Page 95 of Fragile Hearts

“You’ll have thirty minutes,” she says, each word monotone. “No contact of any kind, and when your visit is over, you’ll be escorted out. If you need to leave before the thirty minutes are up, use the call button, and the guard will return.”

I nod, signaling my agreement but not needing to speak, saving all my words for my mother.

This is it, as the guard opens the door, letting me into a small room. In the center is a rectangular table with a chair on one side and two more on the other. There are cameras in every corner, a mirror on one wall that is clearly a window on the other side, and I try not to think about how uncomfortable I feel, how completely out of place my body feels at this moment.

The guard pats me down, something that has happened for a second time. My purse is in a locker that was assigned to me when I arrived, and just like the first time the guard checked me over, I have nothing on me.

Without another word, she steps out of the room, leaving me in the silence of the cinderblock walls. My breathing is the only thing I hear.

I fold my hands on the table and wait. The sound of my heartbeat drums loudly in my ears, and I swallow back the urge to vomit at the idea of seeing my mother. She’s going to be a mess, even more than usual. She’s detoxing right now, having spent the last twenty-four hours without any drugs, and something tells me the people who run this place couldn’t give a shit about how she’s feeling.

Startled by a buzzing sound and the slamming of a large door, I look up, watching as the door on the other side of the room opens, and there’s my mother in the doorway.

Being escorted by a guard, her wrists are handcuffed, and so are her ankles as she shuffles in. Her hair is greasy, and her eyes are bloodshot and wrapped in deep black circles. She somehow looks worse and better than I expected all at the same time.

Wearing an orange jumpsuit that looks to be about three sizes too big. It hangs on her emaciated frame, swallowing her up.

With the guard’s hand gripping my mom’s elbow, she guides her over to the chair across from me, basically dropping her in it when they reach it. She takes the handcuffs off but then attaches her to the table with another one.

“Thanks,” my mom mutters, her voice hoarse and garbled, but she smiles when she sees my face. However, there’s something about it that makes my stomach turn. It’s fake and desperate, completely oblivious as to why I’m here.

“I have no idea why they think I need to be chained up like this,” she says now, and I close my eyes, willing myself to ignore her comment. But in her typical form, she continues. “It’s not like I did anything wrong.”

“Mom,” I start, clearing my throat, but she interrupts before I can say anything else.

“I told them you would come and bail me out. What took you so long?” She lets out a hard exhale. The smell of stale cigarettes fills the space, and I have to turn away to catch my breath.

“I’m not here to bail you out,” I say instantly, needing it out there. “I’m not here for you at all.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she spits back, agitated and bothered already.

“It means that this,” I say, motioning between us, “is done. I told you before it was over, but now it really is. I can’t love myself and have you in my life.”

She lets out a hearty, condescending laugh, her head falling back, and when she straightens up, her eyes look right at me, narrowed and fierce.

“Did you learn that at your therapist? Did you tell them that you’re actually the problem? Look at the number of foster homes you went through. You can’t blame that shit on me. That was all you.” Each word is laced with venom, poisonous and toxic. She rolls her eyes, laughing again.

I let her words roll off me, reminding myself that none of what she says is true. It’s all perfectly designed to try to fuck with me, to wreck me more than she already has, but it’s not happening.

“No. I don’t need a therapist to tell me my mother fucked me up. That screams loud and clear in my head every damn day,” I hiss back.

“That sounds like a you problem,” she now says, and I swear she has to get the last word, which only pisses me off even more. Not that I expected her to suddenly take responsibility for her actions. That’s never going to happen, and I didn’t come here for that.

“I could go into all the reasons it’s your fault, and it has always been your fault, but that doesn’t matter. You love drama and drugs and yourself more than you will ever love anything, including me, and I’m here to let you have that. Take it all. I want none of it.”

I’m talking so fast, desperate to get it all out before she begins to gaslight me or manipulate things the way she wants them to look or feel or be.

I stand up, and she does the same, matching me, her posture tense as she can see I’m about to leave her here, right where she belongs.

“Oh my god, Sloane,” she says, the words spilling from her mouth in a way that feels desperate. “So what, you’re just going to leave? You’re going to leave me in this place to rot? I’m your only family.”

Oh, I can’t even believe she said it, and I laugh, shaking my head. Walking right into something I didn’t plan, but it’s going to feel so good when I get the words out.

“I am going to leave. I’m leaving to go back to my family, the family I chose, the family who supports me and loves me unconditionally, the family who showed me what it feels like to have safety and comfort. All things you were never able to do.”

With that, I turn around, pressing the button by the door for the guard to open it. My mom stands, nearly yanking herself back down when she tries to walk over to where I’m standing, realizing she’s handcuffed to the table.

“Sloane!” she yells despite the small space. “You can’t leave me in here. I’ll die.” She wails loudly, and the tears begin to spill from her eyes, desperate but fake.

---