Evangeline

Several years ago...

I STARED AT the Harbor Gardens sign through my windshield as I gripped the steering wheel. The last thing I wanted to do was get out of this damn car, but my therapist assured me these monthly visits with my mother were a necessary part of my recovery.

Recovery. Right.

How does one recover from what I’d been through, exactly? How could I possibly heal when my mother was there to rip open all my old wounds? So far, I was on my fifth therapist and third antidepressant, not to mention the mound of self-help and meditation books. Most of them failing to make even the slightest dent in the trauma that woman had put me through.

My mother was a monster. It’s why she had been incarcerated at Harbor Gardens to begin with.

Despite its manicured grounds and beautiful, historic buildings, Harbor Gardens was a high security, assisted living facility, which meant no one got in or out without the approval and assistance of at least one security staff member. The brick building was initially designed to accommodate dementia patients with a history of wandering away from their homes and according to the brochure, ‘The twenty-four-hour a day monitoring and care for its residents provides a sense of peace and security for their families.’

Eventually Harbor Gardens would partner with the Massachusetts Department of Corrections by taking in elderly, low risk, inmates in order to make room in its state penitentiaries for more ‘violent offenders.’

I tried my best to ignore the implications of my mother’s offenses being deemed non-violent by the court system and looked on the bright side of her transfer. Harbor Gardens was closer to my apartment than Framingham Women’s Prison and a far nicer place to visit her. It wouldn’t make speaking with her any less tolerable, but at least I didn’t have to run the gauntlet of grabby prison guards and suffer the cat calls of the inmates telling me how they’d all love to ‘make me their bitch.’

It took me another few minutes before I finally gathered enough courage to open the door and get out. I took a deep breath, whispering, “do not take her bait,” as I exhaled, before making my way down the path to the building’s only public entrance. The mayflowers were in full bloom along the winding flagstone path, and I couldn’t stop a smile as the small white trumpets announced the arrival of spring. My favorite time of year in New England.

“Good afternoon, Miss Evangeline,” Maxine, the day shift security manager said as I entered. “How’s our favorite author today?”

“Struggling writer,” I corrected her. “I don’t get to call myself an author until my book is finished and published, which at this rate, is never going happen.”

Maxine shook her head. “No, no, no, sweetheart. You are doing God’s work, which means you’re using the gifts He gave to you. And if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that God’s gifts are used best in conjunction with His timing,” Maxine replied.

“Yeah, well. I sure hope the Almighty shows up before my landlord. My lease is up for renewal in three months and if I can’t show a valid source of income, I won’t qualify,” I said placing my bag on the X-ray machine’s conveyor belt before walking through the metal detector.

“You just send that Mr. Landlord Man over to me and I’ll qualify my boot up his backside if he so much as tries to put you out on the street.”

I laughed. “I appreciate the offer, but the last thing we need is for you to get in trouble and end up locked inside here.”

“What’s the difference, child? I’m here ten hours a day, six days a week as it is. Keep me out here, or lock me up with the residents, either way you know I’m gonna run the place.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” I replied, picking up my bag. Maxine buzzed me in through the door leading to Wing B, and I headed down the corridor to my mother’s room, pausing one last time to compose myself before opening the door.

“Look who decided to show up after all,” my mother said before I could close the door behind me. “I keep forgetting the sun rises and sets according to your timing.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’m sorry I’m seven minutes late, Mom.”

“Don’t you sass me, Angel.”

I bristled at the sound of that name.

“Please, Mother, I’ve asked you before not to call me that.”

“I’ve asked you before not to call me that,” my mother mocked in a shrill, high-pitched voice. “You just showed up and already you’re complaining.”

She sat in her armchair, facing a small TV, which was turned on, but permanently on mute.

“Why don’t you ever have the sound on?”

“Too much goddamned noise,” she replied.

“Why don’t you at least turn on the subtitles on, so you know what’s happening?”

“I know what’s happening,” she said, pointing to the screen. “That dumbass guy is saying something stupid to that dumb bitch and now she’s saying something even dumber back to him. Then at the end of the show, the bad guy gets caught, and I get to sit through commercials for booze I can’t drink, cars I can’t drive, and food I can’t fuckin’ eat. Not that you’d know anything about missing meals by the looks of you.” Her eyes raked over me.

I sat my purse down on the small coffee table. “Please, Mom. I thought we might have a nice visit this time.”

The rooms of Wing B, or ‘residences’ as Harbor Gardens called them, were essentially tiny studio apartments, equipped with just about everything except a stove. The kitchen staff prepared all meals. No exceptions. Outside food and drink had to be on Harbor Gardens’ approved list. No exceptions.

“The only thing that would make it nice is if you brought me everything I asked for,” she replied, pointing to my bag.

“Of course,” I replied cheerily, fighting back the urge to throw the bag at her. “Let’s see. First, we have your favorite. Chocolate Yum Yums.”

“That’s the small pack, dummy!” my mother shrieked. “Why didn’t you get the big size like I told you?”

“We’ve been over this. Harbor Gardens doesn’t allow us to bring in the large size. Only the small.”

“Ah, horseshit,” she replied.

I bit the inside of my lip and did my best to ignore her jabs while giving her the remainder of her care package.

She scowled as she rummaged through the pile. “That’s it?”

“That’s all I was allowed to bring in. Just like last month.”

“Don’t you sass me with that lying tongue of yours. There should be twice as much food here. Maybe even more.” My mother’s mouth twisted into an evil grin, and she poked a bony finger at me. “You sat your fat ass down on your couch and stuffed your face with my food, didn’t you?”

“Mom, please.”

“Just like always, you’re a greedy piggy who takes the lion’s share for herself and leaves the scraps and bones for me like I’m some sort of damned hyena. I can see you’ve gained a few extra pounds since last time, so I know I’m not wrong.”

I’d learned to disassociate a long time ago. To disconnect my brain from the outside world while my body runs in auto pilot mode. It’s a horrible skill to have to develop but is useful in times like these.

Then, after a little less than two hours of forced small talk, micro aggressions, and plain old regular aggression, the visit with my mother came to a merciful end. Well, almost.

As I made my way to the door to leave, my mother asked something she’d never asked before.

“How’s that book of yours coming along?”

“What?” I asked, genuinely unsure of what I’d just heard.

“The book you’re writing. How’s it going?”

How the hell did she know?

I turned to face her. “Ah, fine, I guess. Good. I hope to be finished soon.”

“And it’s going to be published?” Her tone had changed. She sounded almost vulnerable, if such a thing was possible for her.

“Yes,” I replied. “I signed a deal with Igloo Publishing.”

“It’s going to be about me, isn’t it?”

“I’ll see you next month, Mom,” I said, before closing the door behind me. Leaving her question unanswered.

I was six years old when my mother pimped me out for the first time. The ‘john’ was an elderly man who lived five doors down from our apartment in Detroit, Michigan. My father had left us a year earlier and my mother was having a hard time making ends meet. I have no recollection of those times or my father. My earliest memory is of my first visit to the man who lived five doors down. That day, and every visit with him after, is burned in my mind forever.

I remember being excited because my mother gave me a brand-new dress. It was blue with white trim and had little white flowers printed on it. She told me it was a gift from a friend of ours named Mr. Earl, and that we’d be going to visit him today. I didn’t know that this would be the dress I was to wear every time I visited him over the following three years.

I can clearly recall my excitement rising with each door we passed until we reached the one with the sign on it.

––––––––

I began to sound out the letters. “M-A-”

“It says manager, sweetheart,” my mother said.

“What’s a manager, Mommy?”

“Mr. Earl is the manager of our apartment building. That means he gets to decide who lives here and who doesn’t. He’s a very important man, Angel.”

“And he’s our friend?” I asked, beaming with pride at the idea we knew someone important.

“Yes, Angel. And do you know what? Mr. Earl says that you and Mommy can live here as long as we want to, and all he wants in return it for you to come visit him twice a week.”

“What kind of visit, Mommy?” I looked up at her as we walked. “Is it a tea party?”

“Yeah, Angel. Kind of like a tea party,” she said, quickly wiping away her tears.

“Why are you crying, Mommy?”

“Because I’m so happy that we get to stay here.”

––––––––

I climbed into my car, shaking off the memory, and taking a few calming breaths. She no longer had that hold over me. At least, that’s what I kept reminding myself. Once I’d gotten my hands to stop trembling long enough to start my car, I pulled out of the parking lot and headed home.

* * *

Present Day...

My phone buzzed and I saw that it was Emory calling. “Hey, Mouse.”

“Hey. I’m sorry to call so late, I know you have an early morning meeting, but we have a problem.”

Emory Philips, or Mouse as I called her, was my VP of Intake and if she was calling with a problem, it was a problem.

I frowned, grabbing a bottle of wine and setting it on my counter. “What kind of problem?”

“Four kids are about to be brought in tonight, but we’ve only got one bed.”

“Okay, so adjust. We’ve got cots and sleeping bags on the upper shelf of the supply room.”

She sighed. “Madeline’s here.”

“Well, shit.”

Madeline Andrews was our DCS point of contact, and she was a by the book kinda gal. What she really was, was a pain in my fucking ass. She pronounced her name ‘Maddy-lyne’ and you better say it right or you’d be corrected every time. She was never Maddy or Mad or, god forbid, Mads, if you had ten beds, you only took ten kids. No exceptions. And she made unannounced check-ins on a regular basis, and if she found more children than beds, she made a federal case about it, and we’d be reported to the health and welfare board. Or at least, she threatened to do so.

“Is she planning on staying all night?” I asked.

“She just poured herself a second cup of coffee, so who knows?”

“Holy hell, this woman is a burr in my saddle.”

“Tell me about it.”

“When are the kids supposed to arrive?”

“They’re at Med getting checked out, and Kelly said they can be here as soon as an hour if we have room.”

“We’ll make room, Mouse. You just need to get Mad Maddy out of there.”

Emory chuckled. “Any suggestions on how to do that?”

“Honestly? No. Try calling a fumigator or an exorcist?” I joked.

Emory outright laughed at that. “So, should I call Kelly and tell her to hold off?”

“No.” I leaned forward and dropped my forehead into my palm. “Um, let me think for a second.” I stared at the patterns in my marble and then sighed. “What’s her favorite restaurant?”

“Huh?”

“The restaurant she bitches about not being able to get into?”

“Poisson Fantasie?”

“Yep,” I confirmed. “Call Marcel and ask him if he can open a chair for her... well, for me.”

“Oh, you’re brilliant.”

“Tell him the meal’s on me, and I’ll owe him one.”

“Right, okay. You sure you want to do that?” Emory asked. “It’s gonna cost a pretty penny.”

“To save four kids? Yeah, honey, I want to do that,” I said.

“Okay, it’s your credit card.”

“Let me know how it goes. I’ll come in if I need to.”

“I will,” she promised, and we rang off.

I set my phone on my kitchen island and held off on pouring my glass of wine. Twenty minutes later, Emory texted to let me know Marcel came through, Madeline was ecstatic to have a chance to eat at the famed restaurant, and we were sneaking four children through our doors in T-minus twenty-five minutes.

I finally took the time to pour a large glass in celebration.