in real estate and is “the bestat it,” at least according to her. Given how expensive this car looks, I can’t disagree.
Travis has a daughter my age: Kayla. My mom was excited that I’d finally have “the sister I’d always begged for.” It’s true that I’d grown up wishing for someone to roll my eyes with when my mom was being weird, but I hadn’t felt that way in a long time.She’s a great kid, she had told me. I could hear the smile in her voice and had hung up wondering if she ever said that about me.
Someone honks loudly behind us. The light is green. Mom jumps a little and presses the gas too hard, lurching us forward.
I can feel the tension radiating off her. There’s so much I want to talk to her about, but I don’t even know where to begin. “How about some music?” I suggest.
She smiles, no doubt remembering all the time we spent in her old beat-up Camry, back when even the silences felt easy. “Sure, anything you want.”
I turn the dial to her favorite old-school reggae station and lean back as a familiar song pours through the speakers. I expect her to sing along like she used to. Instead, she flashes another smile in my direction.
I try not to focus on wanting things to go back to the way they were. The most important thing is that I’m on my way home.
I’m startled out of sleep by the wailing of an ambulance just as we’re passing exit 6. I didn’t realize I’d dozed off, lulled by the motion of the car and thoughts of being in my bed again. We pass the cemetery my grandma calls home and I smile softly as I think of her, knowing she’s proud of me for making it out.
Our upstate New York town is a small one called Lorial, off exit 8. Almost there.
Exit 7.
The radio is silent now, and my mom is mouthing something to herself with real concentration. I’m glad she’s the only one who came to get me today. I’m nervous about meeting her new family, and it’s been a long time since I made a good first impression.
Exit 8.
We don’t get off.
“Mom, the exit?” I ask, motioning behind me.
“You sleep yourself into amnesia?”
