by Nicole Baart
An incoming text appeared on her screen, bisecting an article about a suspected drug ring in Auburn. Jess had sent Max a few messages throughout the morning, but he had made it clear he wasn’t interested in communicating with her. He answered with single-word replies, no capitals and no punctuation.
You up?
yes
Have you had breakfast?
no
Now her phone zinged with an incoming text, and she brightened a little at her son’s name in the window. But then she squinted, trying to make out what she was seeing. Max had sent her a picture. It was his hand holding a book. To Kill a Mockingbird.
where did u get this
The book had been on her nightstand. What was Max doing in her bedroom? Jess quickly typed a reply.
I found it.
where
Does it matter? What are you doing in my room?
phone chrgr
His phone charger had been acting up. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t power up his phone completely. Still, they had a strict “no screens in bedrooms” rule and Jess’s skin prickled at the thought of all the trouble Max could be getting into in her absence. She loved her son more than her own life, but he hadn’t exactly proven himself trustworthy in the last several months.
What are you doing? she typed, ignoring the snapshot of the book and his obvious frustration with her.
He didn’t reply.
Max?
Make wise choices.
But for the rest of the day he pretended as if Jessica didn’t exist at all.
* * *
Jess was secretly exasperated when the mother of one of Gabe’s friends flagged her down in the parking lot after school. Clearly it had been a mistake to park instead of rolling through the pickup lane, and Jess wished that at the very least she would have stayed in her car rather than choosing to stand on the sidewalk while she waited for Gabe to appear. She wasn’t in the mood to talk with anyone. All she wanted to do was gather up her kindergartener and get home—make sure Max was okay.
Too late. “Hi, Jessica,” Cara something-or-other called. She extended a tentative hand to touch Jess on the shoulder. At the last moment, she thought better of it and pulled away, crossing her arms awkwardly around a puffy dove-gray coat. Probably a wise choice since Jess couldn’t even remember her last name. “I know you’ve been really busy, and I’m sorry I haven’t reached out.”
The woman’s guilt was almost palpable, rising in the air between them like a whiff of burnt bread. Good intentions, charred. And: busy? The euphemism was ridiculously inappropriate. Jess resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
“It’s fine, Cara, really. We’re doing fine.”
The woman’s mouth turned down a little, and Jess felt a stab of worry. She had called her by the correct name, right?
“Well, I was wondering if Gabe would like to come and play at our house this afternoon.” Cara smoothed the tight, clean lines of her blond ponytail with her palm, even though there wasn’t a single hair out of place. “I mean, just a short playdate. I’ll bring him back around suppertime.”
Any irritation Jess felt melted away. Yes, that sounded perfect. Wonderful, in fact. It was exactly the sort of invitation that Jess had always hoped for Gabe. But just as quickly as she warmed to the idea, her blood cooled. Gabe didn’t have friends. Not really. Was this a pity invite? Was Cara forcing her kid to play with Gabe against his will?
A chorus of “Mom! Mom!” erupted from the front doors, and Jess looked up in time to see Gabe separate from the pack of kindergarteners emerging from the elementary school. It was impossible to tell if he had shouted to her or if it was one of the dozens of kids racing for the buses or their carpool rides. Either way, Jess was glad for the distraction and raised her arms in welcome as she waited for Gabe to come.
He launched into her embrace, already chattering.
“Mom! Can I go to Sawyer’s house today? He has a new LEGO set and he said I could build it with him!”
Jess rubbed her cheek against Gabe’s hair and shot Cara a sidelong glance. The other woman was smiling a little, her arm around a boy with white-blond hair and two missing front teeth. One of his incisors was just starting to come in, but Jess had no doubt his lisp was pronounced. Maybe a playdate would be okay.
“Can I? Please, Mom, can I?”
“Okay,” Jess said, pressing Gabe’s busy little body against her own. He was jumping and wiggling and squirming to get away, but instead of being hurt by his dismissal, Jess had to blink away a sudden tear. It was great to see him so excited about a friend.
“Thanks for the invite.” Jess released Gabe and he joined Sawyer, throwing his arm around the small boy’s shoulders as they took off in what Jess assumed was the direction of Cara’s car. She watched them go. “I really do appreciate it.”
“No problem,” Cara said, the corner of her mouth dimpling as she, too, looked after the boys. Their small, messy heads were together, their conversation animated, even at a growing distance. “Sawyer’s a bit shy, so I’m happy he found someone he wants to spend time with.”
Jess nodded, wondering if she should share her concerns with Cara. Would Cara know how to handle Gabe if he grew quiet? Sometimes he could retreat into his own little world, and it was nearly impossible to draw him out. Or should Jess warn that too much stimulation always ended in disaster? The music couldn’t be too loud, the television turned up too high. Even strong scents could prove overwhelming to Gabe, garlic and onions sizzling in a pan, heady perfumes sprayed with a heavy hand. But, no, Jess decided. It was okay for Gabe to have a normal playdate. Maybe it would be simply perfect.
The women exchanged cell phone numbers and Jessica didn’t pull out of the parking lot until she had received a short message. Hi, it’s Cara Tisdale!
Tisdale. Of course.
At home, Jess threw her bag on the dining room table and slipped off her shoes. It felt good to wiggle her toes out of the pointy flats, and she would have enjoyed a moment to stretch out her legs, her back, her tired arms if she wasn’t so eager to see Max. She suspected he would be hiding in his room, so there was no use calling his name. If she knew her son, he had his headphones on, music blaring.
Jess took the steps two at a time and stopped at Max’s door. It was closed and silent as a tomb; she couldn’t tell if he was inside or not. Knocking loudly, she waited just a second before turning the handle.
Max was sitting cross-legged on his bed, staring straight at her. He didn’t have his headphones on, and it looked as if he had been in that exact position for a while. In his hands he held the book that she had found. Jess couldn’t read his expression, but he had obviously been waiting for her.
“Hey,” she started, but the atmosphere was leaden, and she faltered to a stop with her bare feet sinking in the carpet. “How was your day today?”
Max ignored her. “Where did you get this?” He held up the book as carefully as if it were evidence in a court case, and she were on trial.
Jess paused for a beat but couldn’t think of a reason not to tell him. It was just a book. “I found it when I was cleaning out Gabe’s backpack. It was stuck under the liner at the very bottom.”
Max studied her, assessing her words. Jess couldn’t tell if he found her lacking or not.
“Honestly, I’m really not sure that it’s any of your business,” she said, prickling at the haughtiness in his gaze. He always thought he knew better than her. “It’s not yours.”
“How do you know that?”
“Well,” Jess said, “is it? Is it yours?”
“No.”
“Do you know whose it is?”
For a split second, Max’s tough-boy facade cracked. It was a hairline fracture, but Jess could just glimpse the child beneath. Her Max was in there somewhere, the tow-headed little boy who used to sit on her lap with his head against her chest and tap out her heartbeats with his fingertips. “I can feel your heart, Mama,” he used to say. “It’s singing to me.�
�
Jess crossed over to the bed and perched on the very end. She didn’t touch Max, not even his foot clad in a white sock with a hole starting to unravel at the heel. But she wanted to. She wanted to touch that tender place where his skin peeked through, then curl up beside him and snug her arm around his chest. She wanted him to talk to her, really talk to her.
“Is this your book?” Jess wasn’t sure why it mattered, but her son was visibly distressed about the paperback. It meant something to him.
“No.”
“Do you know whose it is?” she asked again.
Max jerked his chin once—no. But his eyes said yes.
“If you know whose it is, we should probably return it to them. I think it may have some sentimental value. Did you see that there is a note written in the cover?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth Jess realized the significance. That was it. Love, Dad. Of course the note would undo him. Maybe Max thought that the book had been a gift, something from Evan that Jess had hidden away. She almost gasped at the misunderstanding.
“Look, Max, I don’t think this is Dad’s book.” Jess couldn’t stop herself. She reached out and cupped his ankle, willing him to believe her.
Max had been staring at his lap, but his eyes cut to her now. The look he gave her was fierce, condescending. “I know it’s not Dad’s book.” He jerked his leg away from her touch.
“Really?” Jess couldn’t help it that she was hurt. The tears that she had held back all day suddenly rimmed her lashes and came dangerously close to falling. She wished that Max would have even an ounce of sympathy for her when she cried, but he seemed to see it as a sign of weakness. Jess sniffed hard and squared her shoulders. “You don’t have to be so mean to me, Max,” she said, her voice quavering. “I’m doing the best that I can. I’m doing everything in my power to keep this family afloat. Why do you . . .” But she couldn’t say it out loud. Hate me so much was simply too painful.
If he was affected by her outburst, he didn’t show it. Instead, Max tossed the paperback toward her. “Keep it,” he said as if it didn’t mean anything at all. As if they hadn’t just fought about it.
Jess pushed a groan of frustration between her teeth. “Fine. It’s going in the recycle bin. It’s damaged anyway.” She snatched up the book, stood, and spun on her heel to flee the room. Jess knew that there was more work to be done, that beneath his granite exterior Max was so vulnerable, so hurting. But she didn’t know what to do with him when he was like this. It was like he took pleasure in baffling her, in saying and doing everything he could to frustrate and confound her. To cut her.
She needed Evan.
The tears that threatened spilled down both her cheeks, but Jess wiped them hastily away. No time to cry. Not now.
“I wouldn’t throw that away if I were you,” Max called when she was half out the door. Jess had one foot in the hallway and the other still in Max’s room, and for a heartbeat she contemplated pretending that she hadn’t heard him at all. But she was the adult; she had to be the bigger person even if it was the last thing she wanted to do.
“Excuse me?” she said, stopping with her back turned to him.
“I said: I wouldn’t throw that away if I were you.”
Jess decided to play along. “And why not?”
“Because it’s Gabe’s.”
“Gabe can’t read this,” Jess sighed. “He would have absolutely no idea what to do with a classic novel.”
“I think she intended him to have it when he’s older,” Max said casually. “You know, when it’ll mean something to him.”
The floor beneath her felt suddenly precarious, soft as sinking sand. Jess’s heart stumbled in her chest. Still, she turned. A part of her knew that once she asked the question, she couldn’t unhear the answer, but it was inevitable. She had to know. “Who’s she?”
“Gabe’s birth mom. The book is hers.”
* * *
BirthCentral.com
Babies Born in Prison
As American society continues to turn a blind eye to the epidemic of mass incarceration, a forgotten population of women and children reap the consequences of our shortsightedness. Although there are statistically more men than women in prison, the rate of growth for incarcerated females has outpaced their male counterparts in staggering numbers. And a recent study shows that 60% of women in state prisons have a child at home under the age of 18.
It stands to reason that incarcerated women of a child-bearing age will follow national parturition trends. Experts predict that 1 in 25 female inmates are pregnant. What happens to those women? What happens to those babies? The answers may surprise you.
Although some state and federal prisons are progressive in terms of resources and programs for pregnant offenders and their babies, the fact remains that giving birth while in prison is a dismal prospect for all involved. The incarcerated mother has very little control over what happens to her or her baby during and after pregnancy, and because most institutions do not have adequate facilities or funding to house both inmates and their babies, newborns are usually taken into custody by the state, an outside family member, or an adoptive family.
Most mothers who give birth while incarcerated will face obstacles that can have a grave impact on their mental and emotional health. Giving birth while in handcuffs, without the aid and comfort of a family member or friend, and being allowed only 24 hours or less with their new baby are just a few of the possible disadvantages of childbirth during institutionalization. Prison staff are often unequipped to handle the physical and emotional needs of pregnant inmates, and the psychological strain of being separated from their newborns can heighten the risk of postpartum depression.
Granting temporary guardianship to a family member or friend may seem like the best option for women who are nearing the end of their sentence, but for others it’s neither reasonable nor wise. Parenting may be a long shot for some incarcerated mothers, and adoption can open a door that previously seemed locked tight. Nobody dreams of having a baby in prison, but for those who are willing to find hope in the midst of despair, there is a path forward. There are several adoption agencies that work with incarcerated women, offering support, educational opportunities, and counseling as mothers-to-be face one of the most difficult decisions of their lives. When parenting is not an option, paving the way for a brighter future is a priceless, selfless gift from a birth mother to her child.
Melisandre A.
34, Caucasian, BA
Oversized plastic-framed glasses. Angry.
Husband involved, consented.
HOM, 3m 2w
CHAPTER 10
GABE WASN’T SUPPOSED to be home for at least an hour, and Max refused to say another word, so Jessica did the only thing she knew to do: she grabbed her purse and hopped in the car. At first, she didn’t even know where she was going. She just needed to get away. It was cruel what Max had done, mentioning her in that way. Jessica knew that people didn’t really understand why it was so hard for her to think about Gabe’s birth mother, but then, she didn’t expect them to. They had no idea what she’d been through.
When they buried Charlie over seven years ago, Jessica’s milk had just come in. None of her pants fit because her stomach was still soft, stretched and sagging like dough from the sweet babe who had just spent nine months growing safely inside. In the hours after his birth, while he grew cold and placid as a doll, she wished on every pure and holy thing—and then tried to make deals with the devil. But nothing worked. A couple of days later they still stood over a grave so tiny she could scarcely bear it. She folded her arms over all the things that ached inside, her heart and her empty womb and her very soul, and wept, breasts tingling and warm with milk that would never feed the child she had only held for a few hours.
It broke her. Charlie’s death and what felt like the loss of everything good in the world. There was Max, there was always Max, and she loved him too hard in those months, pushing him away by pulling him suffocatingl
y close. He was being smothered beneath her need. “I’m sorry,” she would say, sobbing because she couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t stop. And Max would wriggle his way out of her embrace, casting her furtive looks that betrayed exactly how he felt. Scared. Her own son was scared of her, terrified by the depth of her grief and the empty space that he couldn’t fill. He was only six years old.
Jessica was crying now, too, her hands strangling the steering wheel as she drove blindly down the streets of her subdivision. Her vision was too blurry for the open road, so she wove slowly down the streets she knew by heart, passing familiar houses and marking each place that held a memory, no matter how small, in her family history. Here was the park where Max used to ride the merry-go-round, begging her to spin him faster and faster. Jess had worried that one day it would be too much, that he would throw up from the centrifugal force. But he never did. And here was the path to the pond where Gabe liked to feed the ducks. She always saved the crusts of bread that she cut from his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for just such an occasion. Brown wood ducks would flap to the dock, jostling each other for attention, eager for a stale morsel from Gabe’s chubby fingers. If they were lucky, a mallard would appear, and Gabe would clap his hands in delight, laughing.
They had a good life, didn’t they? It had been. A world bittersweet, dark as chocolate and just as sharp and rich. But Gabe was the heart of it, wasn’t he? When Charlie died and the whole earth was broken and jagged and ugly, Gabriel was the unexpected sweet that cut the bitter. Her angel.
